CHAPTER 1: THE STAIN ON THE CEILING

Three weeks earlier.

Captain Rachel “Bolt” Stewart sat in the sterile conference room at Kandahar Airfield, her flight suit still damp with sweat from what would be her last authorized mission for months. The air conditioning was humming, a low drone that did nothing to cover the tension in the room. It smelled of floor wax, old coffee, and impending doom.

Across the metal table, General David “Granite” Howard shuffled through a stack of papers thick enough to choke a horse. His weathered face bore the expression of a man who had seen too many good pilots make bad decisions. He didn’t look up. He let the silence stretch, a power move designed to make junior officers sweat.

Rachel didn’t sweat. She counted the water stains on the ceiling tiles. Seventeen. She focused on them to keep from thinking about the blood she’d scrubbed off her hands an hour ago. Each stain reminded her of the blood she’d seen pooling beneath Corpsman Tony Valdez when she pulled him from that burning Humvee two weeks ago—the same Humvee that Command had written off as “acceptable losses” until she disobeyed orders and provided close air support.

“Captain Stewart,” General Howard began, his voice carrying the weight of three decades in uniform. “Your actions during Operation Sandstorm violated direct orders, endangered civilian aircraft, and cost the taxpayers approximately four million dollars in ordnance.”

Four million dollars.

Rachel kept her eyes fixed on the ceiling. She was doing the math in her head. Four million dollars. Divided by the six lives she had saved today. That was roughly $666,000 per Marine. seemed like a bargain to her.

“Do you have anything to say for yourself?”

The General’s question hung in the recycled air like smoke from a distant fire.

Rachel finally met his gaze. Her green eyes held no apology, no regret. Just the steady resolve of someone who would sleep well tonight knowing six mothers were getting phone calls from their sons instead of visits from a casualty notification officer.

“Sir,” she said, her voice steady. “I’d do it again.”

The General’s jaw tightened. A vein throbbed in his temple. He had expected contrition. He had expected political maneuvering to save her career. Instead, he got the same stubborn honesty that made Rachel Stewart the best Close Air Support pilot in the theater—and the biggest headache for anyone trying to manage her.

“Captain Stewart,” he whispered, the quiet more terrifying than the shouting. “You are grounded pending a full review. Your access codes are revoked. Your aircraft is off-limits. You will report to base administration for reassignment.”

He closed the folder with a decisive snap. “Dismissed.”

Rachel stood, her boots clicking sharply against the polished floor as she executed a perfect salute. She turned and walked toward the door, each step measured and deliberate. Behind her, she heard General Howard’s aide whisper something about regulations.

She didn’t look back. She walked out of the office, down the long corridor, and out into the blinding Afghan sun. She was grounded. Her career was likely over.

But she was alive. And so were those Marines.

CHAPTER 2: INTO THE STORM

Hangar Foxtrot buzzed with the controlled chaos that defined military aviation maintenance.

Rachel pushed through the heavy doors into the familiar smell of hydraulic fluid, metal polish, and jet fuel. It was a scent that smelled like home. Her A-10 Thunderbolt, tail number 787—nicknamed “The Judge”—sat in the center bay like a caged predator.

The aircraft’s distinctive twin engines and massive GAU-8 Avenger cannon gave it an almost prehistoric appearance. It was a flying tank. A titanium bathtub wrapped around a gun the size of a Volkswagen Beetle. It was ugly, loud, and the most beautiful thing Rachel had ever seen.

Master Sergeant Lisa “Grease” Griffin looked up from a fuel pump diagnostic. Her grease-stained coveralls and no-nonsense expression marked her as someone who had forgotten more about aircraft maintenance than most people ever learned. She’d been keeping warbirds airworthy since before Rachel graduated high school.

“Heard about your meeting with the brass,” Griffin said, not bothering with pleasantries. She wiped her hands on a shop rag that was blacker than the oil she was cleaning. “Figured you’d show up here eventually to say goodbye.”

