Part 2: An arrogant sergeant grabbed my hair and ordered his crew to handcuff me like a common criminal upon arriving at my new airbase, completely unaware that I was a high-ranking colonel on a classified command assignment.

The perimeter road behind the fuel farm was bathed in the flashing crimson lights of emergency vehicles.

I arrived in my command Humvee just as the paramedics loaded Rachel Brooks onto a stretcher. Her forehead was bandaged, blood seeping through the white gauze, and her left arm was in a sling. But when she saw me approaching, she tried to lift herself up.

"Ma'am... I'm sorry," she whispered through split lips. "I had the duplicate logbooks in my vest... but a heavy transport truck rammed me from behind. Three men in masks... they cut my vest open."

I placed a gentle hand on her uninjured shoulder. "You did nothing wrong, Rachel. You survived. Did you get any look at the vehicle?"

"It had... maintenance plates," she managed, wincing in pain. "Yellow depot tags. And the driver had a tattoo on the back of his neck. A blue snake wrapped around a dagger."

"Chief Master Sergeant Harris," I called out over my shoulder.

Harris stepped up, saluting grimly. "Yes, Colonel?"

"Who on the maintenance depot team wears that ink?"

Harris didn't hesitate. "Technical Sergeant Wayne Riggs. Flight line expeditor. Vance’s right-hand man on the heavy machinery crew."

"Where is he?"

"Scheduled for pre-flight prep on Hangar Seven right now, ma'am. We've got an emergency training sortie scheduled to lift off in twenty minutes—two F-16s running night intercept drills."

A cold spike of dread shot down my spine. "Who is the lead pilot on that bird?"

"Lieutenant Cole. Twenty-two years old, first assignment."

"Ground that flight immediately!" I shouted, turning on my heel toward my vehicle. "Drive! Get us to Hangar Seven now!"

The siren screamed as we tore down the tarmac, rubber burning against the grooved concrete. The sun had completely slipped below the horizon, leaving the flight line cloaked in ink-black darkness, punctuated only by the yellow and blue taxiway lights.

In the distance, the low rumble of a Pratt & Whitney turbofan engine roared to life.

Hangar Seven’s doors were wide open. An F-16 Fighting Falcon sat on the apron, its intake engine whining as the turbine spun up to idle. Near the landing gear stood a tall, burly technician with a clipboard, his hood pulled low against the rotor wash.

My vehicle screeched to a halt ten yards away, blocking the aircraft's path to the taxiway.

I jumped out into the freezing wind, hand resting firmly on the holster of my Beretta.

"Cut the engine!" I bellowed over the roar of the jet, waving my arms at the canopy.

The young lieutenant in the cockpit saw me, his eyes widening through his flight visor. He immediately cut the throttle, the turbine whining down into a descending hum.

The technician turned to run toward an open service van.

"Stand down, Riggs!" Special Agent Cross shouted, drawing his weapon. "Don't you dare move!"

Riggs froze. He turned around slowly, the floodlights illuminating the thick, blue viper tattooed across the back of his thick neck. In his right hand, he wasn't holding a wrench; he was holding a bypassed fuel-line bypass valve—a critical component that, if removed mid-flight, would cause an immediate catastrophic engine flameout at ten thousand feet.