Page 29 of Viking

11:00 a.m.

Lila

The morning sun beats down as I make my way across the tarmac, clipboard in hand, coordinating the final touches for the event. The buzz of anticipation hums through the crowd gathered in the stands, their excitement infectious even as I focus on the tasks at hand. Banners ripple in the light breeze, the bold emblem of the Air Force catching the sunlight like it was made to inspire awe.

Everything looks perfect, but that doesn’t stop me from running through my mental checklist again. The demonstration’s about to start, and everything needs to go like clockwork. The whole team is ready. I double-check the radio frequencies and verify the backup plans, ensuring the logistics are in place for after the flight—things like crowd control, post-performance debriefings, and the pilot meet and greet. I adjust my headset and glance over at the nearby hangar, making sure everything’s set there, too.

I smooth my cream-colored cap-sleeved bodysuit tucked into black high-waisted, wide leg trousers and run my fingers over the twists of my low bun. Then glance at my clipboard. Everything’s set.

The refreshments are stocked, the VIP seating is arranged, and the press has their designated zone. Kids in miniature flight suits dart between adults holding cameras and drinks. A few veterans in weathered caps trade stories near one of the merchandise stands, their pride evident.

It’s the kind of energy I love. Organized chaos teetering on the edge of magic.

“Lila, I just got some photos of the base commander and his guests in the VIP area, they’re happy with the turnout. Everything is great, you can breathe now.” Our team’s photographer rushes to catch up with my hurried steps.

I force a laugh. “I’ll breathe when it’s over. For now, I’m aiming for controlled hyperventilation.”

In just a few more minutes, the main event will begin. The demo team should be set, their jets lined up out of sight, ready to steal the breath of every person here.

She grins and hands me the water. “At least, the hard part’s done.”

Before I can respond, the crowd’s noise shifts, growing louder. The engines scream as the jets cut through the sky as if appearing from nowhere. The sound vibrates through my chest, an unmistakable reminder of what this day is about. I can’t help but feel a rush of pride, watching Logan and Ryan and knowing the effort they put into this. It makes my heart race in a way that’s both thrilling and terrifying.

“Ladies and gentlemen, prepare to witness aviation excellence! Put your hands together for your United States Air Force’s F-22 Raptors!” Major Townsend drawls into the microphone. Nick, as he’s started insisting I call him since I’m not one of his men, but twenty-eight years of respectful “yes, ma’ams” and “no, sirs” has it ingrained in me. His tone is clear and practiced, keeping the crowd hooked.

“Piloted by Captain Logan ‘Viking’ James and Captain Ryan ‘Spartan’ Carter! Flying out of Joint-Base Langley-Eustis, the F-22 Raptor, a fifth-generation fighter, combines stealth, supercruise, and unmatched maneuverability. Capable of reaching speeds over Mach 2 and with advanced thrust-vectoring nozzles, this jet can outfly anything in the sky. The Raptor doesn’t just dominate the air—it owns it!

Now, as the unmistakable roar of the F-22’s twin Pratt & Whitney engines fills the air, all eyes to the skies! Viking and Spartan are about to show you why this aircraft—and these pilots—are at the pinnacle of air combat. Get ready to be amazed!”

As the jets bank hard, splitting apart before crossing paths again, Nick describes the intricacies in vivid detail and I’m completely mesmerized.

I check in with the team over my headset and ensure that everything is still going according to plan and then turn my attention back skyward.

It’s about forty minutes later when the F-22s complete their final maneuver. The crowd around me erupts into applause, cheers breaking out as the jets make their final pass and streak toward the runway.

As I walk toward the flight line to coordinate with the team, a wave of longing rushes over me. I made it Linc. For you. I press against the ache squeezing my heart before grazing the small gold butterfly pendant with the tips of my fingers.

I take a deep breath and make my rounds, nodding at our photographer excited to see the photos she took and get them up on our social media once we wrap up here.

I notice a crowd forming around Logan and Ryan.

Logan is grinning, his easy going confidence slipping into place like a second skin. I notice him glancing at me in between taking photos. Ryan, always the charmer, is laughing and joking with a few aviation enthusiasts, but he's not exactly subtle as he glances back and forth between Logan and me.

I step closer, clipboard in hand, keeping my posture professional, but I can feel the tension rising in my chest as a beautiful blonde approaches Logan. She’s laughing, her smile bright and flirtatious as she leans in just a little too close to him.

My stomach tightens.

I force a neutral expression, trying not to let my jealousy show.

I’m here to work. I’m here to work. I’m here to work.

If I repeat my new mantra enough will I believe it?

After some time, the crowd begins to thin and Ryan fists-bumps Logan before walking off. I watch Logan laugh at something the blonde says, but then his eyes find mine. There’s something there—a silent acknowledgment. He gives the girl a smile, but it’s not real—it’s the polished one, the one that comes with the black demo team flight suit. All effortless charm and fighter-pilot swagger, exactly what they expect from him.

Ryan, ever the observant one, notices too. He sidles up next to me, hazel eyes scanning the scene with a knowing look. He’s a couple inches over six feet tall and all lean muscle—built like an athlete, but not as solid as Logan. His sandy-blond hair is cut to regulation and his face is clean-shaven, giving him that classic Prince Charming look. But it’s the easy confidence, the ever-present glint of mischief in his eyes, that should probably come with a warning label. Lord, help the woman who falls for him.

“Everything okay?” he asks quietly.