The words hit me like a physical blow. The air rushed out of my lungs.
“He found out about the black-budget weapons sales,” Miller continued, his voice dripping with condescension. “He threatened to blow the whistle. Vance gave him an order to stand down. He refused. So, Vance ordered his own squadron to eliminate him. They painted him as a coward to discredit his files. It was incredibly easy. Just like painting you as a rogue pilot who fired on friendly forces will be.”
A cold, absolute clarity washed over me. The fear that had been gripping my chest evaporated, replaced by a deep, terrifying anger. I wasn't just fighting for the President anymore. I was fighting for the truth.
I looked around the dim space. A heavy, thick bundle of exposed electrical cables hung down from the ceiling, sparking violently where the insulation had been severed in the crash. Next to it, strapped to the wall, was a heavy red fire extinguisher.
I holstered my weapon. I needed a distraction, not a shootout.
I grabbed the heavy metal cylinder of the extinguisher, pulled the pin, and hurled it forcefully across the aisle. It hit the opposite bulkhead with a loud, ringing crash.
Instantly, Miller spun toward the noise, his submachine gun spitting a rapid burst of fire into the shadows.
It was the opening I needed.
I lunged from behind the server rack, closing the distance before he could adjust his aim. I didn't go for his weapon. I drove my shoulder directly into his chest with all the momentum I could generate.
We crashed into the ruined wall of the cabin. The heavy impact knocked the breath from his lungs, but Miller was larger, heavily muscled, and trained for close-quarters combat. He dropped the rifle, his heavy hands gripping the collar of my flight suit. He shoved me backward, throwing me brutally onto the slanted floor.
My head cracked against a metal seat frame. My vision blurred, a loud ringing filling my ears.
Miller stepped over me, his face twisted in a snarl. He reached down to draw a secondary sidearm from his tactical holster.
I kicked upward with both boots, planting my heavy heels squarely against his kneecap. The joint buckled with a sickening pop. Miller grunted in pain, his weight dropping forward.
As he fell, I scrambled up, my hands grasping desperately in the dark. My fingers wrapped around the heavy, thick bundle of sparking electrical cables dangling from the ceiling.
I ripped the heavy cord free and swung the thick, rubberized mass like a club. The heavy connector at the end struck Miller squarely across the jaw with bone-jarring force.
His eyes rolled back. His massive body went completely limp, collapsing onto the floor of the cabin in an unmoving heap.
I stood over him, gasping for air, my chest heaving. The ringing in my ears slowly faded, replaced by the sound of shouting from outside the plane.
Vance’s mercenaries had heard the commotion. They were moving in.
I turned back to the President. He was still clutching the silver briefcase, his eyes wide with shock.
“Mr. President,” I said, moving toward him and drawing my 9mm again. “We have to hold them off.”
The President didn't look at the door. He looked down at the briefcase. With trembling hands, he popped the latches. The case wasn't filled with launch codes. It was filled with thick, black hard drives and a heavy, analog satellite transmitter.
“We don't have to hold them off for long, Captain,” the President said, his voice finding its steady, authoritative command. “Vance jammed the digital networks. But he can’t jam this.”