Enemy Jets Surrounded Her Apache Helicopter —Until Female Pilot Shot Down 7 Jets… And Became GHOST 7

Seven enemy MiG-29 fighters.

One Apache AH-64D helicopter.

The odds were impossible — until Lt. Daisy Mitchell rewrote history in a 12–minute battle that shocked the world.

Nicknamed Wildflower for her delicate appearance, Daisy was underestimated by her squadron. But when the sky closed in over the mountains, she showed what years of training and instinct could achieve. Six jets destroyed, one surrender, zero damage. A moment that transformed her call sign forever — from Wildflower to Ghost 7.

 

Part One

Apache 77, confirm your status. You’re outnumbered seven to one.

The radio crackled with urgency, each syllable torn apart by static. Warning tones screamed inside the cockpit, rising and falling like an electronic heartbeat. Lieutenant Daisy Mitchell’s gloved hand tightened around the cyclic until the leather creaked.

“Blackhawk, this is Seven-Seven,” she said. Her voice sounded distant even to her own ears, small and steady inside a storm of alarms. “Withdrawal not possible. I say again, withdrawal not possible.”

A pause. Then Major Thompson’s voice, low and incredulous.

“Lieutenant, do you understand what you’re facing?”

She didn’t look at the instrument panel to answer him. Through her canopy she could see them.

Seven silver shapes slicing the morning sky, contrails carving white scars across the blue. Fast movers. MiGs, by the silhouette. Too high, too fast, too many. Her threat system pulsed angry red on the multi-function display, a dozen little symbols converging like teeth.

“I understand, sir,” Daisy replied, calm wrapping around something harder and colder buried in her chest. “Apache Seven-Seven going weapons hot.”

Her thumb flipped the master arm switch. The cockpit seemed to vibrate with the warning tones, the entire airframe humming with the contained violence of armed systems. She dropped the Apache lower, skimming the ridge line so closely she could see scrub and stone blur beneath her.

One breath.

One decision.

The first missile left its rail like a streak of white lightning, arrowing upward into the sky.

Thirty-six hours earlier, the world had smelled like grease and cold steel.

Forward Operating Base Blackhawk was still shaking off the night when Daisy walked into the hangar at 0530. Sodium lights buzzed overhead, painting everything in pale, tired yellow. Apache 77 Alpha crouched in the center of the bay like a coiled animal — stubby wings, sensors bristling, dull green skin scarred by sand and time.

She walked the length of the fuselage, helmet tucked under one arm, fingertips trailing lightly over access panels and rivet lines. Her gaze missed nothing: hydraulic lines, fuel caps, the faint smear of oil near the tail rotor hub.

Behind her, a voice rose, lazy and loud.

“Careful, Wildflower,” someone drawled. “Wouldn’t want you to chip a nail on that beast.”

Laughter followed, a chorus of pilots leaning against tool carts and coffee mugs, older and broader and utterly certain of the pecking order. Daisy didn’t turn.

“Hydraulic pressure?” she asked.

Sergeant Williams, her crew chief, cleared his throat and checked his clipboard. “Nominal, ma’am. Fuel topped, countermeasures loaded, Hellfires checked. Bird’s clean.”

She nodded, already moving on, eyes narrowing at a tiny scuff of paint near a sensor blister. “Get that buffed and resealed before I’m back. I don’t like questions on my airframe.”

“Roger that.” He grinned despite the early hour. “You ready?”

Daisy snapped her helmet’s chin strap into place by reflex. It felt like sealing herself into the only space where she made sense.

“I was ready a long time ago,” she said.

Major Thompson’s boots rang on the concrete like punctuation marks. He moved through the hangar with the easy authority of a man who’d logged more flight hours than she’d spent on Earth.

“Mitchell,” he said, stopping just short of her. “Don’t go looking for trouble today. Stay close to home. Recon only. You hear me?”

She met his eyes briefly. There was concern there, sure, but there was something else too — a protective doubt, the assumption that she was still a probationary experiment the Army hadn’t quite decided on.

“Yes, sir,” she answered. No defiance in her tone, no sarcasm. Outwardly.

Inside, it pressed against her ribs like a weight. Stay close to home. As if she hadn’t spent the last decade clawing her way here, through flight school, through survival training, through the thousand small humiliations of being the wrong gender in the right uniform.

The hangar sound faded, replaced by another memory.

Her father’s weathered hands wrapped around hers, guiding her grip on a beat-up control stick in an aging two-seat trainer. Sunlight poured through scratched plexiglass. The smell of cut grass and avgas filled the cockpit.

“Become the machine, Daisy,” he’d said, calm and certain. “Don’t think. Feel. The sky doesn’t care about your doubts. Only your decisions.”

The turbines of Apache 77 spooled up with a growl that reverberated through the hangar, turning bolts and beams into an instrument. Williams peeled away, his pre-flight checks done. Ground crew scrambled clear as rotor blades began their slow, deadly spin.

Outside, dawn smeared pale pink across serrated mountains. Mist puddled in the valley like breath held too long.

Daisy eased the collective upward. The Apache shuddered, then lifted, weight dropping away in a smooth, vertical climb. For one suspended second, everything hung in balance — metal, rotor wash, the weight of expectation pressing down from every pair of eyes watching her from below.

“Apache Seven-Seven, cleared for departure,” came the tower’s voice.

“Seven-Seven, on the go,” Daisy replied.

At 0645, Apache 77 Alpha clawed its way into the thin mountain air. The base fell away beneath her, shrinking to a cluster of toy buildings and tiny figures. The jeers, the doubts, the muttered nickname Wildflower all stayed behind in the hangar’s shadows. Up here, the sky felt clean.

She banked east toward the lightening horizon, letting the Apache’s rotors chop a steady rhythm into her bones. Below, the world unfolded in ridges and valleys, rivers cutting silver paths through rock. On her helmet display, the targeting system painted infrared ghosts: old tire tracks, faint warm signatures from trucks that had moved in the night, comms gear cooling on crude towers.

“Blackhawk, Seven-Seven,” she said. “Border clear. Observing vehicle tracks east grid. No active movement.”

“Copy, Seven-Seven,” came the reply. “Maintain ROE. You are weapons cold unless fired upon.”

