Page 75 of Viking

His voice cracks, bitterness bleeding through. "But then I heard your last name. And just like that, Murphy’s Law struck again. God wasn’t giving me anything. He was reminding me that I destroy everything I touch."

Syrian Airspace

December 4, 2014

2238

Logan

We aren’t technically supposed to be here, but we are. Over the border, tracking a high-value target when we see the enemy fighters coming in hot. The radio crackles with urgency, but all I hear is my own ragged breathing. My hands are steady on the stick, but my pulse is a war drum in my ears. We were supposed to be in and out—clean, precise, no bullshit. But the sky is a damn battlefield, and I’m losing.

"Viking, break left!" Reaper’s voice snaps through my headset, sharp and commanding.

I yank the stick hard, my F-16 rolling into a tight turn, but the Sukhoi stays locked on me. The missile warning blares in my cockpit, a shrill, gut-wrenching sound. My blood turns to ice.

"Shit. Missile lock. He’s going to take me down, Reap." There’s no masking the terror in my voice. This is it. Two years in the cockpit and my mom’s getting a knock on the door.

"I got you!" Reap sounds solid, sure, but there’s something else there too.

Determination.

Finality.

Before I can process it, before I can stop him, Reaper's jet cuts across my six, rolling into position between me and the incoming missile. My HUD screams warnings at me, but none of it registers because I already know what he’s doing.

"Reaper, don't! Eject! Eject!" I scream.

"Copy that," he grits out. "You're clear, Viking. Get the hell out of here."

Time slows. The missile streaks through the sky, a burning spear of death. I watch, helpless, as it slams into Reaper’s jet. Fire and metal explode outward, and for a second, I think he made it out.

But the chute never deploys.

"Lincoln!" My voice is raw, desperate. I scan the sky, the ground, waiting to see his parachute, waiting for something—anything—to tell me he made it. But there’s nothing. Just smoke and debris falling like ashes from a funeral pyre.

"Reaper! Do you copy?" I’m screaming now, yanking my jet around, searching. "Reaper, fucking respond!"

Silence. Just empty silence. Until my HUD blares at me, the lock-on tone shrieking in my ears, but all I see is fire. All I hear is Reaper’s last words, his voice torn apart by radio static.

"Tell my—”

The words never finished. They were swallowed by the explosion. By the fireball that used to be his jet.

And the bastard who put us in this situation is still here.

I yank the stick hard, cutting left, squeezing off countermeasures as another missile screams past my canopy. My breath is ragged, my hands shaking as I grip the throttle. The gs crush me into my seat, but I don’t care. I will not be the one who dies today. I will not let Reap’s sacrifice be in vain.

The Su-35 is still rolling out of its turn, its pilot no doubt scanning for me, expecting me to bug out now that my wingman is a smear in the desert.

I pull vertical, climbing fast, using the sun as cover. My heartbeat slams like gunfire in my chest. Reaper’s jet going down is burned into my retinas. I should have done something. Should have saved him. Shouldn’t have let him—

The lock-on tone shifts. Solid. A clean shot.

I roll, dropping my nose, bringing the enemy fighter into my sights. The asshole is right where I want him. I thumb the weapon select switch, rage pounding through me.

Missiles? No. Too easy.

I flick to guns.