Rachel ran her hand along the A-10’s scarred fuselage. The aircraft bore the scars of too many close calls. Bullet holes patched with aluminum, scorch marks from near-miss explosions.

“They grounding her, too?” Rachel asked.

Griffin snorted. “Bird doesn’t have a rank, Captain. Can’t court-martial an airplane. But they did pull her from the active roster. Scheduled for depot maintenance. They want to strip her for parts.”

“She’s not scrap metal, Chief.”

“Tell that to the Pentagon.”

The two women stood in comfortable silence, both understanding what that meant. Depot maintenance was often a polite way of saying an aircraft was going to the boneyard.

Suddenly, the hangar’s PA system crackled to life.

“Captain Stewart. Report to the Communication Center immediately. Captain Stewart, urgent.”

Rachel exchanged a glance with Griffin. Emergency communications usually meant something had gone wrong. And in Afghanistan, “wrong” had a way of escalating to “catastrophic” in seconds.

Rachel ran.

The Communications Center was a hardened bunker beneath the main operations building. Its concrete walls were lined with radio equipment, satellite uplinks, and computer terminals that never seemed to stop chattering.

Lieutenant Karen Hunt, the intelligence officer, looked up as Rachel burst in. Hunt looked sick. Her face was pale, beads of sweat on her forehead.

“We’ve got a team in contact,” Hunt said, her voice trembling. “Sector 77 Charlie. SEAL reconnaissance patrol. Six personnel engaged with superior enemy forces.”

Rachel felt her pulse quicken. Sector 77 Charlie was bad country—a network of narrow canyons and steep ridges that offered perfect terrain for ambushes. It was a kill box.

“Requesting immediate close air support,” Hunt continued. “But we’ve got a problem. Look at the weather.”

She pointed to the main screen. A massive dust storm was merging with a thunderstorm directly over the valley. The radar was a swirling mess of red and purple.

“Ceiling dropping. Visibility deteriorating. By the time we scramble conventional assets, conditions will be below minimums for safe operation,” Hunt said.

Sergeant Cole, the radio operator, suddenly straightened in her chair, pressing her headset tighter. “Ma’am, I’m losing the signal. Team leader reports they are surrounded. Taking casualties.”

Hunt grabbed the handset. “Bravo 7, this is Base Control. Do you copy?”

Static.

“Bravo 7, please respond.”

The silence stretched between them like a chasm. Rachel knew what it meant. In the mountains, lost communication usually meant lost lives.

“What aircraft do we have available?” Rachel demanded.

“Two Apache gunships, but they’re weathered in at Bagram,” Hunt said. “F-16 squadron is two hours out. Closest available support is ninety minutes away.”

Ninety minutes. A lifetime.

“There is one option,” Rachel said quietly.

Hunt raised an eyebrow. “Captain, you’re grounded. The aircraft isn’t cleared.”

“The aircraft doesn’t care about paperwork,” Rachel snapped.

Cole’s voice cut through the standoff. “Ma’am! I’m getting something!”

A burst of static emerged from the speakers, followed by a voice so weak it barely qualified as human.

“…everyone down… ammo gone… We’re finished.”

The transmission dissolved back into white noise.

Rachel turned toward the door. She didn’t say a word. She didn’t have to.

“Rachel!” Hunt shouted after her. “If you do this, there’s no coming back! They will throw you in Leavenworth for twenty years!”

Rachel stopped in the doorway. She looked back at the map, at the red dot blinking in the storm.

“Better me in a cell than them in a box,” she said.

She sprinted back to Hangar Foxtrot. Griffin looked up as Rachel slid into the bay, her chest heaving.

“Chief,” Rachel gasped. “How long to get 787 ready for immediate launch?”

Griffin’s eyes narrowed. “Captain, you’re not supposed to…”

“How long?”

Chief Warrant Officer Butler emerged from under the wing. “Bird’s fueled and armed from this morning’s canceled mission. Pre-flight checks are green. She could be airborne in fifteen minutes.”

“Get her ready,” Rachel ordered. “Full combat load. Now.”

Griffin stepped closer, lowering her voice. “Rachel. They’ll bury you for this.”

