ROOOOAR.
Two Lockheed Martin F-22A Raptors of the 1st Fighter Wing, their faceted radar-absorbent titanium hulls gleaming beneath the freezing moonlight, slid into tight formation forty feet off our port and starboard wingtips!
The lead fighter rocked its swept wings once—a formal, supersonic military salute delivered to the surgeon in row fourteen!
Through the overhead speakers, the voice of Captain Henderson crackled with immediate, combat-rated urgency:
POP-CRACKLE.
“Cabin crew, prepare for maximum-rate tactical descent into Chicago O’Hare. All passengers must remain strapped in with seatbacks locked. We have priority clearance through the presidential corridor.”
The nose of the two-hundred-ton Boeing 777 tipped downward, entering an aggressive, four-thousand-foot-per-minute descent through the winter storm clouds blanketing northern Illinois!
I lifted Chloe Vance in my arms, carrying her small, fragile frame into the bulkhead seat of row fourteen, strapping her securely into the wide cushions with a fresh wool blanket tucked beneath her chin.