She’d heard that in every briefing. Observe. Report. Avoid escalation. For a gunship pilot, it felt like walking around with your fists taped to your sides.

Her thumb hovered, almost unconsciously, near the master arm switch. Discipline held.

This was the part of patrol she liked best — the fragile illusion of peace. The Apache rode the invisible currents with easy power, her hands keeping it low, nap-of-the-earth, using terrain as a cloak. Her threat display stayed quiet. Her eyes flicked from gauges to canopy, from thermal image to the line of the horizon.

Below, a patrol of friendly soldiers picked their way along a narrow mountain path. Tiny figures dwarfed by cliffs. She circled once, silent guardian, knowing they’d never know she was there.

Protection didn’t need applause.

Minutes stretched. The sun cleared the ridgeline, turning the valley floor into a patchwork of light and shadow. Her breathing slowed to match the machine’s rhythm.

Then the cockpit screamed.

A shrill, urgent tone cut through her reverie. Her threat warning system lit up in explosive red. Multiple inbound contacts blazing across her display like a swarm.

“Blackhawk, Seven-Seven,” she transmitted, voice steady against the sudden storm. “Receiving multiple airborne contacts northeast quadrant. Confirm.”

Static, then a shift in tone. “Seven-Seven, Blackhawk. We are tracking fast movers inbound. Count seven. Bearing two-six-zero, high speed.”

Her display confirmed it. Seven radar blips, closing fast. No transponder codes, no friendly tags.

She banked hard, nose dipping into a narrow valley choked with morning mist. The Apache responded like an extension of her body, weight and lift flowing through her hands and feet.

At Mach 1.2, those fighters would be on top of her in under three minutes.

“Blackhawk, advise,” she said, eyes flicking between terrain and threat screen. “Unable to outrun. Requesting options.”

“Seven-Seven, immediate RTB,” came the answer, all procedure. “Backup airborne ETA twenty minutes.”

Twenty minutes.

Against seven fighters, twenty minutes might as well have been twenty years.

Her breath left her in a slow, measured exhale. Her pulse steadied. Outside, the northeast sky shimmered with thin white contrails, sharp lines converging on her invisible position.

So this is how they find out, she thought, not without a bitter edge. Not from her training scores. Not from simulations. Not from the thousand quiet hours she’d flown without a mistake.

From this.

“Blackhawk, Seven-Seven,” she said. “Withdrawal not viable. Fighters will intercept before I reach friendly lines.”

Silence. Then Thompson’s voice, stripped of its earlier condescension.

“Mitchell, you’re outnumbered seven to one. They hold altitude and speed advantage. Do you copy?”

She could feel the Apache vibrating through her bones, turbines straining in the thin air.

“I copy,” she said. Her thumb hovered over the master arm. “Apache Seven-Seven going weapons hot.”

The switch clicked. Systems hummed alive. Symbols on her display turned from amber to red. Her HUD painted firing solutions over the ragged mountain walls.

Her father’s voice came back in a flash of sunlight on gauges.

Flying isn’t about the machine, Daisy. It’s about becoming it. Stop thinking. Start feeling.

Through the canopy, she saw the first glint of silver — a lead MiG peeling out of formation, diving, confident in its superiority. Her heart rate slowed rather than spiked. Time stretched thin and precise.

The Hellfire seeker tone buzzed in her headset. Target acquired. Crosshairs aligned.

“Blackhawk,” she murmured, almost to herself. “Engaging now.”

Her thumb squeezed.

The missile leapt free, white smoke and fire carving a line through the valley’s haze.

The chase was no longer theoretical.

It had begun.

 

Part Two

The lead MiG took the Hellfire square in the belly.

For a half-second, it tried to hold shape, silver skin buckling around a blossoming core of orange. Then the fighter came apart in a hail of burning fragments, wings shearing off, tail spinning away like a tossed coin. The explosion lit the ridge line, shock waves rippling through the thin mountain air.

Shards of metal rained into the mist.

Daisy was already moving. She pulled the Apache low, hugging the slope so tightly her rotors brushed the ghost of treetops. Her warning system shrieked again — multiple radar locks, angry icons flaring red on the threat display.

Two fighters sliced in from opposite bearings, bracketing her position. Classic kill box.

“Not today,” she muttered.

She shifted the collective and yanked the cyclic, dropping deeper into the valley until the terrain swallowed her. Nap-of-the-earth flying turned radar beams into blind groping hands, scattering returns off rock and foliage.

For a moment, she vanished from their scopes.

She counted silently.

One. Two. Three.

The Apache surged up over the crest of a ridge like a breaching whale. Her HUD snapped to a new target — another MiG banking in, expecting her to still be below.

The
brackets locked.

“Hellfire away,” she whispered.

The missile ripped upward, trailing white exhaust, closing the distance in seconds. The MiG pilot tried to break, rolling left, nose jerking down — too late. The warhead detonated just forward of the cockpit. The jet disintegrated into a boiling fireball, debris spiraling out like molten shrapnel.

“Victor Two is down!” an accented voice shouted over open comms, bleeding through her headset. “Where is she? Where is she?”

They’d gone to a general broadcast frequency, panicked enough to stop worrying who heard them.

Daisy didn’t answer.

She dove again, sliding the Apache into the shadow of another ridge, every movement guided as much by instinct as training. Sweat dampened the liner of her helmet. The grips beneath her gloves were slick.

Become the machine.

Above, contrails twisted and crossed as the remaining fighters scrambled to re-form.

The third MiG came from above and behind, nose down, engines howling. A predator’s dive. Her threat tone warbled, sharpening as it locked.

She anticipated the maneuver, already sliding laterally, the Apache skidding across the sky on cross-controlled inputs. The ground rushed past in a blur.

Her thumb tapped to the 30mm chain gun. The gun slaved to her helmet, following where she looked. She snapped her gaze up, tracking the diving silhouette.

The cannon roared.

Spent casings rattled down the side of the fuselage in a metallic waterfall. Explosive rounds stitched the air in a rippling line. The MiG flew straight into the storm. For a fraction of a heartbeat it seemed to swim through it, then the rounds found something vital. The jet tore itself apart, nose vanishing in a bloom of fire, wings wrenching free.

“Three,” Daisy said under her breath.