“They’re already burying six SEALs in that canyon, Chief. I’m going flying.”

Griffin studied Rachel’s face for a heartbeat. She saw the madness there, but she also saw the duty. She nodded once.

“Butler! Pull the chocks! Open the main doors! Captain Stewart is going to war!”

As the ground crew moved with practiced efficiency, Rachel strapped herself into the cockpit. The familiar smell of the cockpit—sweat, metal, and oxygen—calmed her nerves. She flipped the switches. The twin turbofan engines spooled up, a high-pitched whine that vibrated through her bones.

“Tower, Thunderbolt 787, requesting immediate takeoff. Emergency departure.”

The tower controller’s voice crackled. “787, you are not on the flight schedule. You are grounded. Shut down your engines immediately.”

Rachel didn’t answer. She throttled up. The massive jet lurched forward.

“787, abort takeoff! I repeat, abort takeoff! Security forces are being dispatched!”

Rachel lined up on the runway. The storm was visible now, a wall of black and gray looming over the mountains.

She pushed the throttle to the stops. The G-force slammed her back into the seat. The A-10 roared down the tarmac, lifting off just as three Military Police cruisers raced onto the tarmac with lights flashing.

She was airborne. She was unauthorized. She was flying into a hurricane to save men who were already dead.

And she had never felt more alive.

CHAPTER 3: THE DEVIL’S THROAT

The A-10 Thunderbolt lifted off into air thick with dust and uncertainty.

Rachel felt the familiar sensation of the aircraft settling into its element. The heavy machine transformed from an earthbound beast into an airborne predator. Below her, Kandahar Airfield shrank to a collection of Lego blocks, insignificant against the vast, brown expanse of the Afghan terrain.

She banked northeast toward the mountains. Her radar altimeter showed the ground rising steadily beneath her. The relatively flat desert gave way to foothills that looked like crumpled brown paper bags. Soon, those would turn into the knife-edge ridges of the Hindu Kush.

The radio crackled with routine chatter from other aircraft. Transport helicopters ferrying supplies. Fighter jets patrolling the border. None of them were heading where she was going. None of them were crazy enough to fly into weather that was already “below minimums.”

Rachel switched to the emergency frequency. She took a breath of pure oxygen from her mask.

“Bravo 7, this is Thunderbolt 787. Inbound your position. If you can hear this, key your radio twice.”

Static.

She waited. The silence in her headset was louder than the engines.

“Bravo 7, this is Thunderbolt. I am Angel on my way. Give me a sign.”

Twenty-six minutes had passed since the team’s last transmission. In her experience, teams that went silent usually stayed that way. They were either dead, or they were in a situation so dire that taking a hand off a weapon to press a radio button meant dying.

Neither possibility offered much comfort.

The terrain changed again. The foothills became jagged peaks. This was Sector 77C. The pilots called it “The Devil’s Throat.” It was a transition zone between the civilized world of airbases and the medieval landscape where the 21st century existed only in the form of weapons.

Rachel’s Heads-Up Display (HUD) showed her position. Fifteen minutes out.

Through her canopy, she saw it. The storm front. It wasn’t just a cloud; it was a wall. A gray, bruising mass of violence moving south from the peaks. Lightning flickered inside it like strobe lights in a nightmare.

She hit the turbulence instantly. The A-10 bucked hard, slamming Rachel against her harness. It felt like driving a pickup truck off a cliff.

“Come on, old girl,” Rachel whispered, fighting the stick. “Hold it together.”

Down in the canyon, Staff Sergeant Dave “Hammer” Evans pressed his back against the cold stone of a shallow cave. Blood seeped through the makeshift bandage on his left arm.

“How’s the ammo?” Evans rasped.

Petty Officer Steve Powell didn’t look up from his sniper scope. “I’ve got one mag left. The SAW is dry.”

“Grenades?”

“Gone.”

Evans closed his eyes. They were huddled in a cave no deeper than a walk-in closet. Outside, twenty enemy fighters were moving up the slope. They weren’t rushing. They were taking their time. They knew the Americans had nowhere to go.

