Behind her, the veteran from row 37 stood at attention.
Actually stood at attention.
His face was pale.
His eyes were wet.
“Captain Parker,” he said.
The title moved through the cockpit like a returned possession.
I looked at him.
“You knew?”
He nodded.
“I was maintenance support at Al Dhafra when Nightglass vanished from the boards. I heard the name Valkyrie Seven once from a colonel who thought nobody enlisted was listening.”
Mia stared between us.
“Captain?”
Before anyone could ask more, uniformed personnel entered the aircraft.
Medics first.
Then military security.
Then a man in an Air Force flight suit stepped into the cockpit.
Older now.
A thin scar along his jaw.
Eyes exactly the same.
Caleb Ross removed his helmet.
For ten years, he had existed in my memory as a voice shouting through static.
Now he stood in front of me.
Alive.
Real.
“Emma,” he said.
I tried to stand and nearly collapsed.
He caught my arm.
The motion was instinctive.
Old.
Too familiar.
“I’m fine,” I lied.
“You were always a terrible liar.”
I pulled my arm back gently.
“Major now?”
“Lieutenant Colonel.”
“Congratulations.”
His mouth twitched.
“Hardly the moment.”
David looked like he might combust from confusion.
Caleb glanced at him.
“You did good staying with her.”
David shook his head.
“She did everything.”
“No,” I said. “He stayed at his station.”
That mattered.
A shaking man who stays is still braver than a confident man who runs.
Outside the cockpit, passengers began evacuating row by row under supervision. Some touched my shoulder as they passed. Some whispered thank you. Some could not look at me, perhaps remembering what they had shouted when fear made them cruel.
Then the businessman appeared.
His gray suit was wrinkled. His face was pale.
He stopped at the cockpit entrance.