She popped over the next ridge before the debris finished falling, rotors beating the thin air into submission. Another target appeared on her display — a fighter rolling out of formation, trying to widen the circle to get a better shot angle.

Her HUD brackets chased it.

“Come on,” she said. “Give me your belly.”

The MiG rolled just a little too far. Her crosshairs snapped green.

“Hellfire off.”

Her third missile spat fire and smoke, curving through the sky in an elegant, deadly arc. It speared the fighter near the wing root. The plane became an expanding cloud of burning fragments.

Four contrails became three.

Static hissed in her headset, followed by thick, strangled voices. “She’s in the mountains— we can’t lock her— tighten the pattern—”

Daisy skimmed low again, terrain painting her canopy in bands of shadow and light. The Apache felt alive around her — every vibration, every subtle shift in torque and lift running straight into her nerves.

Fear hovered at the edges of her mind, a cold, reasonable thing. She pushed it down, forced it into a small box labeled Later. For now there was only math and instinct.

Through the canopy, two fireballs burned briefly then were gone, swallowed by the high peaks.

Four enemies gone.

Three remained.

The fifth fighter came at her dirty — not with calculated angles and textbook aggression, but with naked rage. It barreled in low, diving straight at her rotor disc like it meant to ram her out of the sky if missiles failed.

Daisy’s threat system screamed in her ears. Missile inbound. Fast.

She yanked the cyclic, banking hard left, dragging the Apache around on the edge of its performance envelope. A white trail knifed past her canopy, so close she could see the missile’s fins.

It slammed into the cliff where she’d been a heartbeat earlier.

Stone and dust erupted, the valley momentarily filled with a choking gray cloud. Rocks hammered the Apache’s fuselage. The bird shuddered like a living thing taking a punch.

“Blackhawk, Seven-Seven,” she said through clenched teeth. “Enemy launching multiple Fox Twos. Evading. Ammo state green. Two Hellfires remaining.”

“Copy, Seven-Seven,” Blackhawk replied, the calm forced. “Backup flight—”

“Backup flight is twenty minutes out,” she cut him off. “They won’t have anyone to back up.”

She dropped altitude, hovering just long enough for her sensors to paint the idiot charging her. The fifth MiG roared in, closing fast, nose pointed straight at her.

Daisy steadied her hand. The chain gun spoke again, a brutal, choppy thunder. The rounds formed a wall in the air. The MiG flew into it at nearly the speed of sound.

The explosion was instant, catastrophic.

“Five down,” she exhaled. She didn’t feel victorious. She felt… busy.

Her ammo counter still showed hundreds of rounds. Two Hellfires left.

Another lock tone. The sixth MiG, more cautious than the rest, circled high, launching from kilometers away, trying to stay out of her reach.

Daisy climbed deliberately, just enough to let the enemy radar paint her. The missile warning shrieked.

“Come on,” she coaxed. “Take the shot.”

The MiG did.

The missile leapt free, white plume carving toward her. She held the climb longer than her nerves liked, letting the tracking solution tighten. Then she dropped, nose down, ducking behind a jagged peak like a diver slipping beneath the surface of a wave.

The missile streaked past, hunting the last coordinates it had. It found stone.

The warhead detonated with a teeth-rattling roar. The mountain itself seemed to stagger. Fractured rock avalanched down the slope.

Daisy used the chaos. She popped up on the far side of the blast, crosshairs hunting the MiG still widening its circle.

“Last one,” she murmured as the brackets snapped green. “Don’t waste it.”

The final Hellfire leapt skyward.

It knifed straight into the fighter’s intake. For an instant the jet seemed to hold together around the wound. Then it blossomed apart, spiraling wreckage trailing smoke.

Six gone.

One remained.

Her helmet was slick inside. Her hands shook — not from fear, but from the overload of adrenaline, the flood of focus.

The last voice on the open frequency sounded very different from the earlier shouted commands.

“Unknown Apache pilot,” the man said. His English was accented, but clear. “This is Colonel Novak, Forty-Seventh Fighter Regiment. I… I surrender.”

Daisy froze, Apache hovering in a pocket of thinner air. Her finger hovered near the trigger. She still had plenty of 30mm. One squeeze and the sky would be empty of enemies.

“Repeat last,” she said.

“I surrender,” he said again. No posturing. No attempt at bargaining. Just a tired man’s voice inside a pressurized coffin, thousands of feet up, surrounded by ghosts of his squadron.

“This is Lieutenant Daisy Mitchell, United States Army,” she replied. Her chest tightened, but her voice did not. “Colonel Novak, you will proceed to Forward Operating Base Blackhawk immediately. Follow my course exactly. Any deviation will be treated as hostile.”

A beat of silence.

“Understood, Lieutenant Mitchell,” he said quietly. “I will comply.”

Daisy leveled out, pointing Apache 77’s nose toward home. She could see the surviving MiG sliding into formation half a kilometer behind and above her, like a wary shark following the one thing between it and slaughter.

Smoke plumes curled behind distant peaks where wreckage burned, thin gray fingers clawing at the sky. The warning tones in her cockpit went silent one by one until only the steady hum of twin turbines remained.

“Blackhawk, Seven-Seven,” she called. “Splash six enemy fighters. One additional is RTB under surrender conditions. Advise security.”

The net exploded.

Chatter from the base, from AWACS, from distant controllers who’d been listening. Questions, disbelief, fragments of congratulations, arguments about protocol.

“Seven-Seven, say again?” Thompson’s voice cut through the noise. “Did you say splash six?”

“Yes, sir,” Daisy answered, eyes on the horizon. “Six down. One coming in behind me. You might want to clear the runway.”

There was a pause long enough to hold all the things they wanted to say and didn’t know how.

Then: “Roger, Seven-Seven. Blackhawk copies. We’re ready.”

She didn’t land so much as finish falling once she reached the base. Her legs felt hollow when her boots touched concrete. The bake of rotor wash, the smell of hot metal, the flood of humanity rushing up around her all felt distant, like she was watching someone else’s helmeted figure climb down from the Apache’s cockpit.

Colonel Novak’s MiG came in awkward and out of place among the slow, practical aircraft. It taxied under the guns of a dozen Humvees and infantry squads, hands shaking above heads, canopy popping open with a hiss.