“Movement,” Powell whispered. “Two o’clock. They’re setting up a mortar.”

A mortar. In a box canyon. That was it. That was the end game. Once the first shell dropped, they were meat in a grinder.

“Check the radio again,” Evans said.

“It’s dead, boss,” the comms guy, Perry, replied. “Antenna’s sheared off. I’m trying to bridge the connection with copper wire, but…”

Crack-thump.

The first mortar round landed fifty meters short. The ground shook. Dust rained down from the cave roof.

“They’re bracketing us,” Evans said calmly. “Next one will be closer.”

He looked at his men. Dirty. Bleeding. Resigned. They were the best warriors on the planet, and they were about to die in a hole in the ground because of bad weather.

Then, a sound cut through the wind.

It wasn’t the thump of a mortar. It was a low, guttural whine. A banshee scream mixed with a chainsaw.

Powell looked up, his eyes widening. “Boss… do you hear that?”

Evans strained his ears. He knew that sound. It was the sound of twin GE TF34 turbofan engines.

“No way,” Evans whispered. “No pilot would fly in this.”

Perry shoved the wires together on the radio, sparks flying. “Bravo 7 to any station! We hear engines! We hear engines!”

High above, Rachel’s headset crackled. It was weak, filled with static, but it was there.

“…hear engines! Danger close! We are… mortar fire… 200 meters north!”

Rachel grinned beneath her oxygen mask. “I hear you, boys. Daddy’s home.”

CHAPTER 4: STEEL RAIN

Rachel dropped the A-10 out of the clouds like a stone.

She broke through the ceiling at 800 feet. The valley floor rushed up at her—a nightmare landscape of grey rock and shadows.

Her thermal imaging screen lit up. The canyon was cold, but the bodies were hot. She saw the cluster of heat signatures near the cave mouth—the SEALs. And then she saw the others.

Dozens of them. They were swarming the lower slopes like ants.

“Bravo 7, I have visual,” Rachel said, her voice calm and deadly. “Keep your heads down. I’m bringing the rain.”

She banked hard left, pulling nearly 6 Gs. The wings of the A-10 groaned under the stress, but they held. She lined up the nose of the aircraft with the cluster of heat signatures setting up the mortar tube.

She flipped the master arm switch. CLICK.

She selected the gun. CLICK.

The GAU-8 Avenger is not just a machine gun. It is a hydraulic-driven, seven-barrel rotary cannon that fires 30mm depleted uranium shells. Each bullet is the size of a milk bottle. It fires 3,900 rounds per minute.

Rachel squeezed the trigger.

BRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRT.

The sound is famous. It’s a sound that rips the sky apart. Because the bullets travel faster than the speed of sound, the enemy dies before they even hear the gun fire.

On the ground, the world exploded.

The mortar team simply evaporated. The 30mm rounds hit the rocky slope with the force of hand grenades. Rock shattered. Dust plumed into the air. A line of destruction walked up the hillside, tearing through the enemy formation.

In the cave, the SEALs flinched as the ground shook violently.

“Holy mother of…” Powell breathed, watching the devastation.

The A-10 screamed over their heads, banking sharply to avoid the canyon wall. Rachel pulled up, the G-force crushing her into the seat again.

“Good effect on target,” she radioed. “Turning for run two.”

But the enemy wasn’t a group of untrained farmers. They were hardened fighters, and they had come prepared.

As Rachel crested the ridge to turn around, the valley floor lit up with green tracers. It looked like a reverse rainstorm—lines of green light reaching up to grab her.

Ping. Clang.

Rachel felt the impacts. Small arms fire hitting the titanium bathtub. It sounded like hail on a tin roof.

“They’re shooting back,” she muttered.

“Warning,” the flight computer intoned. “Radar lock. Radar lock.”

A Man-Portable Air-Defense System (MANPADS). A heat-seeking missile.

Rachel didn’t panic. She punched the flare button.

Thump-thump-thump.

