The knock at his door halted his thoughts before he could closer examine the strange lights swirling the cruiser. He turned and opened the door, not surprised to see the skipper standing there.

“Colt,” the skipper said.

“Skipper.”

“Mind if I come in?”

Colt opened the door wider for the lieutenant colonel and stepped back to permit him entrance. The skipper pulled a chair away from the desk built into the bulkhead and turned it toward Colt.

“What did you find, sir?”

“Have a seat, Colt.”

His stomach dropped, and fear gripped him as he waited for the skipper to speak. But he pulled up a second chair and nervously sat. The skipper took the seat opposite him and leaned forward.

“Give it to me straight, sir.”

The lieutenant colonel sighed. “We didn’t find anything.”

The pit in his stomach shot to his throat, and Colt leaned back in his chair as if he had been slapped. “What?”

“We ran the data through the computers again and couldn’t find any irregularities to account for an uncontrolled roll or dive.”

“But…”

“Colt, I’m sorry.”

“Did maintenance run it through any tests?”

The skipper nodded. “Could not duplicate on deck.”

Colt shook his head. “This doesn’t make any sense. There has to be a logical explanation!”

“Colt…”

“Can you ground the planes until we get a tech rep from Lockheed out here?”

“Colt, CAG made up his mind.”

He stood and looked down at the skipper, not wanting to believe it had come to this. “About what?”

“He’s not going to ground the planes.”

“But…”

The skipper jumped to his feet. “Get ahold of yourself, Lieutenant!”

Colt snapped his mouth shut and stared straight ahead, focusing his eyes beyond the skipper’s stern face. It had been close to a decade since he graduated from the Naval Academy, but he still knew how to compose himself despite the torrent of emotions threatening to sweep him away.

“I fought for you,” the skipper said. “But CAG made up his mind. He doesn’t believe your story and doesn’t think there is anything wrong with the Joint Strike Fighter. He’s putting you on the first COD off the boat in the morning.”

Colt swallowed hard and reined in his anger before speaking. “Roger that, sir.”

“I’m sorry, Colt. But he’s going to recommend your commanding officer convene a FNAEB when you get back to Fallon.”

His eyes fell to the floor, and he felt his sails collapse in the stillness. Even his anger faded away to a simmer, and Colt was left with nothing but a feeling of hopelessness. His entire identity as a fighter pilot was on the brink of being ripped from him, and there was nothing he could do to stop it.

“I’d be happy to speak to the board on your behalf,” the Marine offered. “You’re a good officer and a skilled pilot, Colt. I don’t know what happened up there, but I don’t believe you did anything wrong.”

“Thank you, sir,” he said, his voice barely a whisper.

The skipper put a hand on Colt’s shoulder and squeezed it. “I’m sorry, Colt.”

At least I’m not going to mast, he thought.

8

After the skipper left his stateroom, Colt went forward to sit alone in the “dirty shirt” wardroom at the front of the ship, wishing for something stronger than the fountain drink in his plastic cup. He hadn’t been entirely surprised CAG had ordered him off the ship, but he naively believed the older aviator might have at least listened to him with an open mind. He knew there was something wrong with the F-35C, and it was going to kill somebody or succeed in taking out a ship if he didn’t find the problem and fix it. Soon.

“Mind if I join you?”

He didn’t bother looking up and motioned for the other pilot to join him.

There were two wardrooms on the aircraft carrier where officers gathered to eat their meals. Most of the ship’s company ate in the XO’s wardroom, located deeper in the bowels of the carrier, but the air wing officers and those who spent their time on the roof ate in the one located just below the flight deck. Known as the dirty shirt, it had once been the only wardroom to allow flight suits and flight deck jerseys, but even after the rules changed, it was still where the air wing’s pilots went to congregate.

“What the hell happened?”

Colt looked up and saw Smitty take the seat opposite him. “Thanks for taking my helmet,” he said without answering.

The Marine dismissed the comment with a wave of his hand. “Want to talk about it?”

He took another sip of his root beer, still trying to calm himself from the whole ordeal. After leaving CVIC, he had gone to Flight Equipment to strip out of his flight gear and maintenance control to complete his paperwork, but his mind was still in the darkness out over the ocean. He saw the displays flickering and the pages cycling, and his heart raced as he relived the horror of almost blacking out and colliding with the guided-missile cruiser.

Smitty leaned forward and ducked his head lower to make eye contact. “Bro?”

But Colt’s vacant stare was fixed on the nightmare ordeal.