An ordinary life.
That was why she had deliberately chosen a window seat surrounded by strangers.
She wanted to disappear.
Then the captain made another announcement.
“Anyone with military fighter-pilot experience should contact a flight attendant immediately. We are dealing with a technical situation requiring additional assistance.”
Laura slowly opened her eyes.
She immediately recognized something in the captain’s voice.
He was trying to sound calm.
Professional.
Controlled.
But beneath those words, she could hear something else.
Concern.
Laura had heard that tone before.
She had heard it in fighter cockpits.
She had heard it over military radio channels.
And she knew what it meant.
Something was seriously wrong.
A flight attendant hurried down the aisle, scanning the passengers.
Laura looked away.
She had made herself a promise after leaving the Air Force.
Never again.
She didn’t want the responsibility.
She didn’t want the memories.
She didn’t want to feel that terrible pressure of knowing other people’s lives might depend on her decisions.
But then she looked around the cabin.
There were children.
Families.
Older passengers.
Hundreds of people who had no idea what was happening.
Laura remembered something she had learned years earlier during her military training:
When people need help and you have the ability to help them, you don’t simply look away.
The flight attendant stopped beside her row.
“Excuse me, ma’am. Do you know if anyone around here has military aviation experience?”
Laura hesitated.
Then she took a slow breath.
“I do.”
The flight attendant looked surprised.
“You do?”
