Chapter 2 - The Last Available Pilot
The first thing Nora Valdez heard was the sound of someone laughing.
It wasn't loud.
It wasn't even particularly cruel.
But after three years of living beneath the weight of a disgraced pilot's reputation, she recognized the sound immediately.
Lieutenant Andrew Mercer stood beside the operations trailer, shaking his head.
"You've got to be kidding me."
Chief Petty Officer Thomas Briggs turned toward him.
"Something funny, Lieutenant?"
Mercer pointed at Nora.
"Commander Holloway is actually considering putting a maintenance technician in a twenty-million-dollar fighter jet?"
Nora said nothing.
She was standing outside the flight equipment room with her hands curled into fists.
Inside, an aviation survival equipment technician was searching for a flight suit in her size.
Three years.
That was how long it had been since Nora had worn one.
Three years since she'd felt the familiar pressure of a flight helmet against her temples.
Three years since someone had called her Ember without making it sound like an accusation.
Mercer stepped closer.
"Listen, Valdez, no offense, but watching pilots take off isn't the same as being one."
Briggs moved between them.
"She has more Super Hornet hours than you do."
Mercer's smile disappeared.
"Excuse me?"
"Eleven hundred hours," Briggs replied.
"That's what she said."
"And the commander is checking it."
Mercer looked at Nora.
"Those hours didn't keep her airplane out of the ocean."
The words struck harder than Nora expected.
For an instant, she smelled seawater.
She heard the violent crack of her ejection seat.
She saw the black ocean rushing toward her beneath a moonless sky.
Briggs took another step toward Mercer.
"Walk away."
"Chief—"
"That's an order worth following."
Mercer left.
Nora stared at the concrete.
"You didn't have to do that."
Briggs turned toward her.
"Yes, I did."
"You don't know what happened."
"No."
His voice softened.
"But I know who checks every hydraulic line twice, even when nobody is watching."
Nora looked up.
Briggs continued.
"I know who stayed fourteen hours last winter because a nineteen-year-old technician made a mistake and was terrified of losing his career."
"Chief."
"And I know you don't make claims you can't support."
For the first time that afternoon, Nora felt something other than fear.
She felt the smallest trace of gratitude.
Then the operations trailer door opened.
Commander Holloway emerged with Captain Rebecca Sloan, the station's senior aviation safety officer.
Sloan was forty-four, sharp-eyed, and famously unwilling to sign anything she hadn't personally verified.
She carried a tablet.
"Valdez."
Nora straightened.
"Ma'am."
"I've reviewed your records."
Nora waited.
Sloan looked directly at her.
"One thousand one hundred and forty-two hours in the F/A-18E and F/A-18F combined."
Nora nodded.
"Yes, ma'am."
"Carrier qualifications."
"Yes."
"Combat deployment."
"One."
"Two hundred and seventeen arrested landings."
"Two hundred and nineteen, ma'am."
Sloan glanced at the tablet.
Then back at Nora.
"You're right."
Holloway folded his arms.
"Your record is impressive."
Nora felt her stomach tighten.
There was always a but.
Holloway supplied it.
"But it doesn't change the fact that your military flight qualifications expired."
"I understand, sir."
"And you are no longer a commissioned naval aviator."
"Yes, sir."
Sloan studied her.
"Tell me what you think is happening to Ketterman."
Nora answered immediately.
"An onboard oxygen-generation failure or a related breathing-system malfunction."
"Why?"
"His last transmissions."
Sloan frowned.
"You've heard them?"
"Only the fragments repeated across maintenance."
"Then listen to the full recording."
The captain tapped her tablet.
A young man's voice filled the air.
"Falcon Control, Viper Two-One, I'm getting a strange indication here."
A pause.
"Confirm your heading, Viper Two-One."
"Yeah, I think I'm good."
Another pause.
"Viper Two-One, you're turning away from your assigned route."
A faint laugh.
Then Dale Ketterman's voice again.
"That's weird."
Static followed.
Nora's fingers went cold.
Sloan stopped the recording.
"What does that suggest?"
Nora swallowed.
"Impaired judgment."
"Explain."
"He knows something is wrong, but he doesn't recognize how serious it is."
"Could it be fatigue?"
"Possibly."
"A neurological event?"
"Possible."
"Carbon monoxide exposure?"
"Another possibility."
Sloan raised an eyebrow.
"You're not certain."
"No, ma'am."
"Then why are you so focused on oxygen?"
Nora looked toward the ready aircraft.
"Because three years ago, I said almost those exact words."
Nobody spoke.
Nora continued.
