Chapter 6
Mark Danner's face flashed across my mind. Mark laughing on a porch in Nevada, flipping burgers after graduation. Mark at church with his mother, pretending he liked her dry Thanksgiving turkey. Mark's name carved into white stone because Victor Sloan signed off on a broken hydraulic system and blamed me when it failed.
I did not cry. I did not shake.
"You should be more careful," I said quietly. "Dead men leave records."
His smile twitched.
Riker turned to the crew chief. "Suit her."
Sloan snapped, "Colonel, I object."
"This is not a committee meeting," Riker said. "A pilot is down."
A flight bag hit my chest. Helmet. Gloves. G-suit. Eleven years folded into one heartbeat.
I climbed the ladder with oil still under my nails. The cockpit smelled like oxygen, metal, heat, and ghosts. I lowered into the seat. The biometric panel flashed. For a terrible second, I prayed it would reject me.
Then the screen turned green.
IDENTITY CONFIRMED. LT. CMDR. REBECCA CROSS. CALL SIGN: SPECTRE.
May you like
A murmur rippled through the hangar. Sloan went pale.
"Spectre, you are cleared for emergency launch."
