The Outcast MC - Reaper # 1

Chapter 4

As everyone insists on accompanying me to the Navy base, I realize they want to witness it for themselves. I can sense their awe as the orderly snaps to attention upon recognizing my rank. It dawns on me that I forgot to inform them about my position.

The orderly informs me that a vehicle will take me to the tarmac, and I retrieve my bag from the trunk. I bid my family farewell, knowing they'll be able to witness the plane taking off if they stay. Despite the circumstances, it was a nice moment with them, and I make a mental note to try to be less distant in the future.

"Well, I guess I have to go. If you stick around, you'll see the plane take off. It was nice to see you, and I'll try to be less distant, but my job..."

"Is complicated," Sylvie smiles as she hugs me, finishing my sentence, understanding her struggles. I take the opportunity to hug her tightly, cherishing the moment.

I bid farewell to the rest of my family, hugging each one before crossing the barrier and climbing into the waiting Humvee, driving me away from the only family I have left. I keep my computer with me, tucked inside a bag as I climb into the backseat of the F-22. My other luggage will be delivered to me by the next transport.

"Good morning, Captain. Thanks for the ride." I greet.

"It's nice to have some company," he replies. "Need a briefing?"

"I'm familiar with the procedure, I promise not to touch anything," I assure him, placing my bag between my legs. "All my electronics are turned off."

"Perfect, Major. Do you have a callsign?" he asks.

"Reaper," I reply.

"Is that because..."

"That's right," I interject. "I think the Iraqis nicknamed me that because I scratch and bite."

"I doubt that, ma'am," he chuckles, opting not to delve into the true reason behind my nickname.

"What about yours, Flatline? Should I be worried?" I ask, curious about his callsign.

"Not at all, I'm the stoic type. My heartbeat remains steady, even in aerial combat, Major," he replies confidently.

"Nice," I say, appreciating his calm demeanor. "Are you taking me dancing?"

"Let's go!" he exclaims, signaling that it's time to depart.

The exhilaration of takeoff fills me as we leave the ground. Traveling in a large commercial aircraft like a 747 can be cumbersome. I can't wait to get my ass in an F-35.

I don't know if they saw the plane take off, but I'm sure they'll come up with all sorts of theories on the way back. It's clear that traveling in a fighter jet is not something a mere secretary or administrative employee would do. My role is undoubtedly something different, something confidential. The speculations must be flying in the car... which my phone confirms as soon as I land over an hour later. Fort Hood is my home, my base, where I work and live. It's nothing extraordinary, just like any other military base, but it's home, where I've created my own haven, my own space. I have a driver taking me to my house to change and then head to the office. It'll be easier for me to delve into my brother's files there because something is bothering me. The experience of being on oxygen at Mach 2, soaring through the skies above the clouds, has always had a calming effect on my thoughts. The sheer speed and exhilaration of flying, especially when comparing it to the Cessna planes I've flown during my flying lessons, emphasizes the stark contrast between the two. A difference of two thousand kilometers per hour is truly significant.

Even though we're in a wide-open space, I have the privilege of being in a corner, against a wall, so no one can sneak up on me from behind and catch me working on a personal file. Glancing at my GPS, I discover that my pursuers are still on US 95 in Virginia. Inserting the key into my computer, I begin searching through my brother's files, focusing on the passage that has been bothering me. Upon reading it repeatedly, I find it incoherent and incomprehensible. I hope my brother had a second job because it's so bad and riddled with errors... or maybe not.