He climbed out in a rumpled flight suit, helmet under his arm. He looked older than she’d expected, lines carved deep beside his mouth, eyes squinting against the sun. For a moment their gazes met across the hot tarmac.

He nodded to her once.

Not thanks. Just acknowledgement.

“Lieutenant Mitchell!” Major Thompson’s bark snapped her attention away. He was striding toward her, helmet tucked under one arm, eyes very wide. “What the hell did you just do?”

She swallowed, feeling the dryness in her throat for the first time. Her fingers still buzzed.

“What I was trained to do, sir,” she said. “I survived.”

The debriefing room was cold enough to make her wish for her jacket. Fluorescent lights hummed overhead. Metal tables were cluttered with folders stamped CLASSIFIED in red.

She sat straight-backed in her flight suit, helmet resting on the steel surface like another set of eyes.

Across from her, Major Thompson and three men in unmarked dark uniforms flipped through pages. Their pens scratched constantly, capturing details like they could pin reality down with ink.

“You’re telling me,” Thompson said slowly, “you destroyed six enemy fighters and captured a seventh… in twelve minutes and forty-one seconds.”

“Yes, sir,” Daisy replied.

There was no pride in her tone. Just the flat recitation of fact.

The door opened. The air shifted.

General Amanda Stevens walked in, her presence snapping every spine in the room a little straighter. She carried a thin folder and the weight of multiple stars on her shoulders.

“At ease,” she said, though no one truly relaxed.

She sat, opened the folder, and studied Daisy over the top of it.

“I’ve reviewed your engagement, Lieutenant,” she said. “By every standard of doctrine we have, what you accomplished should have been impossible.”

Daisy folded her hands, knuckles still faintly indented from the cyclic. “With respect, ma’am,” she said, “impossible is just an assumption until someone proves otherwise.”

One of the nameless men almost smiled. General Stevens’ brow arched, not in reprimand, but in… interest.

“Explain,” she said.

So Daisy did.

She talked through terrain masking, how she’d forced the fighters into narrow valleys where their speed worked against them. How she’d baited missile trajectories, using mountain faces as sacrificial shields. How she’d intercepted their radio calls, reading panic in their transmissions and maneuvering accordingly.

Her words were clipped, technical, more engineer than storyteller. She answered questions for two hours straight until the last doubt had been chased into a corner.

When silence finally returned, General Stevens closed the folder with a soft slap.

“From this moment forward,” she said, “you are reassigned to a classified unit. Promotion to Captain effective immediately.” She paused, eyes holding Daisy’s like a physical touch. “Your call sign is no longer Wildflower.”

Something tightened in Daisy’s chest. That name had been meant as an insult, a joke — delicate, fragile, easily crushed. She’d let it bounce off for months, using precision as her retaliation.

“From today,” the general said clearly, “you are Ghost Seven.”

The room held its breath.

Daisy inclined her head. “Understood, ma’am.”

Later, alone in her narrow barracks room, she sat on the edge of her bunk with the new patch in her hand. White thread on black cloth. A stylized Apache silhouette, seven faint hash marks trailing behind it like spectral wings.

Ghost 7.

She ran her thumb over the stitching. It felt heavier than it looked.

Outside, the base swarmed with rumor. Someone had heard she’d wiped the entire enemy squadron in under ten minutes. Someone else said it was nine. Pilots clustered in corners trading half-truths and embellishments.

Daisy heard none of it. The window beside her rattled faintly in the night wind, carrying the distant scent of burned fuel from wreckage in the mountains.

She thought of her father’s voice, of his rough hands over hers.

Become the machine.

She looked down at the patch again and wondered if maybe she’d become something else entirely.

“I did what needed to be done,” she whispered into the empty room. “And that… that will have to be enough.”

 

Part Three

They moved her to the other side of the base before dawn.

The transfer orders were stamped with so many blacked-out lines they looked like bar codes. A plain truck, no markings, no unit insignia, idled outside the barracks. Sergeant Williams stood by the tailgate, hands jammed in his pockets, eyes tight.

“Guess this is goodbye,” he said, trying and failing to sound casual.

“Guess so,” Daisy answered.

They weren’t supposed to hug. They did anyway, a quick, stiff, rule-breaking embrace.

“You keep that bird in one piece, Ghost,” he said, pulling back.

She blinked at the new name on his lips. It sounded different from the general’s pronouncement. Less ceremonial. More real.

“I’ll try,” she said. “Can’t promise anything about enemy jets, though.”

He barked a laugh. Then the truck door slammed shut behind her, and Williams shrank in the side mirror as the vehicle rolled into the gray morning.

They took her to the far edge of Blackhawk, past the familiar hangars and fuel depots, through a gate guarded by men whose uniforms had patches she didn’t recognize. The concrete here was newer, the security cameras more discreet.

The hangar they led her into smelled different. Less like grease and dust, more like fresh paint and cold metal. Inside, under soft white lights, sat three helicopters she’d never seen before.

They looked like Apaches that had been scrubbed out of a photograph, details blurred and edges softened. Their surfaces were matte, drinking in the light instead of reflecting it. Their sensor masts were bulkier, antennas tucked in ways that made them look almost unfinished, as if someone had paused halfway through completion.

“Welcome to Ghost Flight,” a woman’s voice said.

Daisy turned.

Colonel Amanda Stevens had traded her dress uniform for a flight suit, rank on her chest, a subdued flag patch on her shoulder. Beside her stood two other pilots — one tall and lean with dark hair threaded in tight braids, the other short and broad-shouldered, his posture easy but his eyes wary.

“Captain Daisy Mitchell,” Stevens said, using the new rank like it had always been there. “Call sign Ghost Seven. These are Captain Luis Reyes, Ghost Two, and Captain Naomi King, Ghost Five.”

Reyes nodded, expression measuring. King cracked a grin that didn’t quite hide the way she was studying Daisy in return.

“You’re smaller than I expected,” King said. “No offense.”

“Enemy jets thought the same thing,” Daisy answered before she could stop herself.

Reyes snorted. “Okay, she can stay.”

Stevens gestured toward the shadowed Apaches. “These birds don’t officially exist. Same with this unit. You’ll fly where we tell you, when we tell you. No records, no press releases. You will see the worst days of people’s lives and go home with no one knowing your name except the people in this hangar.” Her gaze sharpened. “That a problem for you, Captain?”

