Page 27 of Viking

“Tower, this is Viking, Raptor Flight of four inbound for landing,” I call over the radio.

“Raptor Flight, cleared to land. Runway two-eight,” the controller replies.

One by one, we descend, our jets gliding smoothly onto the runway. The moment my wheels touch down, the familiar mix of pride and relief washes over me. Another flight, another mission complete.

The golden canopy slides open with a soft hiss and the Florida heat hits me like a wall, the humid air clinging to my flight suit. I pull off my helmet and take a moment, gripping the edge of the cockpit, to let the rush of flying settle in my veins. Every muscle is tuned, sharp, alive. Carefully, I descend the ladder, the steel cold against my hands. My boots hit the tarmac with a satisfying thud.

The ground crew stands at attention nearby, waiting for my acknowledgment. I straighten and snap a sharp salute, my body moving on instinct. They return it without hesitation, their faces impassive but professional. These are the unsung heroes, the ones who make sure we even get into the sky.

My eyes flick toward Major Townsend, who’s stationed just a few steps beyond the crew, his arms crossed. His expression is unreadable, but the faint quirk of his brow feels like a challenge. I salute him, too, keeping my posture stiff, my movements crisp. He returns it smoothly.

“Captain,” he says as I lower my hand, then turns and strides off toward the briefing room, knowing we won’t be far behind.

Ryan jogs up beside me, clapping a hand on my shoulder. “So, lunch at that seafood place? Or is Townsend going to make us sit there for three hours just to hear himself talk?”

“Probably both,” I reply, smirking. Dalton joins us, silent but clearly amused by Ryan’s antics.

“Good work out there, Everett,” I say, clapping him on the back.

“Thanks,” he replies. “You guys make it look easy.”

Ryan grins as we head in to debrief. “Damn right we do.”

***

LOGAN: Landed safe and sound. Just checking in on you—hope your day’s going well.

I press send, leaning back in the stiff chair. Or maybe it’s me that’s stiff. We’ve been sitting here for the last four hours going over practice plans. Two shows this weekend, then we head to Cherry Point on Monday. My flight suit is unzipped to my waist, my undershirt clinging to my skin from the humidity. Why doesn’t this room have air conditioning?

I don’t expect her to reply right away, but my phone vibrates almost instantly.

LILA: Glad you’re safe. I’m fine, just working through a mountain of emails. Nothing as exciting as piloting Raptors across the country.

I smirk, imagining her sitting at her antique writing desk—the one Dalton and I lugged to her office from her car. She’s probably biting her lip, brow furrowed in concentration.

LOGAN: You say that like it’s all fun. I’d trade you a two-hour flight and four-hour debrief for a mountain of emails right about now.

LILA: Somehow, I doubt that. Unless you’re offering to write these emails for me. In which case, I accept.

LOGAN: I’m a terrible writer. All I can promise is your emails would include typos.

LILA: Hmm, maybe I’ll keep my job after all. I’d hate for your call sign to change to “Spellcheck.”

Her quick wit punches a laugh out of me, loud enough to draw attention. Dalton looks over, brows raised, but I ignore him, fingers flying over the screen.

LOGAN: Ouch. Harsh. Guess I’ll stick to flying and let you handle the rest. I’ll just be here wishing we were hanging out.

The pause this time stretches long enough to make my pulse kick up a notch.

LILA: Me too. Maybe next time, you’ll invite me to fly with you.

LOGAN: That depends. Do you trust me?

LILA: If I say yes, does that mean I get to fly with you instead of the crew?

LOGAN: Not exactly, since there’s no back seat in an F-22.

LILA: Right, so how does this work? Do I get to sit in your lap?