I was not recreating an enemy tactic.
I was recreating the one that had ended my unit.
The simulation bay darkened. Screens glowed along the walls. Operators leaned over consoles. Pilots moved into position. The air filled with the low machine hum of processors carrying more tension than any shouted command.
I took my station at Red Air command.
The headset settled over my ears.
For one brief second, the room disappeared.
I was not in Fort Hamilton.
I was back in that other sky.
The one nobody spoke about.
The one that still returned in fragments when the world got too quiet.
Then Hartman’s voice came through the channel.
“Spectre One, you have command.”
I opened my eyes.
“Red Air moving.”
The sky lit up with simulated heat signatures as we closed distance. On the screen, Blue Team formed a defensive line with textbook precision. Clean spacing. Strong coverage. Confident timing.
It looked good.
That was the problem.
Twelve minutes was all it took for the cracks to show.
I placed the first decoy just outside their comfort zone, not close enough to alarm them, not far enough to ignore. Evan held formation for three seconds longer than yesterday. That meant he was learning, or trying to look like he was.
Then Aiden shifted.
Small movement.
Barely visible.
Enough.
“Blue Two is drifting,” said an operator.
“I see him,” I replied.
I placed the second decoy behind his adjustment. Aiden corrected too late. His wingman opened the gap. Evan tried to compensate and exposed his flank.
The room watched in silence.
Blue Air’s communications scrambled into static, their radar smeared with layers of crafted interference. Every move they attempted was met by a counter they had never seen before.
Aiden’s voice cracked over the radio.
“We’re being set up. She’s using forbidden tactics.”
My response stayed level.
“The other side doesn’t follow the rules you like.”
I slid in behind him, holding his tail for forty long seconds, an eternity in a simulation that unforgiving.
I did not fire immediately.
That was the lesson.
Pressure does more than defeat a pilot. It reveals him.
Aiden twisted, overcorrected, and lost his line.
Then, calm and deliberate, I released the shot.
“Check your six, Lieutenant.”
Aiden blinked out of the sim.
A sharp silence cut through the room.
No laughter.
No swagger.
Just the sound of one pilot realizing the sky did not care how loudly he had spoken in a briefing room.
Evan fell shortly after.
He lasted longer. I would give him that. He adjusted twice, ignored one decoy, and nearly held the corridor. Nearly is where pride goes to make excuses.
I gave him the same opening I had seen years ago.
He took it.
The trap closed.
His marker disappeared from the screen.
A third pilot disappeared a minute later.
Blue Air collapsed exactly the way that hostile network had intended all those years ago.
When the simulation ended, nobody moved.
The debrief hall felt colder than the bunker.
I dimmed the lights and pulled up the radar footage, letting the patterns speak for themselves. The recording rolled across the projection wall in clean lines and brutal timing. There was no drama in it now. No shouting. No accusation. Just evidence.
“This isn’t cheating,” I said. “This is real combat logic. And if today had been live, every one of you would have been out of the fight before phase two.”
I marked the returning signal, the one that had followed me like a shadow since the drill began.
“They’re testing Northern Eagle,” I said, “and they’re making sure I see it.”
I let the cursor hover over the pulsing pattern.
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