Page 97 of Viking

“Copy, Bishop,” I reply, my voice steady. It feels good to speak into the comms again, to feel like I’m part of something bigger than my own mess.

“Roger that, Bishop. Viking, don’t embarrass yourself on your first flight back.” I can hear Dalton’s smirk.

I chuckle despite myself. “Stick to your wing, Ghost, and I’ll do the hard part.”

Ryan’s not here to toss out some cocky retort, and for a second, the thought guts me. But I push it down. I can’t think about that now.

The jet roars to life beneath me, and the familiar pull of g-forces presses me into my seat as we take off. The sky is clear, the moonlight glinting off the ocean far below us. It’s beautiful out here, peaceful in a way the ground never is.

But peace is an illusion.

“Package is on the move,” Townsend says over the comms. “Bogeys are escorting at three o’clock, low altitude. Let’s spread out. Viking, you’re on me. Ghost, take high cover.”

“Copy,” Dalton and I say in unison.

We approach the target plane, our radar locking onto the bogeys flanking it. Two MiG-29s, fast and deadly. They don’t know we’re here—their movements still offensive and not aggressive yet. I can almost feel the tension radiating through the airwaves.

“Viking, take lead on the intercept,” Townsend orders. “Let’s see if they play nice.”

My hands grip the throttle as I close the distance. “Unidentified aircraft, this is the United States Air Force. You are in restricted airspace. Divert your course immediately, or you will be engaged.”

There’s no response, just a burst of static. The MiGs shift again, moving to box us out since we’re close enough to see now.

“Looks like they want to dance,” Dalton mutters.

“Viking, engage the lead escort,” Townsend commands. “Ghost, cover the package. I’ll handle the other MiG.”

“Engaging,” I confirm, my blood pumping with a mix of adrenaline and focus.

The MiG-29 banks hard left, trying to pull me into a turning fight. Bold move—but not a smart one. It’s fast, sure, but it’s no Raptor. It doesn’t have the same thrust vectoring, can’t match my angle-of-attack authority, and it damn sure can’t disappear like I can.

I stay with him, tightening the turn, my hands steady on the stick and throttle. G-forces press against me, but I breathe through it, legs flexed, core locked, keeping blood in my head. The sky blurs as I roll inverted for a split second, slicing under his tail and bleeding just enough energy to keep from overshooting. The jet groans under the pressure, but responds like always—fluid and lethal.

The MiG tries to dive out, desperate to shake me. I follow. He rolls into a split-S, diving toward the deck. I keep my nose glued to him, feathering the throttle, adjusting my pitch to stay just outside his exhaust trail. My Raptor dances behind him, ghosting his every move.

A sharp tone shrills in my headset—missile lock warning. Shit. My thumb flicks the countermeasure switch, and I deploy a burst of flares. The infrared seeker bites at the heat, and the warning cuts out. I roll right, out of the threat’s path, and swing back behind the MiG.

“Viking, clear that bird,” Townsend barks over comms. No panic. Just business.

“On it,” I grit out, lining up the shot. My HUD flashes as the box tightens over the target. The tone in my headset shifts—steady, certain. Lock.

I squeeze the trigger.

The missile streaks away, a white-hot blur tearing the night sky in two. It slams into the MiG’s fuselage and detonates, a fiery burst that quickly disappears into the dark below.

I exhale hard, forcing my hands to unclench around the stick.

“Splash one,” I report, my voice even despite the chaos.

Townsend’s voice cuts in. “Welcome back, Viking.” I can hear the smirk in his voice. “Ghost, status on the package?”

“Still intact,” Dalton replies. “But the second MiG is making a play.”

“I’m on it,” Townsend says, his tone sharp.

Once the escorts are neutralized, we close in on the cargo plane. It’s a lumbering beast compared to our jets, but that doesn’t mean it’s harmless. These guys are desperate, and desperate people make dangerous choices.

“Unidentified aircraft, this is your final warning,” Townsend says, his voice cold and commanding. “Divert your course or prepare to be fired upon.”