“No, ma’am,” Daisy said. “I’m not here for my name.”

“Good answer.” Stevens’ voice softened a fraction. “You’re here because you know how to become the machine without forgetting you’re human. Don’t lose either half.”

Weeks blurred.

Simulators. New systems. Tactics briefings that read like science fiction. Flight envelopes pushed to the edge of physics.

The new Apache — officially it was something with a designation full of numbers and letters, but everyone just called it the Shade — flew quieter than anything her bones thought possible. Its rotors had a different pitch, a lower thrum. Its heat signature was masked so well that regular ground crews joked it could be parked next to them without them noticing.

Daisy learned new tricks: how to bleed speed in ways that confused radar, how to use the Shade’s upgraded sensors to see around corners, how to blend into the electromagnetic clutter of a battlefield until you were just… noise.

She also learned what it felt like to become a story other people told while you were still trying to understand your reflection in the mirror.

Rumors filtered in from regular units. Enemy pilots talking on intercepted channels about the “ghost helicopter” that had wiped out an entire squadron. Propaganda posters somewhere had her aircraft rendered like a demon, rotors wreathed in flame.

They whispered about her in the mess hall, thinking she couldn’t hear. Ghost Seven. The girl who killed jets.

In quiet moments, she saw the MiGs burning again. Saw the way Novak’s jet had followed her home, the white of his hand as he’d climbed out onto American concrete. Her therapist — a supply major with a psychology degree they’d reassigned after too many suicides — told her to name the memories, to take ownership of them.

She tried.

In the middle of all that, there was Novak.

The colonel stayed in a special holding cell at Blackhawk until they figured out what to do with him. Intelligence officers flitted around him like crows, pecking at his answers. He wore a plain jumpsuit now, no insignia, but he carried himself like a man who once had a career and knew it.

The first time Daisy saw him up close was by accident.

She was heading to a briefing room when two MPs ushered him down the hallway in the opposite direction. They paused when they recognized her, hands tightening on the Colonel’s elbows.

Novak’s gaze met hers.

Up close, his eyes were a washed-out blue. He looked tired, but there was no hatred in his expression. Just… curiosity.

“You were the one in the Apache.” His English was careful, each vowel clipped. Not a question.

“I was,” she said.

“You fly like a man who wishes to die,” he said. Then his mouth twitched. “Or a woman who refuses to.”

The MPs bristled, ready to shove him onward.

Daisy held up a hand. “Why did you surrender?” she asked.

He considered. “Because I do not waste lives I cannot save,” he said finally. “Not my pilots’. Not my own. They were dead. I was not. There is honor in knowing when a fight is finished.”

He glanced at the MPs. “Also, you had line of fire. I am not stupid.”

One of the guards snorted in spite of himself.

Daisy studied him. “I thought fighter pilots weren’t supposed to surrender.”

“I thought helicopters were not supposed to kill jets,” he answered. “We were both wrong.”

For a heartbeat, something like respect hung between them. Then the MPs tugged him on.

In another world, Daisy thought later, he might have been her instructor. Or her enemy forever. In this one, he was a man whose entire squadron existed now only in her gun camera footage.

“Don’t get sentimental about him,” King said one evening when Daisy recounted the exchange. “He’d have put a missile through your cockpit if you hadn’t gotten there first.”

“I know,” Daisy said.

She did. But the world was easier to live in when the people you killed stayed two-dimensional. Novak stubbornly refused to flatten.

The first mission as Ghost Seven came on a silent night, two months after the dogfight.

Stevens laid out the op on a screen: a mountainous border region that looked disturbingly like the one where Daisy had earned her new name. A joint special operations team would be inserting to snatch a high-value target. Enemy radar coverage overlapped in a nasty web.

“We need eyes and teeth in the blind spots,” Stevens said. “Ghost Flight will provide. Rules of engagement remain strict. We are not here to start a war. We’re here to make sure our people come home.”

She met Daisy’s eyes last. “You do not have to prove anything, Ghost Seven. You already did that. This is a different fight.”

“Understood, ma’am,” Daisy said.

The Shade’s cockpit felt familiar and alien all at once. The helmet-mounted display showed more information than any human brain had a right to process. Altitude, terrain contours, electronic emissions, even rough estimates of where enemy operators were looking, based on thermal camera data.

Reyes flew as lead, Ghost Two. King slotted in as Ghost Five. Daisy took a position slightly offset, her Shade humming softly like a predator cat.

They launched under a moon slim enough to be meaningless. Below them, valleys disappeared into black. The world shrank to what her sensors told her, and what her skin knew.

“Ghost Flight, check,” Reyes said over the secure net.

“Ghost Two, up.”

“Ghost Five, up.”

“Ghost Seven, up,” Daisy said. The words settled on her like a second harness.

They slipped across the border at treetop height, invisible to the radar net they’d spent weeks modeling. Daisy used what she’d learned in that first impossible fight — using terrain, using expectation, using the enemy’s own doctrine against them.

The special operations team’s transport went in low and slow, trusting them. Words Daisy never thought she’d apply to herself when she first stepped into a hangar years ago.

Halfway to target, a radar site that was supposed to be dark flickered to life.

“New emitter,” King snapped. “Grid delta-three. Not in the brief.”

The icon splashed onto Daisy’s display, a new, ugly threat. If it painted the incoming birds, somebody would start asking why those signatures were in their airspace in the middle of the night.

“Ghost Seven,” Reyes said. “You see a way through this?”

Seconds, Daisy thought. That’s all we ever get.

She zoomed the feed. The radar site sat on a high knob of rock, a rotating dish spinning lazy circles. Two trucks. A cluster of tents. A few sleepy heat signatures.

“I can blind it,” Daisy said. “Briefly. But I’ll have to get close.”

“Copy,” Reyes answered. No argument. No lecture about risk.

Stevens had been right. This was a different fight.

Daisy broke formation, letting the Shade drift under the radar beam’s path until she was in its shoulder, right where the signal was weakest. She’d done this once in a simulator, with an instructor scoffing at the tactic as suicidal.

Her father would’ve approved.

