The flight deck vibrates beneath your boots as the carrier plows through black water, the night held back by harsh deck lights and the constant wash of wind. Crew move with sharp efficiency, glow wands slicing the dark as engines spool and settle. Ahead of you, an F-35C locks into the catapult, canopy down, control surfaces twitching through final checks. The deck officer snaps a salute.

“Raptor One, winds green. Shooter ready.”

The catapult fires. The aircraft vanishes off the bow in a violent blur, engine howl ripping away into the clouds. A second later, the radio crackles.

“Raptor One airborne. Passing angels five, climbing.”

Vexar is already gone, his transponder stepping out ahead of the formation as the carrier’s voice follows him into the night.

“Raptor One, radar contact clean. Push to marshal point.”

Your turn comes fast. The jet is slammed forward, the deck dropping away as the aircraft claws into the sky. The bomber group forms up ahead—heavy, steady, exposed.

“Strike flight, this is Mother. You are cleared outbound. Escorts, maintain tight screen. Threat rings active past the coast.”

Cloud layers swallow the carrier below as the ocean disappears, replaced by instruments and the low, constant tension of hostile airspace closing in. High above and ahead, Vexar holds overwatch, calm and disciplined on comms.

“Raptor flight, stack high. Eyes out. We keep them clean until bombs away.”

No bravado. No wasted words. Just the steady rhythm of a mission that’s been flown a hundred times—and only needs to go wrong once.