Twenty-two minutes later, I was inside a government SUV racing toward Wright-Patterson Air Force Base.
General Hale sat beside me while two security vehicles cleared traffic ahead.
I had changed.
The blazer and cream blouse were gone, replaced with an emergency flight suit stored in the vehicle for me. My hair remained pinned tightly against my head.
The woman my father had introduced as “just a nurse” had disappeared.
Colonel Claire Whitmore was back on duty.
General Hale opened a secure tablet.
“Vehicle is Orion-class experimental hardware, designation Peregrine Seven.”
“I haven’t seen Peregrine documentation.”
“You weren’t supposed to.”
That told me enough.
“Crew?”
“Six.”
She displayed photographs.
Commander Joel Mercer.
Pilot Evelyn Shaw.
Systems specialist Ravi Patel.
Mission engineer Connor Wells.
Payload scientist Dr. Maria Santos.
And Captain Daniel Whitaker.
I stopped on Daniel’s photograph.
General Hale noticed.
“You know him?”
“I trained him.”
Daniel had been a young Air Force physician when he rotated through my trauma program four years earlier.
Smart.
Stubborn.
Fearless to the point of stupidity.
Exactly the kind of doctor I had once been.
“What happened to the medical lead?” I asked.
“Commander Reed was supposed to run recovery.”
“And?”
“Helicopter crash during relocation. Mechanical failure. He’s alive, but he’s in surgery.”
So that was why they had activated me.
Not because I was convenient.
Because there was almost no one else qualified.
The tablet displayed the recovery estimate.
Peregrine Seven had suffered a cascade failure.
Electrical systems damaged.
Cabin pressure fluctuating.
At least one crew member possibly suffering spinal trauma.
Another showing cardiac irregularities.
Landing calculations kept shifting.
Worst of all, they had no guarantee the vehicle’s parachute system would deploy correctly.
“How much medical telemetry?”
“Intermittent.”
“Get me everything.”
Hale made the call.
I began building the medical plan.
Trauma teams.
Burn specialists.
Cardiac support.
Blood products.
Neurological response.
Portable surgical capability.
Rapid decontamination in case experimental propellant had compromised the cabin.
By the time we reached the gate, I had assigned responsibilities to three hospitals and two military medical units.
The guards waved us through without slowing.
The operations center looked like controlled chaos.
Screens covered an entire wall.
Uniformed officers moved between workstations.
Engineers shouted numbers.
A colonel from Space Operations Command approached me.
“Colonel Whitmore?”
“Yes.”
“Brigadier General Ross.”
We shook hands.
“Glad you’re here.”
“Current trajectory?”
“Bad.”
A map appeared.
The predicted landing ellipse stretched across central Ohio.
My eyes narrowed.
“That crosses populated areas.”
“Yes.”
“How confident are you?”
“Thirty-eight percent.”
“That’s not confidence.”
“No, ma’am.”
General Hale stepped beside me.
“Can they redirect?”
Ross shook his head.
“Limited maneuvering authority. They’re using what remains of attitude control to avoid Columbus.”
I stared at the screen.
My hometown.
My parents.
The country club.
Thousands of people who had no idea anything was happening above them.
“Does the public know?”
“No.”
“Good.”
Ross looked surprised.
I explained.
“Panic will clog roads needed by emergency crews. Keep it contained until we have a stable landing corridor.”
He nodded.
For the next two hours, the operations center became my entire world.
I forgot about brunch.
Forgot about Dad.
Forgot about the laughter.
Until my personal phone vibrated inside my bag.
I ignored it.
Then again.
And again.
Finally, during a sixty-second pause, I checked.
Fourteen missed calls.
Nathan.
Mom.
Dad.
Then a message from Nathan.
Dad wants to know if this is really as serious as that general made it sound.
I almost shut the phone off.
Instead, I typed:
Yes. Stay home.
Three dots appeared.
He wants to talk to you.
I locked the screen.
For thirty-eight years, my father had wanted me to talk when it suited him.
Today, six people falling out of the sky needed me more.
“Colonel!”
An engineer waved me over.
“We have crew audio.”
Static blasted from the speakers.
Then a weak voice.
“Ground… Peregrine Seven… medical…”
I recognized Daniel.
I grabbed the microphone.
“Peregrine Seven, this is Colonel Whitmore, medical recovery command.”
A pause.
Then:
“Colonel?”
Even through the static, I heard relief.