She climbed in short, sharp pulses, staying behind a rise as long as she could. The radar’s side lobes flickered across her displays. If they cranked the gain, they’d see something, but by then it would be too late.

“Ghost Seven?” The special operations team leader’s voice cut in, controlled but strained. “We’re committed. We’re trusting you.”

“Copy,” Daisy said. “Stay on course. Don’t blink.”

She rose over the last fold of land, the radar site suddenly there, so close she could see the guard at its base flick his cigarette away in surprise. Her crosshairs locked on the dish.

The chain gun barked, a short, savage burst.

Explosive rounds chewed through the radar’s face. The dish shuddered, then tore loose, folding in on itself like a broken flower. Sparks showered down, dark figures scattering.

“Radar blind,” Daisy said. “Ghost Flight, you’re clear.”

“Copy, Ghost Seven,” Reyes replied. “We see it. Nice work.”

Sirens wailed below, small arms fire probing the sky uselessly. Daisy dropped back into the terrain’s embrace, Shade merging once more with shadow.

The operation went off with ugly, efficient speed. A flare of heat where the special ops team grabbed their target. A burst of panicked radio chatter. A frantic searchlight sweep across empty air.

When they crossed back over friendly lines an hour later, all aircraft present and accounted for, Daisy felt something settle in her that had nothing to do with medals or call signs.

She wasn’t just the woman who’d killed seven jets.

She was the pilot other people trusted with their lives in the dark.

In the weeks that followed, Ghost Flight flew again and again. Sometimes they fired. Often they didn’t. Sometimes the victory was an enemy convoy turning back because their comms got jammed at just the right moment. Sometimes it was nothing more glamorous than a long, silent escort for helicopters full of exhausted soldiers.

Every time, Daisy came back. Not untouched — the nightmares about falling MiGs and burning valleys didn’t vanish. But… functioning.

On a rare day off, she found herself back at the small airfield where she’d first flown as a kid. The Army had flown her home for a “community outreach event.” The real purpose was classified, but she knew Stevens was gauging something in her — whether the girl from the grass strip still existed.

The airfield looked smaller than she remembered. The old hangar sagged a little. The trainer aircraft her father had once rented was long gone.

His photograph, though, was still pinned to the dusty corkboard in the office. Younger, sunburned, squinting at the camera, one hand resting on a plane’s cowling, the other shielding his eyes.

“Daisy Mitchell?” the old manager asked, shuffling out from behind the counter. “He talked about you all the time. Said you’d go farther than he ever did.”

She swallowed around the sudden thickening in her throat. Her dad had died before she got her first set of wings. Heart attack in a grocery store aisle. She’d gotten the call after a night flight.

“Yeah,” she said. “I… I’m trying.”

She stepped out onto the cracked tarmac and looked up. A commercial jet drew a white line far overhead. Somewhere, on some screen, someone saw its transponder code, its altitude, its destination.

They didn’t see her. Ghosts rarely appeared on radar.

For the first time, Daisy felt a strange, quiet gratitude for that.

Being unseen had been a curse when all she wanted was a chance.

Now, it was armor.

She stood there until the contrail faded, the wind tugging at her hair, the faint smell of avgas stirring up ghosts of another life.

Then she turned back toward the future.

 

Part Four

The operation that turned Ghost 7 into something more than a whispered story began with a mistake.

Not hers.

Three countries over, a militia commander with more ambition than sense decided to shoot down a humanitarian aid helicopter to prove he controlled the region. The video hit the internet before the wreckage cooled: a smoking crater, a grainy clip of men cheering over twisted metal.

The world noticed.

Ten days later, Ghost Flight sat in a windowless briefing room while a map glowed on the wall, red circles overlapping in a mess of air defenses and weapon ranges.

“The target is here,” General Stevens said, tapping a small compound halfway up a canyon. “He thinks the mountains make him untouchable. He’s wrong.”

Satellite photos showed a cluster of buildings, a scattering of vehicles, and a crude airstrip carved into rock. Anti-aircraft guns perched on ridges like black thorns.

“This is not a capture mission,” Stevens said. “Higher authority has deemed him an ongoing threat to civilian air traffic.” Her expression tightened, just enough for Daisy to see the anger beneath the professionalism. “You will neutralize his ability to shoot anything out of the sky ever again.”

The plan was a layered thing. Drones. Electronic warfare. Ground teams. Ghost Flight would be the thread that stitched it all together.

“We go in low from the south,” Reyes said, tracing a path along the map’s contour lines. “Pop up here, here, and here to take out the guns. Ghost Five, you cover eastern ridge. Ghost Seven, you’re with me on the west.”

“Any air threat?” King asked.

Stevens hesitated just a fraction. “Our intel says their air assets are… limited.”

Daisy’s eyes narrowed. “Limited as in ‘we know exactly what they have’ or ‘we’re not sure, but we hope they’re bad at it’?”

“Limited as in we’ve seen evidence of two functional trainers and one old fighter they probably can’t keep airborne for more than an hour.” Stevens met her gaze. “If they surprise us, you know what to do.”

Daisy did.

She wasn’t sure she wanted to, not again.

Battlefields had voices, even before guns fired. As Ghost Flight approached the canyon at dusk, Daisy could hear this one screaming in radio static, in hurried transmissions, in the way the enemy lit cook fires too close to their guns, still not believing death could come from the sky with that much precision.

The Shades flowed into the terrain like dark water, rotor noise swallowed by the wind. Daisy’s sensors painted the canyon in ghostly wireframes — ridges, bunkers, hidden paths.

“Ghost Flight, weapons free on air defenses,” Stevens’ voice came over the net. “Ground teams are in position. Let’s introduce this man to consequences.”

Reyes popped up first, Hellfires lancing out to rip apart an anti-aircraft gun on the southern ridge. The weapon vomited smoke, then ceased to exist.

King took the eastern ridge, 30mm chewing through sandbag walls, men scattering like kicked ants.

Daisy’s turn.

She rose into the throat of the canyon, the target gun battery looming ahead on a rocky shelf. Crew scrambled, hands clawing at ammunition crates.

“Too late,” she murmured.

Her Hellfire seeker chirped. Lock. Missile away. The gun, the crew, part of the rock face itself vanished in a single, surgical burst.

“Ghost Seven, west battery neutralized,” she called.

