He looked back at the screen with fresh attention, but by then the trap had already begun closing.
Seven minutes in, the first aircraft was flagged as compromised.
A warning tone pulsed through the operations center.
By twelve, Blue Team had collapsed entirely.
Two marked down.
One drifting outside the safe corridor like he had flown straight into a trap.
The whole map bled red, and the room erupted.
Someone cursed.
Someone else smacked a console.
A chair rolled back so hard it hit the wall. Even the overhead lights seemed harsher. The air smelled like coffee, hot plastic, damp wool, and anger.
I pressed my fingers against the metal edge of the screen.
Their failure felt like déjà vu, an echo of a disaster I had never outrun.
That was when Evan stormed in.
He came through the side entrance with his helmet tucked under one arm, cheeks flushed, jaw tight, heat rolling off him before he spoke. Aiden Clark followed half a step behind, younger, sharper, eager to turn embarrassment into accusation before anyone could examine it too closely.
Evan jabbed a finger in my direction.
“You loaded the wrong tactical support files. That’s why they got shredded.”
Every eye turned to me.
My jaw tightened.
“Support files don’t pull triggers.”
Aiden shoved forward, face flushed, voice dripping contempt.
“There she goes again, acting like she knows more than actual combat pilots.”
A muted comment behind them cut through the noise. I did not need to hear the whole thing. The tone said enough.
Transport queen.
Back-row expert.
Lucky survivor.
Maybe none of those exact words were spoken, but I knew the shape of them. Men like that did not need originality. They only needed an audience.
I ignored it.
I focused on the radar instead because there, faint and shifting beneath the simulation data, was a distortion I recognized instantly.
Not a system hiccup.
Not pilot error.
A decoy pattern.
One I had seen before in a place no one here had clearance to discuss.
I leaned toward the radar operator, lowering my voice.
“Do you see that tailing interference at two-one-three?”
He glanced up, eyes narrowing.
“Only high-level tactical pilots catch that.”
I did not answer.
The truth sat heavy in my chest.
The shouting around me grew louder, but the distortion said more than any of them could. Someone had manipulated the simulation, and whoever it was knew exactly what they were doing.
Evan closed the distance between us, frustration twisting his expression.
“Stop pretending you understand warfare.”
My reply came out calm.
Too calm.
“I understood it long before this room ever did.”
The silence that followed cracked through the air like a pressure shift.
For the first time, they did not know how to look at me.
Evan’s face changed only slightly. His pride did not disappear. It hardened.
Aiden looked between us, still ready to laugh but no longer sure the room would follow him.
That uncertainty pleased me more than it should have.
By afternoon, the hallways had quieted, but the tension had not. I stepped out of tactical operations with a folder under my arm and froze at the sight waiting for me near the glass corridor.
My father.
Colonel Robert Sanders stood rigid in his old flight jacket, the Alaska Squadron patch still clinging to the sleeve. It was faded now, the edges worn, but I could still remember being ten years old and tracing that patch with my finger while he told me pilots did not chase fear; they flew through it.
He had been larger then.
Not taller. Not stronger.
Just larger in the way fathers are before you learn they are men.
His expression carried no warmth.
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