“Contact, 30-K and closing, 9-low.” The voice pulled Kyle Mason out of his thoughts. The targeting computer on his helmet HUD lit up as red triangles blinked into LR sensor range.

“9 o’clock?” came a voice through his earpiece. “Brekkie time already?”

“End the chatter, two-two. Two-six, control your flight.”

“Aye, command,” Mason replied.

“Assigning targets.”

A red circle flared around one of the triangles on his HUD, the firing corridor outlined in double rings. The craft was still invisible to the eye, but the computer didn’t care.

He depressed the confirm switch on his flight stick and double-blinked the radar target. A low baritone hum vibrated in his ear. “Lima,” he called out.

The call echoed eleven more times as the rest of Bravo Flight locked their targets.

“Breach!”

For a surreal second, Mason found himself distracted by the accent—not American. Amazing how many ways people found to say a single word.

“Fox 3.” He slammed the trigger.

The cockpit shuddered as launch doors slid open. The slight delay between pulling the trigger and the missile’s ignition always irked him. The payload had to remain concealed beneath the airframe to preserve stealth, but he longed for the instant gratification of a video game.

A fraction of a second later, the ALRAAM roared to life, streaking away in a plume of blue flame to join its brethren.

The targets—Dragon-24 Hōshō aircraft—panicked. Barely Gen-7s, a decade out of date. Their sensors hadn’t even detected the MF-52 Archangel’s approach. Top-of-the-line UMC Gen-7 tech. It wasn’t a fight—it was slaughter. You never saw a Ho in live combat except in training sims.

All eight scrambled, their signals blurring as they activated SHIELD systems to confuse locks. But against the Archangels, they may as well have thrown rocks. Five vaporized under the first salvo, one was clipped, two evaded. Mason’s target became scrap and ash.

A small part of his mind always wondered: did the pilot eject? Even here. Air combat was impersonal. Easy to destroy machines. Hard to remember there were people inside.

The three remaining bogies fled, one limping badly.

“Lima,” a woman’s voice reported.

“Stand down,” Mason ordered. “Two-five, stand down.”

“He’s getting away,” she snapped, frustration bleeding through.

A memory flickered: dark hair tightly braided beneath a military cap.

“Stand down, two-five.” Mason was in charge of Bravo Flight. He wasn’t letting one pilot’s ambition jeopardize the mission. Command was listening.

“Aye, sir.” The words came through clenched teeth. He could practically hear her thumb easing off the firing switch.

Then the cockpit screamed.

A shrill tone wailed, and his HUD erupted in flashing red. Calculations scrolled rapidly as a growing red dot appeared in his periphery. He turned to track it, the angel’s sensor skin transmitting an unobstructed image of the sky—clear blue, pierced by a swelling crimson pixel.

“I’m painted red!”

“Ghosts—bloody piss.”

“Missile lock. Missile lock.”

“I’m red!”

The in-line channel burst into chaos. They were ambushed.

British command's clipped instructions were lost in the flood of voices. Calls overlapped, stepped on each other—like people clawing to escape a burning building. No escape. Just panic.

“Scatter!” someone yelled, and the formation broke apart. Fighters banked and dove, desperate to shake their locks. Terror fed terror. The more some panicked, the more others followed.

Waves of electromagnetic interference washed over Mason’s instruments, momentarily blacking them out. Panicked pilots fired SHIELDs prematurely.

The circle around Mason’s own incoming seeker had grown to the size of a button—25 klicks and closing. He forced himself to steady his breathing.

“Cease alarm.” The blaring tone cut out instantly.

“Bravo Flight, on me.” He switched to flight channel. Three voices were easier to calm than eleven.

“On your six,” came the familiar female voice.

“On your wing,” added another he didn’t recognize.

“If we’re gonna die, might as well do it together,” said two-two, his Aussie accent steady. The last angel tucked behind Mason’s wing.

“We’re not going to die,” Mason lied, projecting calm. His hand trembled on the flight stick so hard he half-expected his angel to sway.

20-K and closing. The circle now stretched into an egg, digital outlines resolving into the missile’s sleek profile.

“Follow the leader!” Mason pulled the angel into a steep dive, wrenching the stick hard. The world spun sideways as the red circle slid beneath his feet. His flight stayed tucked close, falling with him toward the deck. The Earth raced up to meet them.

A glance at his sensors showed four missiles in pursuit, 10 klicks out. Around him, blue icons winked out—squadron mates dying one after another. With his back to the slaughter, he could only imagine the fireballs.

“Climb and SHIELD on my mark.” His voice strained under the crushing G’s. The inertial compensators whined at maximum output.

The forests of the Pacific Northwest rushed toward his cockpit. The red circle bloomed to grapefruit size. Less than 4-K.

He waited one more heartbeat. No longer.

“Mark!” He pulled back hard. His vision tunneled to black, then snapped back as his flight suit constricted, forcing blood to his brain. The HUD flashed with warnings. The LAI smoothed his arc to save the airframe. Even so, within seconds, green forest gave way to blue sky.

He locked his gaze on a switch and double-blinked. It glowed blue in confirmation.

“SHIELD.” The indicator shifted from turquoise to emerald.

He didn’t hear the EMP—only felt its static across his skin and instruments. A countdown timer appeared: two minutes until recharge. Override was possible, but suicidal. The next pulse would fry his angel along with any missile inside 700 meters.

Three more bursts followed as his flight activated their SHIELDs.

The missiles faltered. Even against older ALRAAMs, SHIELD was never guaranteed, but combined with gravity and momentum, the seekers lost guidance. Dead in the air.

The EM burst fried their SatNavs. The missiles plummeted past Mason. Two collided mid-air in a fiery blast. The shockwave rattled his angel and his teeth.

At the rear, two-five screamed. “Fuck…” Her comm cut out.

Mason glimpsed her angel drop from formation, tumbling. Blue flames tore from exposed engines. Then it vanished into cloud as the remaining three climbed toward the stratosphere.

“She’s gonna be spewing mad,” said the Aussie.

“Eyes up. This isn’t over.” Mason’s HUD flagged six new contacts closing fast: Ghosts. Now within short-range SR sensor range. They were out of long-range ALRAAMs. Close-quarters now.

He leveled off. Quick math: three angels versus six ghosts. The rest of Bravo was gone. Two-to-one odds against nearly invisible fighters. No retreat.

The afterburners roared. His stomach lurched as the angel rocketed forward. The thrill mingled with dread.

“Break formation and engage. Time for a little payback.”