Covert Affairs

Get Ready for Liftoff

The rhythmic thrum of helicopter blades carved through the night air like a metallic heartbeat, each rotation sending vibrations through the aircraft's frame and into my bones. Even with the heavy-duty headphones clamped over my ears, the sound was overwhelming. It served as a constant reminder that we were suspended thousands of feet above the ground in what was essentially a flying metal box. I pressed my palms against my thighs, feeling the smooth fabric of my skirt beneath my sweaty fingers, and tried to focus on anything other than the churning in my stomach.

This was my first real mission aboard one of the Gallagher Academy's infamous helicopters, and despite all the stories I'd heard from upperclassmen—tales told in hushed whispers in the dormitory halls about midnight extractions and covert operations—nothing had prepared me for the reality of it. The aircraft itself was a marvel of engineering disguised as standard transport, equipped with technology that could rival any government agency. But right now, all I could think about was how the safety harness was digging into my shoulders and how the recycled air tasted metallic on my tongue.

Beside me, I could sense the nervous energy radiating from my fellow operatives, though I couldn't see their faces through the regulation black blindfolds we'd all been fitted with before takeoff. The cotton fabric was scratchy against my eyelids, and I had to resist the urge to adjust it for what felt like the hundredth time. We'd been sitting in darkness for thirty-five minutes now. I'd been counting, a habit drilled into us during our first year of Covert Operations training, and my body was starting to rebel against the confined space.

The worst part wasn't even the blindfold or the deafening noise; it was the sweat pooling at the small of my back despite the fact that it was early January in Virginia. The helicopter's heating system seemed to be working overtime, turning our small passenger compartment into something resembling a sauna. I shifted uncomfortably in my seat, feeling the synthetic leather stick to my skin through my clothing.

What made everything worse was the complete lack of information Mr. Solomon had provided. Our beloved Covert Operations teacher and my godfather, though I tried not to think about that particular complication during missions, had simply appeared at our Welcome Back dinner like some sort of well-dressed specter. One moment I'd been enjoying the steak and mashed potatoes that was a staple of every start of semester meal, and the next we were being whisked away with instructions to "put on a disguise and meet at the helipad in ten minutes."

Ten minutes. Barely enough time to transform myself into someone else entirely.

I'd rushed back to my dorm room, my mind racing through possibilities as I rifled through my disguise kit. The key to any good cover identity was believability, not too flashy, not too memorable, just ordinary enough to blend into any crowd. I'd settled on a long, straight black wig that fell past my shoulders, brown contact lenses that completely changed the shape and color of my eyes, and a light coating of red lip gloss that made my mouth look fuller. The combination was generic enough to be forgettable but distinctive enough to photograph well if anyone happened to be watching.

Now, sitting in this flying tin can with no idea where we were headed or what we were supposed to do when we got there, I couldn't shake the feeling that Mr. Solomon was orchestrating something far more complex than a simple training exercise. He had a reputation for elaborate scenarios that tested not just our technical skills but our ability to think on our feet, to adapt when everything went sideways. And in my experience, when a seasoned spy like Joe Solomon looked pleased with himself, it usually meant trouble for everyone else.

The helicopter began its descent without warning, the change in altitude making my ears pop uncomfortably. I swallowed hard, trying to equalize the pressure, and gripped the armrests of my seat as we touched down with a jarring impact that felt more like a controlled crash than a proper landing. The sudden stillness after thirty-five minutes of constant motion was almost disorienting.