Page 9 of Viking

I smirk. “I don’t get nervous, Carter. You should know that by now.”

“Right,” he says, rolling his hazel eyes. “That’s why you’ve checked your gear three times in the last ten minutes.”

“Just being thorough.”

Ryan laughs, the sound carrying over the distant hum of the crowd. “Sure, buddy. Let’s just hope you’re as thorough up there as you are on the ground.”

“Focus, Spartan,” comes a sharp voice from behind us. Our flight commander, Major Nick Townsend—Bishop—strides toward us, his crisp flight suit and commanding presence ripping through the tension like a blade.

We immediately stand at attention and salute.

“This isn’t the time for your usual antics—,” Townsend continues, returning the salute.

“Yes, sir,” Ryan says, though the corner of his mouth twitches in defiance.

Townsend’s eyes land on me, his expression unreadable beneath his aviators. “You’ve both done this before, but remember, this isn’t just about looking good. It’s about representing the Air Force and Raptor Nation. No mistakes. No missteps. Got it?”

We nod sharply. “Yes, sir.”

“Good,” Townsend says, his tone clipped. He turns, heading toward the stage at the center of the tarmac. He’ll be narrating our demonstration.

Ryan watches him go before leaning closer to me. “He’s wound tighter than usual today.”

I shrug, my attention already shifting toward the fighter in front of me. “Doesn’t matter. Let’s get this done.”

***

The cockpit of my F-22 is home.

I slide into the seat, the familiar leather cushioning molding around me as I strap in, fingers moving through the preflight checks with practiced ease. The faint scent of hydraulic fluid lingers in the air, and the low hum of the avionics coming to life reverberates through my bones. Every switch, every screen, every glowing button syncs with me, as familiar as the back of my hand.

The canopy seals shut with a hiss, enclosing me in my own world. I take a steadying breath, the oxygen mask cool against my face, and let the quiet anticipation settle in my chest.

My crew chief steps into view, flashing me a grin as he spins his finger in the air—the universal signal to start engines. I give him a thumbs-up as the Raptor wakes beneath me. He taps his headset, mouthing, You good? I nod, and he slaps the jet’s nose. Then comes the ritual—he steps back, feet shoulder width apart, and throws me a crisp salute before breaking into our signature send-off: mimicking a jet with his arms, he sprints down the flight line, “taking off” alongside me. I laugh, shaking my head as I taxi to the runway, the adrenaline already kicking in.

“Tower, this is Viking. Ready for takeoff,” I say into my comms, my voice steady despite the adrenaline already thrumming in my veins.

“Copy that, Viking. You’re cleared for takeoff. Spartan, you’re up next.”

“Roger,” Ryan’s voice cuts through, sharp and laced with mischief. “Don’t mess it up. I don’t want to have to show you up in front of the whole base.”

I smirk, flipping a few final switches as the jet vibrates with energy, alive and waiting. “Good luck with that.”

The engines roar as I push the throttle forward and the Raptor surges down the runway like a predator unleashed. The acceleration slams me back against the seat, the g-forces clawing at my chest, but the second the wheels leave the ground, the weight disappears. I’m free.

Everything fades—the noise, the nerves, the ache of things left behind on the ground. Up here, it's just the jet and me.

Ryan’s Raptor joins me in the sky, slipping into formation like we’re tethered by an invisible thread. We carve through the air with precision, slicing across the blue expanse as one. The initial passes are smooth, effortless, the crowd below nothing but a blur. But the real show is just beginning.

“Ready for the split?” Ryan’s voice crackles through the comms.

I flex my fingers around the stick, feeling the slight resistance of the controls. “On your mark.”

“Mark.”

We break apart like a detonation, our jets streaking across the sky in opposite directions, leaving trails of white vapor in our wake. The force shoves me into my seat as I bank hard, the horizon tilting wildly. My helmet presses against the headrest, the g-forces biting down, but the Raptor handles it like a dream, responding to the slightest twitch of my hand.

Ryan dives into a high-speed pass, skimming low over the runway before rocketing into a vertical climb. His jet slices through the sky, sunlight glinting off the metallic skin.