“Negative,” Marcus said, his voice tightening with genuine panic. “I’m dropping like a stone. Command, this is Viper Two, declaring an in-flight emergency. I am diverting.”
“Copy, Viper Two,” the cold, deep voice of General Vance came over the net. He was overseeing the escort from the command bunker in Virginia. “Clear the airspace. Viper Leader, you will maintain escort alone. Do not abandon Angel One.”
“Copy, Command,” I said, watching Marcus’s jet bank sharply away and begin a rapid descent toward the cloud deck far below.
I was alone with the President.
I pushed the throttle forward, tightening my position relative to Air Force One. The absence of my wingman made the vast sky suddenly feel too empty. I kept my eyes scanning the horizon, trusting the multi-million-dollar sensor suite of my Raptor to warn me of any danger.
Five minutes later, the radar chimed.
It wasn’t a standard proximity alert. It was a threat warning.
I looked down at the tactical display. Six red triangles had materialized on the edge of the screen. They hadn't flown into my radar range; they had simply appeared, as if they had been flying in stealth mode and suddenly switched their systems on. They were coming up fast from the rear, moving in a tight, aggressive intercept formation directly toward Air Force One.
My stomach dropped. “Command, this is Viper Leader. I have six unidentified bogeys, bearing zero-niner-zero. High speed, closing rapidly on Angel One. I need IFF verification immediately.”
Silence.
“Command, do you copy?” I demanded, the adrenaline surging into my bloodstream. “I have six hostile contacts. Requesting immediate intercept vectors and backup.”
The radio crackled. General Vance’s voice filled my headset, but it lacked any of the urgency a four-star general should have when the President's life is threatened.
“Viper Leader, this is Command. Stand down, return to base.”
I stared at the radio receiver in the cockpit, my mind struggling to process the words. “Wait, stand down?” I looked back at the radar. The threat warning shifted from a steady yellow to a flashing, urgent red. “Six contacts locking onto the President!”
“Six aircraft closing fast,” Vance replied. The absolute lack of emotion in his voice was terrifying. It wasn't incompetence. It was calculation. “Execute your orders, Captain. Return to base.”
They were going to kill the President. And they wanted me out of the way so there would be no witnesses.
The weight of my father’s legacy, the years of proving my loyalty, the sacred oath I had taken to defend the Constitution—it all collided in my chest. If I turned away, I would live. I would follow a direct order. I would be safe.
But I would be a monster.
“I’m not standing down,” I said.
I flicked the weapons switch on my flight stick. The red light illuminated. Armed.
I pulled back hard on the stick, throwing the F-22 into a punishing, vertical climb. The G-forces slammed into me like a concrete wall, driving the breath from my lungs. I rolled the jet over, inverted, and looked down through the canopy.
The six bogeys were tearing through the clouds directly toward the massive, slow-moving passenger plane.
I didn't wait for them to fire. I locked my targeting system onto the lead jet. The tone in my headset screamed a steady, high-pitched wail, indicating a solid lock.