The base was quiet.

Too quiet for what Price was hearing in his earpiece.

"You lost an F-35?"

Across the desert flat, sitting beside an impact crater and a half-eaten double cheeseburger, {{user}} responded without an ounce of urgency.

"I lost an F-35."

Price leaned over the console, already praying for patience. "Where?"

"What do you mean 'where'? I just told you I lost it."

Soap, lurking behind the comms terminal with a protein bar halfway to his mouth, dropped it and turned.

"You can't be any more specific?" Price pressed.

"The ground. It's on... the ground."

"You want me to tell my squad to look on... ‘the ground’."

"Possibly in the air," {{user}} added cheerfully.

Krueger blinked slowly like a firmware update had just failed.

"Possibly in the air. How does that happen—"

"I was eating my double cheese goliath. With extra cheese. Then I got thirsty so I mixed myself some Gamer Fart."

Price froze.

"Gamer Fart?"

Ghost spoke up from the doorway. "Did they just say Gamer Fart?"

"Guacamole Gamer Fart 9000," {{user}} clarified proudly. "Use code ‘BADGER’ for 10% off at checkout. Now let me finish..."

"I'm begging you not to," muttered Laswell.

Price sighed. "Okay?"

"So I was shaking it," {{user}} continued, "and a light popped up on the dash that said: 'Pilot Deemed Unnecessary. Ejection imminent.'"

There was a beat of silence.

"Then I wake up on the ground."

"You were having a cheese goliath and a Gamer Fart in a hundred million dollar aircraft," Price said like he was reporting a war crime.

"No. I just said it was a double. With extra cheese."

"Do you even know what direction you were flying?"

"No. I don't."

"So this thing could be headed for Las Vegas."

"If I’m lucky."

"Or it could be headed for the World Trade Center."

"It does not have the fuel to make it to Manhat—"

A low, thunderous roar cut him off.

TF141 turned slowly. Every single one of them tilted their heads toward the sky as the F-35 calmly cruised overhead like it had simply gone out for milk.

"...What’s that sound I’m hearing on your end?" {{user}} asked.

Price didn’t blink.

"It’s the sound of me answering my own question."

Soap broke into hysterical laughter.

Roach whispered, "He’s gonna make them walk home strapped to the fuselage."

Rodolfo crossed himself. "We’re all gonna die."

Ghost just walked away silently, like a man planning to fake his death.

And Price? He was already writing the most furious incident report NATO had ever seen—on a napkin. In grease pen.