Chase felt judged. No doubt Tristan was hearing that her breakups always ended badly. Tanner was among the worst, but others had become favorite stories in the rec room. There was Killian, who became a booze-in-his-water-bottle drunk. And Meg, who bitched Chase out so loud in the chow hall that even Ritz had overheard, spawning a super awkward conversation about “alternative sexualities.”
The flash of heat in her face was giving away her embarrassment, which only brought about an even deeper flush. This was why she didn’t like to talk to people. It was a steep fall from telling someone nothing—to everything. She had to push him back beyond her walls and out of her way.
Chase was shaking her head without realizing it. “I’m glad I’m American then. JAFA sounds like it would have been way too small for me.”
“Good thing I’m no longer stuck there.” Tristan’s expression darkened. The recollection that his academy—his world—had burned came a little late. Chase saw the deeper side of him in that moment. The hard as steel pilot. Right before he blew it with a Sylph-quality insult. “I hear you’d find someone no matter the situation.”
He was over the wall all right. He was light-years away in a blink. But then she’d known since that first moment she saw him that he knew how to hit the gas. Nonetheless, something dense sunk inside as she scrounged up a retort.
“True. I hook up with everyone. Except Canadians.”
17
BOUGHT THE FARM
Killed in Action
The overhead lights were already off in the auditorium, and the only light came from the projector screen on the stage.
Chief Master Sergeant Black fussed with the media equipment while every pilot at the Star sat tall in flip-down chairs. Chase took a spot toward the back, more than a little aware that Tristan settled in her row, two seats over. She got the feeling that although they had just traded barbs, he still wanted to be pals with her.
No way.
Sylph sat a few rows down and threw a threatening look over her shoulder. Chase felt the girl’s glare like a laser scope. Riot was now a problem. A problem that came with Sylph. He had been fun because she had assumed he wasn’t like Tanner. He wasn’t sweet or innocent. He wasn’t trying to make her his girlfriend—but apparently he had been. How could she keep missing these signs?
“What are we going to watch today, Chief Black?” Baron, the Star’s token idiot, yelled. “More Soviet MiGs? They were fun.”
A few people laughed, but the chief ignored them as the screen turned a solid blue-green, what the ocean looked like from the onboard cameras beneath a wing.
Chase felt a chill she couldn’t place.
“Today we’re watching Taiwan in 2020,” Black finally said.
The flyboys went mute; the room deadened. The Battle of Taiwanese Independence could do that—strike a whole room of jock pilots into silence. After all, it was the most infamous dogfight in the history of military aviation.
Chief Black cleared his throat. “On January 21, 2020, Taiwan declared independence from China without the support of Ri Xiong Di.”
Several people booed, but Chase wasn’t among them. Neither was Tristan.
He leaned across the seats between them with a whisper. “Ri Xiong Di translates to ‘sun brothers.’ It’s supposed to imply divine right.”
“I know. I went to elementary school,” she returned. “Nice flat-hatting, Arrow.” He leaned back with that annoyed yet engaged look that she actually enjoyed seeing on his face.
The chief continued. “On January 26, the U.S. stepped up to help Taiwan defend its freedom.”
“The day of my grandmother’s funeral,” Chase said absently.
“What?” Tristan asked.
The video began, and no one could look away. Fighter jets flew in packs, the view switching between multiple onboard cameras. It felt like thousands of birds, but Chase knew from her history class that there were five hundred and seventy-nine fighter jets in that sky and eight hundred and twelve U.S. drones.
Chase’s heart started to pound.
The distant horizon showed smoke above the tiny island of Taiwan, while from the south, a scarlet cloud appeared. The jets attempted maneuver after maneuver as the dogfight commenced. There was no sound, but Chase could hear the pilots like a nightmare looping through her thoughts. They were all calling Mayday. All asking what was happening.
All cursing prayers to an absent God.
In flashes that felt too closely edited, the tape proved what had happened in the sky that day: a complete loss. A mess of explosions and the swirl of crashing jets. The blue-green sea peppered with sinking, smoking heaps of American metal.
Chase’s whole body hurt from gripping the armrests.
The screen went black, and her eyes found new focus on Kale’s silhouette beneath the red glow of the emergency exit light. She hadn’t seen him come in.
“You might be wondering why we’re watching this tape,” Kale said, walking toward the center of the room.
Someone sniffled. Chase was shocked to see Sylph off to the side, wiping tears. So the girl did feel things.
“We’re watching this to remind you that although you are safe at the Star, no one is truly safe while we are at the mercy of Ri Xiong Di’s control. Should they appear in our sky tomorrow, we would have to surrender. We would be absorbed into the New Eastern Bloc’s empire. The only reason it hasn’t happened already is that they’re still more focused on Europe, but…the hourglass is turned. We are all on a clock. This is why the military is experimenting with new defenses. New offenses.”
“The Streakers,” Baron threw in.
“Yes, and there are other attempts to fortify our borders. The Navy is developing new submarines while the Marines train for large-scale domestic defense. Everyone is preparing.” He sat on the front of the stage before the screen, his hands folded in his lap. “Only three of you here fly Streakers right now, but you’re all pilots. Someday soon, if the trials are successful, you’ll all be flying Streakers. You’ll all be facing red drones. What I want to ask you today is if you feel prepared.”
No one answered.