Dressed in crisp desert camouflage, he carried a thick olive-drab courier bag beneath one arm.
Vance snapped into a rigid salute and held it until Pauline released the railing and returned it.
Her form was still remarkably sharp, a habit forged decades earlier on desert runways beneath the Nevada sun.
“At ease, General,” Pauline said quietly, her voice gravelly but carrying the natural resonance of an undisputed authority figure. “It looks like my commercial flight took a somewhat unorthodox detour into your restricted airspace this afternoon.”
“Colonel Sanders, having you set gear down on our runway is the greatest honor this base has received in twenty years,” Vance replied.
His voice lacked the stiff ceremony normally used by senior officers greeting unexpected arrivals.
Mark froze on the steps, looking between the two-star general and the elderly woman in red.
“Colonel?” he muttered under his breath, the syllables catching hard in his dry throat like broken glass.
Vance turned toward the young first officer, his expression becoming cold.
“Young man, you are standing behind a founding member of the United States Air Force Aerospace Research Pilot School.”
Mark went pale, remembering the mocking comments he had made about Pauline’s pin only minutes earlier.
The tarnished silver dart had never been a cheap decoration. It was among the rarest flight honors ever produced.
“Come inside, Pauline,” General Vance urged, his voice softening as he gestured toward an idling staff car. “You have people waiting for you who have spent thirty-five long years praying that you were still drawing breath.”
Pauline studied the olive folder beneath his arm, noticing its red classified tape.
That crimson seal had belonged only to DARPA’s long-closed Special Compartmented Operations branch.
“Who opened that file, Thomas?” Pauline asked quietly as she stepped onto the hot tarmac. “Project Nightshade was buried beneath twelve layers of concrete and executive orders before you ever earned your flight wings.”
“Someone who refused to die until he handed you back your stolen logbook,” Vance whispered.
He escorted her toward the armored command vehicle.
Behind them, two F-35s taxied past, dipping their wings in a solemn salute.
Mark followed at a respectful distance, clutching his flight clipboard tightly against his chest.
Chloe came running down the stairs carrying Pauline’s forgotten cloth handbag.
“Wait, ma’am! You forgot your bag in the galley!”
A young Air Force captain stepped forward to intercept her, but Pauline lifted a finger and waved her through.
“Let her come,” Pauline said softly to the armed guards surrounding the staff sedan. “This young woman kept three hundred frightened people calm while Mark and I were wrestling with that dying compressor.”
Chloe handed Pauline the purse, staring wide-eyed at the armed personnel surrounding them.
“The passengers are shouting your name back there, ma’am. They want to know who you are. What should we tell them?”
Pauline smiled and gently touched Chloe’s wrist.
“Tell them an old grandmother who dislikes bumpy turbulence simply helped a young flight crew find their runway.”
General Vance opened the sedan’s rear door and invited Pauline, Chloe, and the humbled Mark inside.
“Actually, Miss Chloe, you can tell them they were brought down by the very first woman to exceed Mach 4.”
Chloe’s jaw dropped as she climbed into the car and stared at Pauline.
Mark sank into the corner, looking at his polished shoes and unable to meet either veteran’s eyes.
The convoy crossed the perimeter taxiway, bypassed the civilian facilities, and headed directly toward the high-security bunker complex.
Massive concrete shelters rose from the desert behind barbed-wire fences and automated surveillance towers.
Chapter 4
“General, I was told all records concerning Nightshade were shredded following the crash in nineteen-eighty-one,” Pauline said, leaning forward.
Her voice carried neither anger nor regret, only the analytical curiosity of a test pilot studying old instruments.
“The government tried to shred them, Pauline,” Vance said, turning from the passenger seat. “Your former radar intercept officer, Major Arthur Pendelton, refused to burn the telemetry tapes when the order came down from the Pentagon.”
Pauline stopped breathing for a moment, her hands tightening around her trousers.
“Artie survived? They told me his ejection capsule separated improperly over the Tonopah test range and disintegrated in the upper stratosphere.”