The canyon became chaos.

Tracers arced upward, wild and blind. Trucks fishtailed in panic. The compound’s inner courtyard erupted with men running, shouting, firing at shadows.

Somewhere in the confusion, a different sound roared to life.

Daisy’s threat system squealed.

Her HUD lit with a new contact — a fast-moving radar return, scrambling up from the rough airstrip. The “old fighter” their intel had dismissed as unlikely took to the sky with an angry snarl.

“Ghost Flight, we’ve got a bandit airborne,” Reyes barked. “Single bogey, vectoring toward canyon mouth. Speed… that’s not a trainer.”

Daisy’s eyes narrowed. The signature was messy, flickering, like an ancient MiG held together with duct tape and stubbornness.

“How many times,” she muttered, “are we going to make this mistake about old MiGs?”

The fighter climbed hard, then dipped into the canyon like a knife. It streaked overhead, too fast for the gunners on the ground to register what side it belonged to.

“Guess we found the limit in ‘limited assets,’” King said tightly.

The MiG’s pilot knew enough to use the canyon walls as cover. Radar locks slid off him like water. Weapons pods flared under his wings.

“Ghost Seven,” Reyes said, “you’re built for this. We’ll keep the ground quiet. You keep him off our backs.”

There it was again. Trust, heavy and hot in her chest.

“Copy,” she said. “Ghost Seven engaging.”

The Shade was slower, always would be, but it could turn in a phone booth and dance inches from rock.

Daisy dropped deeper into the canyon, hugging the wall. The MiG overshot on its first pass, its pilot not expecting a helicopter to go that low, that hard.

She used the same principle she’d used with Novak’s squadron — force speed into a liability.

The fighter pulled up, banking for another run. She rose just enough to appear in his peripheral. He juked, trying to line up a shot. His wingtip scraped a gust of turbulent air rolling off the canyon wall. His nose wobbled.

Daisy’s crosshairs jumped.

She didn’t have Hellfires this time; they were all spoken for by ground targets. But the 30mm was more than enough if she could put him in the right part of the sky.

“Come on,” she whispered. “Chase me.”

She gave him a flashing glimpse of her tail, then dove, hugging the canyon floor. The MiG followed, engines howling. The walls narrowed.

“Ghost Seven, you’re running out of canyon,” King warned.

“I know,” Daisy said.

Her father’s voice again, cutting through the roar.

Stop thinking. Start feeling.

She felt the air, the way it curled and twisted through the rock. She felt the Shade’s weight, the way it wanted to float up and smash itself on stone if she gave it half a chance. She felt the hunter behind her, committed now, no room to break off.

At the last possible second, she pulled.

The Shade clawed up the canyon wall so close that her skids almost scraped rock. The MiG tried to follow, but his wingspan had less forgiveness.

His left wingtip kissed stone.

That tiny contact, at that speed, was enough.

The jet pirouetted. For a heartbeat, Daisy saw the cockpit, the pilot’s helmet, the flash of his arms. Then the MiG rolled, nose down, and tore itself apart along the canyon wall in a roaring smear of fire and debris.

“Bandit down,” Reyes said, awe leaking into his voice. “Jesus, Ghost Seven.”

Daisy didn’t answer immediately. Her hands shook. Her breath came in short, sharp bursts.

“Ghost Seven?” Stevens’ voice. “Status?”

She swallowed, forcing her voice back into professional shape. “Aircraft nominal. Bandit is a smoking hole in the canyon wall. West side.”

“Copy,” Stevens said. “You just saved a lot of lives. Again.”

The rest of the mission felt almost anticlimactic. The compound burned. The target’s vehicle, trying to flee down a back road, met a Hellfire from King at the wrong moment. The remaining air defenses were shredded.

When they turned their noses home, the canyon behind them smoking and echoing with distant secondary explosions, Daisy felt… tired. Bone-deep, soul-level tired.

Back at base, there were no news cameras. No speeches. Just a short nod from Stevens and a quiet “Good work” from Reyes that meant more than any medal.

That night, Daisy sat alone in the Ghost Flight hangar.

The Shades loomed in the dim light, their matte surfaces blending with shadow. Someone had left the side door open; a faint breeze drifted in, carrying the smell of hot sand and jet exhaust.

She walked under the Shadow of her helicopter’s stub wing and laid a hand on its skin.

“You and me,” she said softly. “We keep walking away. That’s the job.”

Her hand trembled.

She pressed her forehead against the cool metal and let herself shake properly, just for a minute, where no one could see.

When the tremors passed, she stepped back, straightened her shoulders, and touched the Ghost 7 patch on her arm.

The number had started as an impossible kill count. It was becoming something else — a tally of times she’d slipped into impossible situations and come out with people still breathing because she’d been there.

They called her a ghost because she didn’t show up on radar.

No one talked much about the fact that ghosts were, by definition, people who’d died once already, in some way.

She had died, in that valley with seven jets converging. The version of Daisy Mitchell who needed permission, who wanted applause, had burned up with the MiGs.

What came back was Ghost 7.

And she was still here.

 

Part Five

Years later, the legend of Ghost 7 reached places Daisy had never set foot.

Enemy pilots told stories of a helicopter that rose out of valleys like a hallucination, killing jets that should have dominated it. Militia fighters whispered about a machine that cut through mountains without leaving a radar trace. Even among allied forces, she became a cautionary tale and a comfort — the pilot who proved that doctrine was not destiny.

The Army, for its part, tried to keep her a secret and failed in small ways. A line in a heavily redacted report. A blurry photo in an internal magazine. A rumor in a bar.

Daisy ignored most of it.

She flew.

She taught.

She tried to sleep.

When her father’s old flight instructor passed away, she flew home again, this time in dress uniform. Her mother met her at the airport, proud and small-boned, fingers lingering on the Ghost 7 patch like it was proof of something she’d never had the words for.

“He’d have liked that name,” her mother said. “Said you always snuck up on people.”

“Yeah,” Daisy said, forcing a smile. “Something like that.”

On the third day of her visit, she got an email routed through a Kafkaesque chain of secure channels.

From: amanda.stevens@…
Subject: Debrief

It contained a single line.

You might want to be at Blackhawk next week. We have… a guest.

