Page 62 of Viking

Logan grabs something off the nightstand and chucks it at him, the door slamming shut a second later.

“I like knowing you’ve got someone watching your back.” The knot in my chest releasing a little bit more.

Logan’s expression softens again. “Always. Listen, I should go,” he says reluctantly. “Got a briefing and if I’m late, Townsend will have my ass.”

“Don’t let me get you in trouble,” I say, forcing a smile.

“You could never,” he says, his voice light. “I’ll call again as soon as I can, okay?”

“Okay,” I whisper, my fingers brushing the screen like I can somehow reach him.

“Bye, sweetheart.” And he’s gone.

I allow myself a couple of minutes to sit there, staring at the empty screen.

FOB near the Spratly Islands

June 16, 2024

2312

Logan

The night is so still, it feels wrong.

Like the air knows what’s coming before we do.

I’m halfway through my patrol when the first blast shatters the silence, a deafening roar that shakes the ground beneath my boots.

The base comes alive in chaos.

Sirens wail, warning of incoming rockets.

Shouts erupt over the comms.

“Rocket attack! Take cover!”

I’m sprinting before I can think, instincts on autopilot. Around me, the world explodes—first one impact, then another, each blast closer than the last. The air smells like burning fuel and scorched metal, and my ears ring from the force of the detonations. The hangars, the barracks—everywhere we’ve built a semblance of order—is under fire.

“Bishop to flight. Status?” Townsend’s voice cuts through the comms, sharp and urgent.

The second the base gets hit, securing the Raptors becomes everything. These jets aren’t just aircraft—they’re apex predators, packed with classified tech and capabilities that give us the edge in any fight. If one falls into enemy hands, even grounded, it’s a goldmine of intel. The thought of insurgents getting anywhere near them makes my blood run cold. I know what these machines can do, the destruction they’re capable of, and what could happen if that power got twisted against us. We don’t just guard the jets. We guard the balance of air superiority. If that tips, people die.

“Viking. On the move,” I yell back, skidding behind a stack of crates. Another explosion hits, shaking the earth. Shrapnel rains down, and I duck instinctively. “What the hell are we dealing with here?”

“Mortars and rockets,” someone else answers. “Insurgents breached the perimeter.”

I glance toward the flight line. Toward my destination. Toward the Raptors, still intact in the hangar for now. A fire burns near one of the fuel trucks, smoke curling into the sky like a dark omen.

“James.” Ryan’s voice jolts me, and I whip my head around. He’s sprinting toward me, his rifle slung over his shoulder. “What the hell are you doing? We’ve got to secure the hangar!”

“Copy,” I shout, falling in step beside him.

We’re almost there when a mortar hits close, too close. The blast knocks us off our feet, the shock wave ripping through my chest. I hit the ground hard, ears ringing, the taste of dirt and blood in my mouth. My vision clears just in time to see a group of our ground crew pinned down near the wreckage of the burning truck. Rockets are still incoming, the air thick with smoke and dust. They’re trapped and completely exposed. I try to stand but my boots slip on loose gravel.

“Fuck. Logan!” Ryan scrambles to his feet, his hand on my arm. “Get up! Come on!” He takes my hand and yanks me to my feet, I nearly black out, unable to ignore the blinding pain of shrapnel lodged deep in my shoulder blade. “We’ve got to get them out of there!” Ryan’s voice crackles through the comms, sharp with urgency.

“Carter, wait—”