Chapter 1

1

PHOEBE

T he cockpit of the Ghosthawk was a tight, gleaming cocoon of cutting-edge technology, and Phoebe Lawrence felt an undeniable thrill as the experimental stealth aircraft’s engines roared to life beneath her. The low hum vibrated through her entire body, and she gripped the control stick firmly, her knuckles whitening as the rush of adrenaline hit her bloodstream. This was her element—high stakes, razor-sharp focus, and the quiet understanding that her life rested in her own hands. She hated to admit it, but she’d missed this. Nothing could compare with being tasked for the inaugural test flight of a new jet. Nothing.

Outside the wraparound canopy, the night was pitch black, broken only by the faint, cold glow of the tarmac lights of Eielson Air Force Base. The Alaskan wilderness loomed beyond, a dark and endless void that seemed to echo the importance of the mission she’d just been briefed on.

Having served in the Air Force as a fighter and test pilot for a number of years, Phoebe had chosen not to re-enlist, much to the disappointment of her father, retired Colonel Richard Lawrence. She had been surprised to be asked to return to duty by her former commanding officer, Lt. Colonel Jessica Mitchell, for a top-secret mission for the Air Force’s newest stealth fighter, the Ghosthawk.

"We need real-world flight data," Mitchell had said, her voice calm but edged with an insistence that Phoebe couldn’t shake. When Phoebe had questioned her, her former CO admitted that they were afraid of sabotage. “You have no idea what this technology could do for us. It will put us light years ahead of our enemies.”

The mission had to be executed with precision, secrecy, and no room for error. The Ghosthawk’s experimental cloaking system—the centerpiece of the military’s future stealth technology—required a stress test over Alaska’s rugged terrain.

“We don’t have time to wait for ideal conditions. You know this terrain better than anyone,” Mitchell had added, her eyes locking with Phoebe’s. “No wingmen. No backup. You’ll be entirely off the grid for this one.”

Phoebe had nodded without hesitation. She didn’t need backup. She was the best damn pilot they could have gotten, and both she and Lt Col Mitchell had known it.

Now, sitting alone in the cockpit, Phoebe allowed herself a small, private smile. The Ghosthawk’s test flight was her op, her responsibility, and she relished the challenge.

They’d brought her in the day before and put her through a flight simulator. There had been no time for additional training. Having completed her final checks, Phoebe’s hands moved over the controls with ease. It all felt so easy—as if she had been there, testing new jets, forever. Every button, every switch was familiar territory, though the advanced systems on the Ghosthawk required an almost instinctual grasp of the cutting-edge technology. Everything had to go perfectly.

The voice of the ground controller crackled over her headset. “Ghosthawk, you’re cleared for takeoff.”

“Roger that,” she replied. Her voice was steady and calm. She pushed the throttle forward, and the jet surged down the runway like a predator released from its cage. The roar of the engines was deafening, even through her helmet, but she barely noticed as the plane lifted into the night sky with the grace of a shadow.

At ten thousand feet, she leveled off, the lights of the base disappearing into the blackness below. Above her, the dark canopy was almost bright with stars and the moon, and below, there was nothing but inky black. The instrument panels glowed softly in front of her, bathing the cockpit in an otherworldly light. It was mesmerizing and deadly, a perfect representation of the machine she now commanded.

She was over the Alaska Peninsula when she began to feel uneasy.

The first warning was subtle—an unusual flicker on her radar display. She frowned, tapping the screen with her gloved fingers. The radar cleared for a few seconds before static rippled across it like ghostly interference.

“Come on, don’t do this to me,” she muttered under her breath. She ran a diagnostic scan, but before the results could display, her altimeter started to spin wildly. A red alert blared as her artificial horizon suddenly destabilized.

Phoebe’s stomach clenched. This wasn’t a minor hiccup. This was a full-scale systems malfunction.

Her pulse quickened, but her training took over. She began flipping switches, attempting to reboot the primary systems. “Base, this is Ghosthawk. I’m experiencing critical instrument failure. Requesting support.”

Silence.

Her heart sank as she checked the communication link. Dead. Completely dead.

The Ghosthawk’s advanced systems weren’t supposed to fail—ever. And yet here she was, flying blind, thousands of feet above the Alaskan wilderness with nothing but a faint horizon line and her experience to guide her.

Then came the second warning—a loud, shrill beeping. She glanced at the threat detection system, and her blood ran cold. A heat signature was approaching fast.

Missile lock.

Phoebe’s breath caught. “What the hell?—”

She shoved the stick forward, sending the Ghosthawk into a steep dive. The aircraft responded smoothly, its powerful engines screaming as it tore through the night. A streak of light shot past her starboard wing, a missile missing her by mere feet. The blast of its detonation illuminated the cockpit in a flash of fiery orange. Someone was trying to see that neither she nor the Ghosthawk ever came back.

Her mind raced. Who the hell had fired at her? There were no scheduled flights in this area, no one who should have known she was even in the air. She could see nothing out of the canopy and nothing on her radar—mainly because her radar was dead. She was a sitting duck.

Sabotage . Mitchell’s earlier words echoed in her head like a chilling prophecy.

