It was 11:00 a.m. at Washington D.C. American Airlines Flight 287 Boeing 777 Max landed at Ronald Reagan International airport, its fourteen tires screeching as they landed on the black tarmac. The Pratt & Whitney PW4000 engines slipped quietly into reverse thrust and slowed the aircraft to walking speed.
Amy and Leah entered the arrivals lounge of the airport. Amy stood five-feet-nine and had olive skin, black hair, brown eyes and a lean but muscular body. Leah, on the other hand, stood a quarter of an inch shorter with iron-red hair, green eyes and a tomboyish look. They were both dressed in US Army issue forest green fatigue – combat trousers and khaki shirts – and combat boots. Amy pulled out her iPhone 18 Pro and scrolled through her WhatsApp.
"Ron is not here," Leah said.
"He's said he's around the door area," Amy replied while texting Ron. They turned to the main doors and Ron stood there, dressed in Air Force blue fatigue – khaki shirt and trousers – and brogues. He glanced at the pair walking towards him.
"I've been waiting for 2 hours," Ron said, giving Amy a handshake.
"We were delayed by bad weather," she replied, squeezing Ron's hand hard.
"Geez, Amy," Leah said disapprovingly, "Give the guy's hand a rest."
"At least let me have some fun," Amy replied, relinquishing her hand.
"Alright, are we going to the Pentagon or what?" Leah asked.
"We have to make a slight detour," Ron replied, walking outside.
Ron led them to a charcoal grey Subaru Outback from Hertz rental cars. They drove for two miles to the Arlington National Cemetery. Ron parked by the curb a little beyond the main entrance. A couple of yards away, Chris stood with a bunch of tulips in the midst of the hundreds of thousands of grave stones. But of those that were there, only one mattered to him. It was made of white marble. Inscribed were the words:
CAPT. RICKENBACKER JOSEPH RYDER VIII
'Maverick'
SEPTEMBER 21st, 1983 – JULY 3rd, 2010
"To a world that is better by far"
Chris looked at the gravestone. It was impossible to foretell that a tall, jolly, family man and experienced fighter pilot would die in such an accident. "An occupational hazard," the US Navy officials told Chris' teary mother. That was his last flight before he went back to the States for a two month leave.
Ron came and stood by him and patted his back. "Easy, Chris," he consoled, "At least you had a dad growing up."
"So that makes two of us, huh," Chris said sadly. "Let's go, we have an appointment to keep up."
The turned around and walked back to the Subaru on the curb.
"So who is your friend," Leah asked. She was seating on the car, chewing bubble gum.
"Guys, this is Chris," Ron introduced.
"This is the latecomer we were waiting for, right?" Amy sneered. Chris raised his eyebrow, before his face broke into a devilish smile.
"You're definitely going to regret that," Chris said, getting into the driver's seat. "Let's go." He turned on the Subaru's ignition and drove off towards the Pentagon.
The Pentagon, in all its glory, stood a few minutes outside Washington DC. It was five stories, and most people didn't know that it was actually five different building. Ever since the 9/11 attacks, the Achilles Heel of the US Military was outfitted to survive any biological, chemical and radiological attacks. It was said that also no nuclear missile could touch it. Even the number of security checkpoints rivaled to none anywhere else in the world.
Amy and Leah walked out of the car, heading towards the Office of the Chief of Staff of the US Army. Ron and Chris, on the other hand, walked to the office of the US Air Force Chief of Staff.
*
"Cap'n Alexander Daniel 'Warlock' McCain," the US Air Force Chief of Staff said. He was five-foot-eleven, one hundred and fifty-five pounds in weight, with grey hair interspersed with black, hazelnut eyes and a light chocolate brown complexion. He was dressed in the official Air Force dress – white shirt, blue tie, blue trousers and jacket – black brogues and square wire rim bifocals. His name tag was John O'Black. The fifty-five year-old peered at the file.
"Date of Birth: October 10th, 1983," he read, "Joined the US Navy Academy in 1999, graduated in 2003 and was assigned to the CVN-72 USS Abraham Lincoln, saw action in 2003 and 2005, three purple hearts and a Navy star, and assigned to Afghanistan in 2010.
"When Lt. Rickenbacker died in 2010, you went on a downward spiral, got court martialled after a fight, almost dying a thousand times over, but you are still here alive and kicking." John closed the file and put down his spectacles. "You are good pilot, John, with a bloody good nerve. But with you good record comes multiple red flags. Disobeying a Major General's orders for a record three times, flying aircraft without permission in ways that it could probably never be flown again, and – the cherry on the cake – destroying a three hundred sixty billion dollar aircraft.
"My predecessor, Rt. General Theresa Ryder, used to save you but each time you crawled into her office." John placed his hand on Alex's shoulder. "But your Navy superiors are tired. You've been given one last chance. But it's your choice – get this job or retire honorably."
Smiling, Alex replied, "I'll take the job."
"You are sure about this?" John asked his face impassive.
"Extremely sure," Alex replied, though he was starting to have second thoughts about this.
"Okay." John walked back to his black swivel chair. He pressed the ON button on a remote control and a 65-inch Hisense screen. 10 photographs appeared on the screen in-front of a USAF logo background. "Jennifer Harwood, Collins Pearce, Jane McLaren, Nicholas Parker, Timothy Parker, Olivia Winterbotham, Jonathan Sherwood, Martin Tucker, Ronald Reagan Webber and Christopher Ryder VIII. These are ten of the best graduates from the Air Force Academy in Colorado Springs."
"What exactly do you want me to do?" Alex asked, his doubt increasing.
"We want you to teach."
Alex almost choked, trying to stifle a laugh. "What's funny?" John asked, his eyebrow rising up.
"Sir, you want me to teach?"
"There is nothing funny about it," John said. "You are one of the best in combat at Top Gun. You are going to take them and convert them into the best that they can be."
"Okay…" Alex said half-heartedly.
"You are dismissed."
*
"You may come in now," a blonde secretary said. Amy and Leah nodded and walked to the giant door. Inside, behind the oak desk, the US Army Chief of Staff sat. General Halt Paul Phillips was a fifty-nine-year-old 5-star general. He, in-spite of his old age, was tall and muscular, without any hint of flabbiness. He had cobalt blue eyes, iron brown hair that was always disorganized no matter what. The only signs of him being elderly were the grey hair sprinkled in his air and the wrinkles on his face.
"Take a seat." He had a slight Hibernian buzz in his voice, owing to the fact that he was from Ireland. "How was the rest period?" he asked.
"It was good enough," Amy replied, "especially after that last mission in Somalia."
"Your CO is supposed to brief you for your next mission, but only top brass and a selected few are to know about it," Halt said. "CIA has investigated the possibility of retrieving sensitive information from a European government. Among the names of all the Army Rangers, your names came out of the computer as the most likely to succeed in the mission."
"What is the mission, sir," Leah asked.
Halt pressed a remote and the 3-D image of a large building came on the large 4K screen. "This is a 3D model of the Presidential Palace of Olympia in its capital city Tyrus, formally Thessaloniki. Your target is the large server under it, four stories down. Your job is to steal the contents of the whole server and get out.
"You will be airlifted in Olympia and you will travel to Tyrus as American tourists. You will then meet our contact in Tyrus city. He will guide your every movement in the Palace. I wish you good luck."