“You think Kale is fuming in the tower right now?” Chase asked. “No doubt they caught that near collision on the satellite feed.”
“By design, Dragon comes up as little more than a speeding blip on their radar. If we didn’t, the bad guys would have crossed the line and taken us down two years ago.”
“Don’t say ‘bad guys,’” Chase said. “That makes them feel like a joke.”
“I prefer when they feel like a joke.” He added under his breath, “So do you.” Pippin sprinkled everything with cynicism.
“We could radio in,” she tried. “Let Kale know about the phantom Streaker.”
“Nyx, that bird wasn’t armed. It’s not an immediate threat. Kale wouldn’t want you to risk opening up our signal to anyone waiting to shake us down.” Pippin said anyone, but he meant Ri Xiong Di. Spying jerks, they were always listening, always sending out code viruses that could cripple navigation, misfire missiles, or worst of all, crash jets kamikaze-style into civilian areas. Bam.
So the Streakers flew off the grid, which necessitated a two-man team and radio silence. But Ri Xiong Di’s cyber superiority affected more than just airpower. Any time they wanted to take over a TV station or satellite, they did. Even the U.S. military’s network had been hacked in the past.
Nothing was safe.
Chase leaned into the canopy glass. They crossed the Canadian border, skirting a never-ending white-on-woods landscape. Canada was rumored to be as depressed as America these days. No one could say for sure—the borders had been closed since 2022—and communication wasn’t permitted between America and other countries.
The U.S. had been on its own for twenty-six years, which meant constant vigilance and a raw state of survival. Chase felt that responsibility through her hands, her gloves, her throttle and stick. Straight to the titanium bones of the beautiful bird she called Dragon.
“Kale needs to know about that Streaker, Pip. ASAP. I’m going to break autopilot.”
“We only have enough fuel to keep this speed. Besides, we’re almost there.” His subtext was wait. After all, the cold war was purely that: endless waiting.
In poli-sci, Chase had learned that Ri Xiong Di had spread through Asia during the 2010s like a quiet cancer. The continent solidified under the anti-democratic political faction, and the new superpower took a stand by toppling the old one. They limited America’s global trade and scared away natural allies like Canada with fleets of red drones.
Chase had to be proud of what happened next. It was the reason she was only a junior and yet flying a multibillion-dollar jet. Congress enacted the Youth Services Charter, establishing junior military academies to rescue the nation’s brightest teens from the country’s bleak poverty. At the same time, the Air Force began to experiment with manned fighter jets that might someday best the red drones. The latest secret hope was the Streakers—jets so fast they required teen pilots in top physical form with impulse-swift reflexes.
Banks Island came into view as the sky darkened. From the air, the ice-covered archipelago was shaped like a tousled T-shirt, complete with river wrinkles and a star structure where the chest pocket would be.
The United Star Academy.
The place glittered with life, serving as both a full-functioning Air Force base and the junior military academy. Chase traced the six triangular buildings fanned around a hexagonal center as the blue blink of the runway greeted her like a string of Christmas lights. The Star always welcomed, which never felt small after her smoking hole of a childhood.
Chase stole the jet from autopilot and sped into the landing, letting down with a shriek of tires and engines. The fuel gauge hung like a broken arm, and she kept off the brakes as she headed across the landing apron toward the hangar.
“Care to slow down?” Pippin asked. “We’re going to get pulled over, and I think you’ve been drinking.”
“Be serious for a sec, Pippin.”
“Okay. Seriously slow down.”
“Can’t. Might stall out.”
Pippin did that annoying thing where he knew what she was thinking. “Kale’s not going to react when you tell him about Mr. Red Helmet. Not the way you want him to.”
Her RIO’s continued dismissal of the phantom Streaker finally hit her too hard. She unhooked her harness and turned around in her seat to face him. Dragon jerked off course, and they headed for the side of the hangar, still taxiing fast.
“How can you think we should drop this?”
Pippin unstrapped his mask and flipped up his visor. “Remember when Crowley said he saw drones over Florida? They put him on the Down List before he’d finished filing the report. Also”—he pointed forward—“there’s a wall there.”
“You’re really not curious?”
“I’m really not worried. There could be three Streakers instead of two. Wall. The military is a labyrinth of lies. Wall.”
“Interesting career choice you’ve made.”
“Wall, Chase! WALL!”
“All right!” She swung around and turned too fast. Dragon careened through the hangar doors and scattered ground crew like pigeons before sliding into a neat stop beside the other Streaker, Pegasus, with a light bump of wing against wing.
Chase popped off her helmet. “I need you on my team, Pippin.”
“Do I get a Team Nyx T-shirt?”
“I’m serious.”
“As a bullfight.” Pippin unstrapped his harness and flipped up his visor. Their eyes met the way they always did after a long hop. With relief and exhaustion and whatever was on the shadow side of trust. Chase thought it scanned like regret, but whatever it was had been rooted throughout their friendship. What they did, they did together. Hands down.
“I know you’re serious,” Pippin said, giving the word its full meaning for once. “I’ll back you up.”
She swatted his helmet affectionately and opened the canopy. Densely cold air sunk into the cockpit, but she took a deep, leveling breath. She was home.
3
COLORFUL ACTIONS
Safety Is Overrated