"I remember looking at my navigation display and thinking the numbers were funny."
Her voice tightened.
"I remember laughing."
Holloway slowly lowered his head.
Sloan didn't interrupt.
"Then I remember trying to read my oxygen indications."
Nora took a breath.
"And I remember realizing I couldn't understand them."
Sloan's expression changed.
"Did your oxygen warning activate?"
"No."
"Did your emergency backup deploy automatically?"
"No."
"Did you manually select emergency oxygen?"
"Eventually."
"What happened before that?"
Nora stared at the ground.
"I lost almost four minutes that I can't remember."
Sloan became very still.
"Four minutes?"
"According to the surviving data."
Holloway looked toward the ocean.
"How long has Ketterman been unresponsive?"
The operations officer appeared in the doorway.
"Eleven minutes, sir."
Nobody said anything.
Then the officer added something worse.
"His aircraft is beginning a shallow descent."
Holloway looked at Sloan.
"Options?"
"An available qualified pilot from another installation is still at least forty minutes from launch and intercept."
"And Ketterman's endurance?"
"Unknown."
Holloway clenched his jaw.
Sloan continued.
"We can coordinate with airborne traffic, continue transmitting recovery instructions, and prepare maritime search and rescue."
"But we need someone beside his aircraft."
"Yes, sir."
Holloway looked at Nora.
She met his eyes.
"I'm not asking you to ignore the regulations."
"Then what are you asking?"
"Find an emergency authorization that lets me help without pretending my qualifications are current."
Sloan held up her tablet.
"I've contacted the regional aviation authority."
"Response?"
"They're reviewing the request."
"How long?"
"Too long."
Nora looked toward the fighter nearest the hangar.
The aircraft belonged to a training unit.
She knew its maintenance history.
She'd personally supervised its last engine inspection.
She knew the tiny scratch beneath the left canopy rail.
She knew the stubborn access panel near the right main landing gear.
She knew that aircraft better than she knew most people.
But knowing a machine from the outside was not the same as flying it.
She had no illusions about that.
The station loudspeaker crackled.
"Commander Holloway to Operations."
The commander stepped aside to answer his radio.
Nora heard only fragments.
"Yes, Admiral."
"Understood."
"Documented authority."
"Safety review."
His expression changed.
He listened for another fifteen seconds.
Then straightened.
"Yes, sir."
The radio clicked off.
Holloway turned toward Sloan.
"Emergency authorization has been granted for a single restricted rescue sortie, subject to your final safety assessment."
Sloan inhaled slowly.
"Then we need to evaluate her."
Holloway looked at Nora.
"Valdez, this permission is conditional."
"Understood."
"You won't launch unless Captain Sloan clears you."
"Yes, sir."
"And if she determines you're not ready, you stay on the ground."
Nora nodded.
Sloan stepped closer.
"There's one more thing."
"Ma'am?"
"If you launch, your first responsibility is maintaining control of your own aircraft."
"I know."
"You do not attempt some Hollywood maneuver to physically take control of Ketterman's jet."
"Understood."
"You intercept, assess, communicate, and help coordinate his recovery if he can respond."
"Yes, ma'am."
Sloan studied her face.
"Are you capable of doing that?"
Nora looked past the captain.
The Super Hornet stood beneath the sun, its gray fuselage shimmering in the heat.
The airplane itself didn't frighten her.
What frightened her was the possibility of getting inside and discovering that the pilot she'd once been no longer existed.
Nora straightened.
"I can perform the mission if I pass your assessment."
Sloan nodded.
"Good answer."
She turned toward the equipment room.
"Get her fitted."
Nora took one step.
Then another.
Briggs caught her elbow.
"Nora."
She stopped.
He held out a small object.
Her old silver call-sign patch.
The embroidered letters were faded.
EMBER.
She stared.
"Where did you get that?"
Briggs gave a faint smile.
"Found it tucked inside a toolbox you never let anybody touch."
Nora looked at him.
"You knew?"
"I knew there was a reason you kept it."
He placed the patch in her palm.
"You decide whether to wear it."
Nora closed her fingers around it.
Across the flight line, a radio operator suddenly shouted.
"Commander!"
Holloway turned.
"What?"
"We have a new transmission from Ketterman!"
Everyone froze.
The radio crackled.
A faint, confused voice whispered through the static.
"Falcon..."
Nora stepped forward.
Dale spoke again.
"Why..."
Then a long pause.
"Why are there two suns?"
Nora's blood turned cold.
May you like
Because three years earlier, just before she lost consciousness over the Coral Sea, she had asked the exact same question.
And nobody had believed her afterward.