Bright magnesium flares shot out from the A-10’s tail, decoying the missile. She saw the smoke trail spiral away and detonate harmlessly against the canyon wall.

“Bravo 7, I’m taking heavy fire,” Rachel said. “They’ve got SAMs. I can’t stay in a hover pattern. I’m going to have to make these runs fast.”

“Copy that, Angel,” Evans replied, his voice stronger now. “We’ve got enemy movers on our left flank. Can you clear them?”

“On it.”

Rachel rolled the heavy jet inverted. She was flying upside down, looking through the top of the canopy at the rocky ground below. She spotted the flankers—five men moving fast, trying to get an angle on the cave.

She pulled the stick back, diving inverted, then rolled upright at the last second.

BRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRT.

The second burst was shorter, more controlled. The flankers disappeared in a cloud of dust and red mist.

“That’s a confirm,” Evans cheered over the radio. “Clear! Flank is clear!”

For a moment, it felt like winning.

Then the storm hit.

It wasn’t gradual. The wall of dust and rain Rachel had seen earlier finally swallowed the canyon. Visibility dropped from “bad” to “zero” in ten seconds.

Rain hammered the canopy like machine-gun fire. The wind shear slammed the A-10 sideways. Rachel fought the controls, her muscles burning. Her HUD was flickering. The turbulence was so bad she couldn’t read her instruments.

“I can’t see!” Rachel yelled. “I’ve lost visual!”

She was flying blind in a box canyon, surrounded by granite walls, at 400 miles per hour.

CHAPTER 5: THE IMPOSSIBLE CHOICE

Rachel pulled up hard, climbing out of the canyon to avoid smashing into a mountain. She punched through the storm layer into the gray, turbulent sky above.

Her heart was pounding like a jackhammer.

She checked her fuel. 2,800 pounds. Enough for maybe thirty minutes of combat maneuvering, or a straight flight back to base.

But she couldn’t go back.

“Bravo 7, I’m blind,” she transmitted. “I’m orbiting above the layer. What’s your status?”

Static. Then Evans.

“They’re moving again. They know you can’t see them. They’re closing in. We have… maybe ten minutes before they overrun us.”

Ten minutes.

Suddenly, a new voice cut into her headset. It wasn’t the SEALs. It was crystal clear, authoritative, and angry.

“Thunderbolt 787, this is Overlord Actual.”

Rachel froze. Overlord Actual. That was General Howard. He was on the command frequency.

“Captain Stewart, turn off your radio and listen to me. You are in direct violation of a standing order. You are flying a compromised aircraft in weather conditions that exceed safety parameters. You are ordered to Return to Base immediately.”

Rachel stared at the horizon. “General, I have troops in contact. They are surrounded.”

“We know, Captain,” Howard’s voice was cold. “But we cannot lose a pilot and an airframe for a lost cause. Intel reports a reinforced enemy company moving up that valley. You cannot save them. Return to base. That is a direct order. If you do not comply, you will be court-martialed and imprisoned.”

Rachel looked at her fuel gauge. She looked at the storm clouds below her.

Down there, six men were checking their last magazines. They were writing final letters in their heads. They were alone.

“Captain Stewart, acknowledge!” Howard barked.

Rachel reached up to the comms panel. Her hand hovered over the switch.

“I’m sorry, General,” she whispered. “I’m having radio trouble.”

Click.

She turned off the command frequency. The General’s voice vanished.

Now, it was just her, the storm, and the six men dying in the dark.

She switched back to the tactical frequency. “Bravo 7, this is Thunderbolt. I’m not going anywhere.”

“Angel, you can’t see us,” Evans said. “Don’t risk it.”

“I have an idea,” Rachel said. Her mind was racing. The thermal camera was useless in the heavy rain. The targeting pod was blinded. She needed eyes on the target.

“Do you have a strobe?” she asked. “An IR strobe?”

“Negative,” Evans said. “Batteries are dead.”

“Okay,” Rachel said, her voice shaking slightly. “Do you have a flare? A signal flare?”

