Her hair whipped around her face as the fuselage spun. “Crap!” she cried.

She tried compensating for the rotation by rerouting power to the lateral thrusters, but that made it worse. Another blinding flash erupted, causing the bomber to lurch forward. Fragments from another bomber sprayed out ahead of her, right before a chunk of the third and final one spun out from behind and lodged into engine three. The engine made an awful, piercing shriek before it blew, taking her with it.

* * *

 

“Congratulations,” squawked a voice over the comms, “you’re dead, your squad is dead, the entire bomber crew is dead. Mission failure.”

 

“I would’ve had it if not for that last one.”

 

“I doubt Commander Park would agree.”

 

“Commander Park is a jerkwad tightass.”

 

“Real mature, Jenns…”

 

“She never lets up. She needs to exhale at some point.”

 

“She’ll exhale after the war.”

 

“So, basically, never?”

 

“Maybe. Hopefully not.”

 

Jenns unhooked her flight harness, pulled off her helmet, and stepped out of the simulator while trying and failing to tie her hair back again. She debated glaring at her brother but decided to wait.

Her glares always got to Gregg — made him feel deficient, like he was slacking in his self-anointed job as her protector. She knew he wasn’t thrilled with her volunteering, which was probably why he insisted on running Flight Control. Younger sibling. Female. Short.

She got it. But she wasn’t a kid anymore. She could take care of herself — even if he still viewed her as being some freckle-faced tweener, obsessed with science fairs and journaling. Those days were way over.

 

“You’re a pain, you know that?” he said, shaking his head.

 

“Noted.” She grabbed a hydro canister, took a drink, then stuck her helmet back on and clicked the chinstrap in place. “Now let’s try it again.”

 

“Again? That was your fourth sim today. You’re done for now.”

 

“Nope,” she said, climbing back into the simulator.

She didn’t care what he thought. She didn’t care what Park thought. She was going to do this. She was going to defend Homeland. Not someone else. Not some brave big brother. She would do it. Sometimes she needed to be a pain.

 

“I don’t think you understand, cadet. I said you’re done.”

 

“I am not done,” she said, strapping herself back in.

 

She knew they were barely holding on now. Megabombers were being shot down almost as fast as they were built. They had their own defenses — optical cannons, railguns, pulse drones, chaff, and flares. The drones worked brilliantly, attaching to enemy fighters and emitting EM pulses to deactivate them. But their range was problematic. Bombers had to get well ahead or risk getting deactivated too.

They could add additional shielding but would be too heavy for longer runs, which were desperately needed. Enemy pilots knew this and fought at extremely close range to make the pulse drones too risky to use effectively.

 

The bombers also flew in tight formations to reduce the possibility of attack. Some had their own fighter escorts. But, those were only suitable for low atmosphere and provided limited support during long-range runs.

Things were bad. If she didn’t put herself on the line like her friends had been doing, like Gregg had been doing, who would?

 

Her division actually had two Gregg’s: her brother and that guy in Avionics. They were both about the same age, height, and build. Whenever anyone asked which was which, she would always say her brother was ‘3G’. This wasn’t helpful to anyone actually looking for him since the spelling of their first names wasn’t a visual cue. She knew this but still did it.

 

“You’re just going to get yourself killed. Others, too. You’re not ready yet.” He leaned forward into the cockpit. His expression softened, switching from flight instructor back to big brother. “Look, I know you can do this. You know you can do this. You’re consistently in the top 20% of your class. We both know we need every possible pilot out there right now.”

 

“Then what’s the problem?!”

 

“You can’t rush it, and that’s exactly what you’re doing. Each cadet needs 10,000 units of sim time. Period. You’ve logged maybe, what, 6,200?”

 

“6,476 now,” she said, defiantly. “Pretty soon, Homeland won’t have the luxury of sticking with 10,000. It was 12,000 up until the last cycle. They’ll drop it to 8,000 by the next. We’re losing.”

 

“We’re not losing. It’s just been… challenging.”

 

“We’re losing and you know it. We all know it. Command sure as Fek knows it. At this rate, my class might be the last.”

 

“Fine.”

 

“What?”

 

“I said fine. Shut up and get your harness back on.”

 

She closed the hatch on the sim and heard him walk back over to the controls. “Seriously, Jenns, tell me you’re ready for this – for once you’re done with the sims,” he said through the comms. She felt the concern in his voice, but didn’t respond.

She was only halfway through her systems check. She flipped through the AR screens beamed to her headset and double-checked her briefing, flight plan, probable battery consumption, armaments, and a host of other items. She’d pass it this time. She was certain. Mostly.

 

“Yessiree, Mr. Commander, Sir. Totally ready.”

 

“Jenns...”

 

“Sorry, 3G. I’m ready. Only 3524 units to go. Maybe less.”

 

“And from now on, keep your comments about Commander Park to yourself. She’s just as stressed as all of us. Last thing she needs is some mouthy cadet.”

 

“Commander Park can suck my left one.”

 

“You’re a total pain.”

 

“Noted,” she said, flipping down her visor. “Now let’s try it again.”