Page 27 of Aviatrix

The questions come all at once—fast, sharp, and overwhelming. Lights flare like weapon sights. Lark lifts a hand, signaling control, but it’s already slipping.

And I can feel it. Something under my skin. That prickling awareness that we’re on the edge of something no press briefing can contain.

I step forward to answer, then hesitate. I’m not sure if speaking will help… or make everything worse.

I pause at the mic, heart pounding louder than the chaos. I don’t know what I’ll say. Only that someone has to say something human.

Lark doesn’t stop me. He just watches.

“My name is Captain Kinley Quay,” I begin, steadying my trembling fingers. “I served at Langdon for four years. It was more than a military outpost, it was home. A place where people worked, laughed, fought, and protected each other.” The crowd leans in. “We weren’t prepared. We didn’t expect a brutal attack. There was no warning. And we lost people. Friends. Mentors. Brothers. Sisters.”

I pause, eyes stinging. But I hold the line.

“I don’t have answers,” I force myself to finish. “I wish I did. But I can promise you this. Those of us who survived will carry the weight of those who didn’t. We’ll honor them not with speeches, but with action. With grit. With truth. And when we find those responsible, we will not show mercy.”

A hush falls over the crowd. Even the flashes dim.

Lark returns to the podium. “That’s all for now.”

Security begins to push the press back, but it’s my words that hang in the air.

Then, a voice cracks through the silence. “What did the aliens look like? Are they already here? Among us?”

The crowd spirals. Questions, shouts, chaos.

I glance at Lark. His frown is strained, tired. We should tell them we don’t know. That all we’ve been told is that their technology outpaces ours, that four ships hover strategically across the globe… and that contact has already been made.

But not yet. Not now.

“We need to talk,” I murmur to Lark as we’re ushered inside. “A real conversation.” I glance behind us at the ever-present Secret Service. “Alone.”

He presses his lips together. “Agreed. But not here.”

“When do we leave?” I ask.

He exhales slowly. “After I find my daughter.” Lark starts walking away, then pauses. “Helicopter pad. Twenty minutes.”

I open my mouth to ask where we’re going.

But he looks back at me. “To find the truth.”

Lark disappears while I stay frozen, the echoes of camera flashes fading like aftershocks.

He’s going to find his daughter. Then, we find the truth.

Maybe we both need something worth saving. Because the truth isn’t waiting on a podium. It’s hiding in the wreckage, and it wants to be found.

SEVEN

MILITARY-GRADE NEUTRALITY

We lift off from Andrews just before noon aboard a gray C-21A Learjet. No frills. No comfort. Just silence pressing in on all sides. It’s suffocating. The kind of quiet that crawls into my lungs, wraps around my thoughts, and makes me wonder if I’ll ever breathe normally again.

The flight manifest lists only two names: Colonel Lark Jones and Captain Kinley Quay.

Neither of us speaks.

The jet banks west over the Potomac, then disappears into cloud cover. Below us, the capital disappears, drowned out by mist and distance.