“Yeah. One. Red.”

“Pop it.”

“Angel, if I pop a flare, every bad guy in the valley will know exactly where we are.”

“They already know where you are, Hammer,” Rachel said. “But I don’t. Pop the flare. I’m coming down.”

“You’re coming down? In this?”

“I’m going to fly under the ceiling,” Rachel said.

It was insanity. The ceiling was maybe 200 feet off the ground. That meant she would be flying a jet at 300 knots, lower than the height of a skyscraper, inside a winding canyon, while taking fire.

“Do it,” she commanded.

Below the clouds, a tiny red spark ignited. It fizzled against the wet gray rock.

Rachel took a deep breath. She pushed the stick forward. The A-10 nosed over and dove back into the gray soup.

Rain lashed the glass. The altimeter spun down. 2,000 feet. 1,000 feet. 500 feet.

The ground proximity alarm screamed. PULL UP. PULL UP.

She ignored it.

She broke out of the clouds at 150 feet. The canyon walls were a blur of wet stone on either side. She was so low she could see the individual rocks on the riverbed.

And she saw the red flare.

She also saw the muzzle flashes. Hundreds of them. The enemy reinforcements had arrived. They were swarming the valley floor, rushing the cave.

Rachel didn’t have time to aim. She didn’t have time to think. She just reacted.

She walked the rudder pedals, slewing the nose of the jet sideways. She pulled the trigger and held it down.

BRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRT.

She emptied the gun. A continuous stream of depleted uranium tore a trench through the enemy line. It was a wall of fire.

But as she pulled up to clear the ridge at the end of the pass, a loud BANG shook the aircraft.

The plane yawed violently to the right. The master caution light lit up the cockpit like a Christmas tree.

HYDRAULIC FAILURE – SYSTEM A. ENGINE 2 FIRE.

She looked out to her right. The starboard engine was trailing thick black smoke. An RPG had hit the nacelle.

She wrestled the stick with both hands. The controls felt mushy, heavy. The plane wanted to roll over and die.

“Angel, you’re hit! You’re on fire!” Evans shouted over the radio.

Rachel hit the fire extinguisher button. The smoke turned white, but the engine didn’t restart. She was flying on one engine, with half her hydraulics gone, in a storm.

“I’m okay,” she lied, her voice strained. “I’m still flying.”

“Get out of here!” Evans yelled. “You bought us time. Go!”

Rachel looked at her fuel. It was dropping fast. The hit had ruptured a line. She had maybe ten minutes of fuel left before the tanks ran dry.

She looked at the map on her knee. There was no way she could make it back to Kandahar. She couldn’t even make it to the Forward Operating Base.

She was going down. The only question was where.

She scanned the valley floor through the rain. It was all jagged rocks and steep slopes. No place to land.

Wait.

Two kilometers down the canyon. A flat spot. It looked like an old, dried-up riverbed or a mining tailings pile. It was short—maybe 800 feet long. The A-10 needed 4,000 feet to land safely.

But safely wasn’t an option anymore.

“Bravo 7,” Rachel said, her voice eerily calm. “I can’t make it back to base. I’m leaking fuel and I’ve lost an engine.”

“Eject,” Evans ordered. “Punch out. We’ll come get you.”

“If I punch out, the wind will carry the chute right into the enemy lines,” Rachel said. “And you guys need a ride home.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I see a flat strip. Two clicks south of your position. I’m putting her down.”

“You’re crazy,” Evans said. “You can’t land an A-10 on a goat path!”

“Watch me.”

Rachel banked the crippled jet toward the narrow strip of dirt. She lowered the landing gear lever.

Nothing happened.

The hydraulics were dead. The gear wouldn’t come down.

She was going to have to belly-land a 25,000-pound jet loaded with explosives on a rocky riverbed, while under fire, with one engine burning.

Rachel tightened her harness. She looked at the photo of her dad taped to the instrument panel.

“Hold on, Hammer,” she said. “I’m coming to pick you up.”

CHAPTER 6: THE GRAVEYARD LANDING

The ground rushed up to meet her fast. Too fast.

