Chapter 4 - Unanswered Calls
The simulator wasn't an ordinary cockpit mock-up; it was a multi-axis centrifuge suspended in a vacuum dome. For four grueling hours, the machine threw me into simulated gravitational nightmares that compressed my lungs until my vision grayed out at nine Gs, then reversed instantly into negative-G freefalls that forced blood into my eyes.
The Valkyrie interface was like riding a lightning bolt bareback. The control stick didn't move; it measured the pressure of muscle tension and electrical impulses through the specialized sensor glove. Every microscopic twitch translated into radical aerodynamic shifts.
When the simulation ended with a simulated landing at an austere airstrip under blinding zero-visibility rain, the capsule depressurized with a heavy hiss. The technician pulled the canopy open.
I took off my helmet, my dark hair soaked with sweat, my breathing measured and calm. My knuckles were pale, but my hands were completely steady.
Major Miller was standing at the observation console, staring at the telemetry monitor. The numerical score on the top right was glowing bright green: *98.4% Mission Efficiency*.
"That’s... impossible," Miller whispered, his face losing some of its cockiness. "You didn't counter-steer during the wind shear on terminal approach."
"I let the aerodynamic vortex lift the left wing instead of wrestling the rudder," I said, unbuckling the five-point harness and stepping down to the platform. "The plane wants to fly, Major. You were choking it to death."
Colonel Sterling nodded from the doorway. "Get cleaned up, Hayes. You’re primary on the Valkyrie test flight tomorrow morning."
An hour later, I sat in the austere officers' quarters assigned to me. The room was monastic—a single bed, a metal locker, a desk, and a window overlooking the tree line.
I was given temporary access to my private military laptop to review mission flight manuals. When I logged into my secure email, my personal emergency inbox pinged. Because I had blocked their numbers, my family had taken the desperate step of using the civilian liaison portal of the Air Force Public Affairs office to reach me.
There was an email from my brother, Richard. The subject line read: *Dad had a heart episode. You need to come home.*
I clicked it open with detached curiosity.
*Lauren,*
*Dad collapsed after the dinner last night. His blood pressure spiked off the charts. The doctors at Denver General say he had a mild cardiac event brought on by extreme emotional distress. He won't speak to anyone, but all of his investors are pulling back. General Vance cancelled two major aerospace defense contracts with Dad’s consulting firm this morning. Dad is ruined if you don't fix this.*
*You have to release a statement saying the dinner was a misunderstanding, that Dad always supported you, and that the confrontation was taken out of context. You owe this family everything, Lauren. Without Dad’s name, you wouldn't even have made it into the Academy. Do the right thing for once in your life.*
I read the words three times. Not a single inquiry about my health. Not a single word asking if I was alright, or acknowledging the Distinguished Flying Cross pinned to my chest. Even with his heart failing and his empire crumbling, my father saw me only as a tool—an asset to be manipulated to save his social standing.
*Without Dad’s name, you wouldn't even have made it into the Academy.*
A cold, dead laughter rose in my throat. My father had refused to sign my Academy recommendation letter twenty years ago. I had earned my nomination through my own state senator after working two jobs to pay for private pilot ground school.
I placed my fingers on the keyboard and typed a single response:
*Richard,*
May you like
*Tell father that the next time he hears my name, it will be from the President of the United States. Don't email this address again.*
I hit *Send*, permanently archived the chain, and closed the laptop lid. I laid down on the narrow cot, pulled the rough wool blanket to my chin, and slept more peacefully than I had in ten years.
