Page 96 of Viking

But it’s lighter now. Bearable.

And for the first time in months, I feel like I can breathe.

I glance down at the flight suits in my locker—folded sharp and clean. I haven’t worn one since the day Ryan died. Since I lost the right to. It had always been more than a uniform. It was a badge, a belonging. The second skin of a fighter pilot.

And for a long time, I didn’t feel like I deserved to put it back on.

But now?

Now I do.

Because I’m ready. Because I’ve earned it. Because Ryan and Reaper don’t get another chance to fly. But I do.

And I’ll make it count.

I miss the sky. I miss my Raptor. I miss that sound—the drone of the engines, the growl of the afterburner, the silence of being alone in the air where nothing else matters but instinct and precision.

I miss feeling in control.

But I’m getting that part of myself back. One step, one rep, one cleared checklist at a time.

And soon, I’ll be where I belong again.

Not grounded. Not broken. But flying.

***

Two hours later, I’m sitting in the briefing room for today’s mission. I guess that much never changed. Command switched my duty but I’ve been privy to details regarding our purpose here. I think we’re close to establishing some sort of stability in the area and being able to go home.

Townsend’s at the head of the table, as usual, but his presence feels different now. He’s not just my commanding officer, he’s become more than that. He’s a brother who’s been through his own struggles and who’s got my back even when I’m being a dick and probably don’t deserve it.

I glance around the room at the rest of the team. The second Raptor Flight—Charlie—is in here, too. They were deployed about a month after us. Two weeks after all hell broke loose. Townsend briefs us. It’ll be Dalton, him, and me for tonight’s flight, the other four on standby in case something goes wrong.

***

The hangar is alive with activity when we walk out there after our briefing. The whirl of engines and the low murmur of voices mix into a smooth rhythm. It’s been too long since I’ve been in the cockpit.

I thought it’d kill me to sit on the sidelines, to watch my team fly without me. It nearly did. But I’m back.

I run my hand along the smooth, cool fuselage of my fighter.

It feels like coming home.

My crew chief gives me a quick nod, his face serious. “He’s ready, Captain. Good to have you back.” He salutes me and I return it before completing the good luck ritual we’ve had for years. We fist-bump, then he pulls his fist back, making a whooshing sound, mimicking the afterburners.

I climb the ladder, settling into the cockpit with practiced ease. I adjust my helmet, my hands moving on autopilot to run through the preflight checks.

I exhale slowly, the weight of responsibility settling on my shoulders.

This mission is critical.

We’ve been tracking a high-value target for weeks—a weapons smuggler who’s been running arms to insurgent groups across the region. Intel says he’s moving a shipment tonight, using an unmarked cargo plane to slip through contested airspace in the South China Sea. Our job is to intercept the plane before it reaches the drop zone.

Simple on paper.

Messy in practice.

Townsend’s voice crackles in my headset, calm and authoritative. “Viking, Ghost—let’s keep it tight tonight. We’ve got two bogeys escorting the package. Rules of engagement are clear. No mistakes.”