Without landing gear, the A-10 wasn’t landing; it was crashing with style. Rachel cut the remaining engine seconds before impact to minimize the fire risk. The silence was terrifying.

SCREEEEEEEEECH.

The sound was the end of the world. Metal tore against granite. The A-10 slammed into the rocky riverbed, bouncing once, twice, threatening to flip over. Rachel screamed as her helmet smashed against the side of the cockpit.

Sparks showered the canopy like fireworks. The aircraft slid for three hundred yards, carving a trench through the earth, before slamming into a pile of mining debris and grinding to a halt.

Silence. Then, the hiss of cooling metal and the crackle of fire.

Rachel punched the canopy release. It blew off with a roar. She unbuckled her harness, grabbing her survival rifle—a compact M4 carbine clipped to the side of the seat. She scrambled out of the cockpit, sliding down the broken nose of the jet just as the fuel lines ignited.

She hit the dirt hard, rolling into a defensive crouch. She was alive.

“Pilot! Move!”

She looked up. Dave “Hammer” Evans and his SEALs were sprinting toward her from the north, firing wildly behind them. They looked like hell—bloodied, limping, but moving with terrifying speed.

They reached the wreckage just as enemy bullets started pinging off the A-10’s armored fuselage. The crashed jet wasn’t a plane anymore; it was a fortress.

“Nice parking job, Captain!” Evans yelled, sliding in beside her behind the engine nacelle.

“I aim to please,” Rachel gasped, checking her rifle. “You guys need a lift?”

“We ordered an Uber,” Powell, the sniper, said, setting up his rifle on the A-10’s wing. “But this will do.”

The enemy was closing in. Rachel peered around the wreckage. There were dozens of them. They weren’t rushing blindly anymore; they were moving tactically.

“They’re setting up a kill zone,” Evans said. “They know we’re trapped against the wreck.”

Rachel wasn’t an infantry soldier. She was a pilot. But she knew tactics. She looked at the enemy formation.

“Hammer,” she said. “Look at their radios. The guy in the back.”

She pointed to an enemy officer shouting commands into a handset. He wasn’t looking at the SEALs; he was looking at the sky.

“He’s not calling for mortars,” Rachel realized. “He’s coordinating air defense. They know the rescue choppers are coming.”

CHAPTER 7: THE TRAITOR

The sound of rotors thumped in the distance. Rescue 24. Two Chinooks and an Apache escort.

“Rescue 24, abort approach!” Evans screamed into the radio. “Hot LZ! Heavy anti-air!”

It was too late. The lead Apache swept over the ridge.

WHOOSH.

A missile streaked up from the rocks. It slammed into the Apache’s tail rotor. The helicopter spun violently, crashing into the valley floor three hundred meters away.

“They knew,” Rachel whispered. “They knew exactly when and where the rescue was coming.”

The enemy officer with the radio shouted something. Rachel aimed her survival rifle. She wasn’t a sniper, but at this range, she didn’t miss.

She squeezed the trigger. The officer dropped.

“Cover me!” Rachel yelled.

“What are you doing?” Evans shouted.

Rachel didn’t answer. She sprinted from the cover of the A-10, bullets kicking up dirt around her boots. She dove toward the dead officer, grabbed the radio from his hand, and rolled behind a boulder.

She held the radio to her ear. What she heard made her blood run cold.

It wasn’t Pashto. It wasn’t Arabic.

It was English. An American accent.

“…Target is down. Confirm package is secured. No witnesses.”

It was a voice she recognized. Colonel Matthews. The liaison officer back at base. The man responsible for mission planning.

He wasn’t just incompetent. He was selling them out. The ambush, the “low priority” designation, the command to abandon them—it was all a setup to wipe out a team that knew too much.

Rachel scrambled back to the A-10, clutching the radio like it was gold.

“We have to go!” she yelled at Evans. “The second Chinook is coming in!”

The transport helicopter braved the fire, hovering just feet above the ground, its ramp lowered.