Gritting her teeth, she yanked the controls, pulling the Ghosthawk into a series of severe evasive maneuvers. Another missile streaked by, this one closer than the first, shaking the aircraft with its proximity.

Sweat beaded on her forehead. She needed to think. Fast.

This Ghosthawk wasn’t built for combat—it wasn’t armed, wasn’t prepared to face live fire. But it was fast, and it was stealthy. Phoebe toggled the cloaking system, praying that it worked even as the rest of the jet’s systems sputtered and sparked around her.

The enemy fire stopped. For now. But whether she had lost her attacker was unknown.

Breathing hard, she steadied the aircraft, her eyes scanning the dark horizon. Whoever had fired on her wasn’t finished. They’d come back.

Alone in the night sky, miles from safety, Phoebe felt the full weight of her situation press down on her. The Ghosthawk wasn’t just an aircraft anymore. It was a target—and so was she.

The cockpit lights dimmed to near darkness, and the Ghosthawk’s engine let out a guttural whine before cutting out completely. The jet shuddered violently, like a dying animal thrashing against the inevitable.

Phoebe’s hands gripped the controls with every ounce of strength as the jet began to freefall. Warning alarms screamed in her ears, and the display panels flickered erratically. Her breath came in shallow gasps, adrenaline flooding her system as she scanned for any trace of functionality. There was nothing—no throttle response, no power to the flaps, and certainly no way to stabilize the plummeting aircraft.

The wind roared around her, rattling the sleek metal shell of the jet as it sliced through the frigid night sky. The landscape below was a black expanse, barely discernible, but she could make out jagged peaks and endless stretches of forest. Her altitude gauge spun downward in a dizzying blur.

“Damn it!” she hissed, her voice cracking under the strain of the chaos. She tried to deploy the emergency glide system, but the switch stuck uselessly in place. The Ghosthawk was deadweight now, a metal coffin hurtling toward the earth.

She braced herself, forcing her focus despite the fear threatening to overwhelm her. Training kicked in like muscle memory. She tightened her straps, adjusted her crash position, and calculated her odds of survival. Not great.

The ground rushed toward her, and her stomach lurched with the horrifying realization that this was it—no ejection, no backup, no second chances. The jet clipped the treetops with a metallic screech, branches snapping like gunfire as they tore at the fuselage. What seemed like eons later but was mere seconds, the Ghosthawk slammed into the forest floor with a bone-jarring impact that sent Phoebe flying forward against her harness.

For a long moment, everything was still. Silent.

Phoebe’s ears rang, drowning out the soft crackle of fire and the groaning protests of twisted metal around her. She forced her eyes open, her vision swimming as pain blossomed across her body. Her left shoulder throbbed where it had slammed against the side of the cockpit, and her legs were pinned awkwardly beneath the console. Smoke curled in the dim cockpit, stinging her eyes and throat and pushing her into action.

With trembling hands, she unlatched her harness, gritting her teeth against the fiery pain in her ribs. The cabin door was jammed, warped by the crash, but she kicked it open with a burst of desperation. The cold night air hit her like a slap, mingling with the acrid stench of burning fuel.

She managed to get to the flight control computer, which had been reduced in size to that of a smartphone. The Ghosthawk’s upgraded hardware and software with its increased processing power, as well as cyber and product security, would be invaluable to anyone wanting to find a way through the jet’s defenses or reverse engineering their own jet.

Phoebe crawled out of the wreckage with the flight control computer tucked away in her flight suit, her boots sinking into the spongy forest floor. Every movement sent shocks of pain through her body, but she gritted her teeth and pushed forward, dragging herself free of the twisted remains of the Ghosthawk.

When she finally collapsed a few feet away, she lay on her back, staring up at the stars framed by the towering silhouettes of trees. Her breath came in shallow gasps, her mind struggling to process what had just happened.

Sabotage—it had to be.

The word whispered in her brain, like a knife to her chest, sharper than any physical injury. This wasn’t an accident. The Ghosthawk hadn’t failed on its own. Someone had wanted this to happen. Someone had sent her out alone, knowing she wouldn’t come back.

Phoebe sat up, groaning as pain flared in her shoulder and ribs. Her pilot’s jacket was torn, streaked with blood and soot. She turned to look at the wreckage, flames licking hungrily at the mangled aircraft and casting flickering shadows across the trees. The sight sent a shiver down her spine. The Ghosthawk, the pinnacle of military technology, lay in ruins.

And she was stranded—injured, alone, and while not technically in hostile territory, she was far from anyone who could help her. Even if she’d crashed at Eielson, she wouldn’t know who to trust. Until she could figure something out, she was on her own.

A chill crept over her as the realization hit. Whoever had sabotaged her would want first to ensure she didn’t survive to tell anyone, and second to get the flight computer. She was now both prey and witness—sure to be hunted by unknown enemies. The wilderness around her suddenly felt alive, its dark expanse hiding threats she could barely imagine.

Phoebe took a deep breath, swallowing back the fear rising in her throat. She wasn’t done. Not by a long shot. If someone wanted her dead, they were going to have to try a hell of a lot harder.

Gritting her teeth, Phoebe forced herself to her feet despite her body's protests. Her first priority was to find shelter and evaluate her injuries. Survival was the second.

And after that? Finding out who wanted to sabotage the project—and making them regret it.