“Daniel, I’m here.”
Someone in the room looked at me.
I continued.
“Give me crew condition.”
“Commander Mercer unconscious. Possible cervical injury. Shaw has burns on left arm. Patel fractured ribs. Santos stable. Wells stable. I…”
His voice faded.
“Daniel?”
Static.
“Daniel, stay with me.”
“I’m good.”
“You’re lying.”
A weak laugh came through.
“Learned from the best.”
I closed my eyes for half a second.
“What’s wrong?”
“Chest pain. Started twenty minutes ago.”
The telemetry confirmed it.
Arrhythmia.
Potential trauma-induced cardiac injury.
“Daniel, listen to me carefully.”
For the next eight minutes, I talked a physician hundreds of miles above Earth through treating himself while simultaneously monitoring five other crew members.
Everyone in the operations center went quiet.
Daniel followed instructions.
His heart rhythm stabilized.
Barely.
General Hale stood behind me.
When communication dropped again, she said quietly, “That is why you’re here.”
I didn’t answer.
The landing estimate updated.
A red circle appeared.
General Ross swore.
“What?”
He expanded the map.
Peregrine Seven was now predicted to land near an abandoned military auxiliary field west of Columbus.
Good terrain.
Open space.
But one problem.
A summer aviation festival was being held less than twelve miles away.
Thousands of civilians.
“We need evacuation.”
Ross nodded.
“Local authorities?”
“Tell them gas leak, aircraft hazard, whatever gets the roads closed fastest without starting a stampede.”
Hale was already moving.
Within minutes, helicopters were being redirected.
Ambulances dispatched.
A mobile trauma center activated.
I took command of the medical convoy.
As I moved toward the hangar, an aide stopped me.
“Colonel, there’s a civilian at the security checkpoint asking for you.”
“No.”
“He says he’s your father.”
I froze.
Of course he had come.
“Tell him to go home.”
The aide hesitated.
“He says he won’t leave.”
My jaw tightened.
General Hale heard.
“Two minutes,” she said. “Then we fly.”
I walked toward the secured glass doors.
Dad stood beyond the checkpoint.
Nathan was beside him.
Dad looked older than he had that morning.
Not physically.
Something inside him had changed.
He saw me in the flight suit.
Saw the colonel insignia.
Saw armed security and rushing medical personnel.
And for the first time in his life, Gordon Whitmore looked uncertain around his daughter.
He approached the barrier.
“Claire.”
“What are you doing here?”
“I wanted to make sure you were all right.”
“I’m working.”
“I know.”
The words sounded unnatural coming from him.
His eyes moved toward the operations floor.
“Is something really coming down?”
“I can’t discuss details.”
He nodded slowly.
Normally that answer would have irritated him.
This time it didn’t.
“I didn’t know.”
I stared at him.
“You never asked.”
His face tightened.
“I asked plenty.”
“No, Dad. You asked why I wasn’t making more money. You asked when I was leaving the military. You asked why I couldn’t be more like Nathan.”
Nathan looked down.
I continued.
“You never asked what I actually did.”
Dad opened his mouth.
Nothing came out.
Overhead, the public-address system announced departure for recovery personnel.
I stepped backward.
“I have to go.”
“Claire.”
I stopped.
He swallowed.
“Be careful.”
There were years when I would have given anything to hear those two words.
Now they landed somewhere complicated.
I nodded once.
Then turned away.
Twenty minutes later, I was strapped into a military helicopter flying west.
Below us stretched the green fields of Ohio.
Ahead, black storm clouds had formed against the horizon.
The weather service hadn’t predicted them.
Perfect.
I checked the landing estimates again.
“Colonel,” the pilot said over the headset. “We’ve got another problem.”
Of course we did.
“What?”
“Trajectory changed.”
The screen refreshed.
My stomach dropped.
Peregrine Seven was coming down faster.
Much faster.
And the new projected landing point was no longer the abandoned airfield.
It was less than three miles from Briarwood Country Club.
The same patio where, only hours earlier, my father had laughed about me giving flu shots.
I looked down at the terrain.
Then at the countdown.
Thirty-seven minutes.
“Turn us around,” I ordered.
The pilot glanced back.
“To where?”
“Briarwood.”
General Hale stared at me.
I tightened my harness.
“My family is still in the area.”
Then the first emergency beacon from Peregrine Seven began screaming through the headset.
And the sky above Columbus started to burn.
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