“Move! Move!” the crew chief screamed.

The SEALs laid down a wall of lead. Powell picked off targets one by one while the wounded were dragged onto the bird.

Rachel was the last one on the ground. She turned to fire one last burst, covering Evans.

A bullet slammed into her shoulder.

It felt like being hit by a sledgehammer. She spun around, falling to her knees.

“Rachel!” Evans lunged off the ramp, grabbing her by her good arm.

He dragged her onto the helicopter just as the pilot pulled pitch. The Chinook lurched into the air, bullets pinging off the floorplates.

Rachel lay on the metal floor, blood pooling under her flight suit. She looked at the A-10 shrinking in the distance—a burning funeral pyre for her career, but the savior of six lives.

She clutched the enemy radio to her chest.

“I got him,” she whispered before the darkness took her. “I got the bastard.”

CHAPTER 8: THE RECKONING

Kandahar Airfield. Four hours later.

Rachel sat in the medical bay. Her shoulder was bandaged, her arm in a sling. She refused pain meds. She needed a clear head.

The door opened. General Howard walked in. He wasn’t alone. Military Police flanked him. And behind them, looking concerned and professional, was Colonel Matthews.

“Captain Stewart,” Howard said, his voice like granite. “I’m glad you’re alive. You are under arrest for the theft of a military aircraft, gross insubordination, and reckless endangerment.”

Matthews stepped forward, shaking his head. “A tragedy, General. She clearly snapped under pressure. We should get her a psych evaluation before the court-martial.”

Rachel stood up. She swayed slightly, but she stayed on her feet.

“General,” she said. “Before you cuff me, I have something for you.”

She used her good hand to pull the blood-stained radio from her flight suit pocket. She set it on the table.

“What is this?” Howard asked.

“I took this off the enemy commander on the ground,” Rachel said. “It recorded the transmission coordinating the ambush.”

Matthews’ face went pale. “General, this is nonsense. It’s enemy propaganda. We shouldn’t listen—”

“Play it,” Rachel said, staring Matthews in the eye.

Howard looked at Matthews. He saw the sweat on the Colonel’s brow. He saw the fear.

Howard pressed the playback button.

The room filled with static, and then, clear as day:

“…Target is down. Confirm package is secured. No witnesses. Make sure the pilot doesn’t make it out.”

The voice was undeniable. It was Colonel Matthews.

The silence in the room was absolute.

General Howard turned slowly to Matthews. The look on the General’s face was terrifying. It was the look of a man who was about to dismantle someone, piece by piece.

“MPs,” Howard said softly. “Arrest Colonel Matthews for treason.”

“You can’t do this!” Matthews stammered as the handcuffs clicked. “I have friends in the Pentagon!”

“You’re going to need them,” Howard growled. “Get him out of my sight.”

When they were gone, Howard turned back to Rachel. He looked at her bandaged shoulder. He looked at the defiant tilt of her chin.

“You stole an 18-million-dollar aircraft, Captain,” Howard said. “You destroyed it. You violated every regulation in the book.”

“Yes, sir,” Rachel said.

“And you saved six Navy SEALs and exposed a traitor in my command.”

Howard picked up the arrest warrant from the table. He tore it in half. Then he tore it in half again.

“The A-10 is a tough bird,” Howard said. “But we have others. We don’t have other pilots like you.”

He extended his hand.

“Get some rest, Rachel. You’re back on the flight roster as soon as that shoulder heals.”

Rachel took his hand. “Thank you, sir.”

She walked out of the medical bay and into the cool night air. Outside, sitting on a bench, were Dave Evans and his team. They were battered, bandaged, and exhausted.

When they saw her, they didn’t say a word. They just stood up.

Evans walked over and ripped the velcro patch off his uniform—the Trident of the Navy SEALs. He slapped it onto Rachel’s flight suit, right over her heart.

“You fly with us anytime, Bolt,” Evans said.

Rachel looked at the stars over Afghanistan. They told her it was a suicide mission. They told her she was finished.

They were wrong. She was just getting started.

THE END