She knew before she arrived.

Novak was older, now. Prison had shaved some weight off him, added lines around his eyes. He wore a simple suit, the kind issued to men being traded back to their home countries under complicated diplomatic arrangements.

They met in a small conference room overlooking the runway, an afterthought space with mismatched chairs.

“You look tired, Colonel,” Daisy said.

“You look dangerous, Captain,” he replied automatically, then frowned at her shoulder. “My apologies. What is the rank now?”

“Major,” she said. “On paper. They keep forgetting to update the patches on my flight suit.”

He chuckled. “Bureaucracy is the same everywhere.”

They sat.

“I requested this meeting,” he said without preamble. “They think I am here to give closure. To humanize the enemy. I am here to tell you something instead.”

She waited.

“In my country,” he began, “they tell stories now. There is a myth about the day the mountain ate seven jets. Some say it was bad maintenance. Some say it was a curse. The pilots…” He shrugged. “We know better.”

He looked at her, pale eyes sharp. “They ask me, the young ones, if it was real. If a helicopter really did that. If a woman really did that. I tell them yes.”

“Why?” Daisy asked quietly. “Why not let them believe it was a curse? Or bad maintenance?”

“Because curse and bad maintenance they cannot fight,” Novak said. “But you?” He pointed at her. “You represent something they can understand. Training. Instinct. Courage. If I make you a ghost story, they will fear the sky. If I make you a person, they may respect the fight. And perhaps, one day, be less eager to start it.”

She thought about that.

“Does it bother you,” she asked, “being the man who lost seven jets to one helicopter?”

He considered. “I buried friends,” he said. “I wake up some nights hearing their last words. That bothers me. My pride?” He shrugged. “Pride is cheap. Lives are not.”

He leaned back. “You spared mine. Not out of mercy, I think, but out of purpose. You needed a survivor to bring home. To prove it happened. To change doctrine. To become… Ghost 7. Yes?”

She didn’t answer.

He smiled faintly. “I am not offended. If it helps, I do not regret surrendering. I have seen too many men die to feed other men’s reputations.”

He pushed a thin envelope across the table.

“What’s this?” she asked.

“A copy of my last lecture notes,” he said. “Before they send me somewhere I will probably not be allowed to fly again. I teach them about you. About how arrogance kills. About how every machine has a weakness, and every weakness is an opening for someone braver, or more desperate, or less bound by rules. I thought you might like to know that in the story on my side of the line, you are not a monster. You are the standard.”

She opened the envelope later, alone in the barracks.

The notes were in careful, cramped handwriting, equations and diagrams and tactical bullet points. Every so often, in the margins, he’d written “G7” next to a tactic — using terrain, breaking formation, refusing the expected.

At the bottom of the last page was a single sentence in English.

If you meet the ghost in the mountains, do not assume she is there by accident.

Daisy folded the papers and tucked them into the same folder that held her father’s old airfield pamphlets. Past and present. Two men who’d taught her different ways to survive the sky.

Time did its strange, relentless work.

The wars she’d flown in shifted shape, then ended, at least on paper. New conflicts flared somewhere else. She moved from cockpit to instructor’s chair, then back, then forward into a role where she planned the kind of operations she used to just receive.

Ghost Flight expanded. New pilots joined their ranks. Some were fresh out of flight school, eyes too bright. Some were transfers from combat units, bringing scars and cynicism.

One candidate caught her eye.

Second Lieutenant Hannah Cole stood on the hangar floor, staring up at a Shade with a mixture of awe and hunger Daisy recognized painfully well. She was small, shoulders squared, jaw tight under too-big goggles, brown hair pulled back in a bun that would never pass inspection but somehow had.

“You Mitchell?” Cole asked when Daisy approached. She didn’t sound impressed. She sounded curious.

“Depends who’s asking,” Daisy said.

“Cole,” the girl said. “They told me I’d either wash out here or learn things I can’t talk about. I figured either way it was more interesting than flying circles back home.”

Daisy smiled despite herself. “You like pissing off instructors?”

“Only the ones who deserve it.”

“You know what they call me?” Daisy asked.

Cole’s eyes flicked to the patch on her shoulder. “Yeah,” she said. “Ghost 7.”

“What do you think that means?” Daisy asked.

“That you’re either really good or really lucky,” Cole said. “Maybe both.”

Daisy considered her.

“It means,” she said slowly, “that once, a long time ago, seven jets surrounded an Apache and everyone on the radio assumed the helicopter was dead.” She nodded at the Shade. “They forgot to factor in the pilot.”

Cole’s eyes widened, the legend slotting into place with the woman in front of her.

“You’re her,” she breathed.

“I’m me,” Daisy corrected gently. “And you’re you. No one gets to be Ghost 7. That’s taken. But you can be the first Cole who never misses a shot. Or the Cole who always brings people home. Or the Cole who designs something so good none of us have to fly into valleys anymore. You get to decide.”

Cole swallowed. “Yes, ma’am.”

Daisy walked her around the Shade, pointing out the scars, the patched skin, the modifications. She told stories — not the flashy ones, but the ones about maintenance and discipline and the long, boring hours spent practicing the same maneuver until it became bone memory.

At the end of the tour, Cole looked at the helicopter, then at Daisy.

“How do you do it?” she asked. “How do you go up there, knowing people are trying to kill you, and not… you know… freeze?”

Daisy thought back to a hangar that smelled of grease and cold steel. To jeers about chipped nails. To her father’s hands.

“You don’t stop being afraid,” she said. “You just get really good at being afraid and moving anyway. You become the machine when you need to. And when you land, you remember you’re more than the machine, or you’ll lose yourself.”

Cole nodded slowly. “Is that what being a ghost is?” she asked. “Being more than the machine?”

Daisy looked at her patch.

Ghost 7.

It had been born in a storm of fire and fear. It had grown into something that belonged to more people than just her — the pilots she saved, the ones she mentored, even the enemies who changed their tactics because she existed.

“Being a ghost,” Daisy said finally, “means you survived something that should’ve killed you and decided that wasn’t the end of your story.”

Cole smiled, quick and sudden. “Then I want to be one,” she said.

“You don’t get to choose that part,” Daisy replied. “Life does. All you can choose is what you do with it when it happens.”

Years after that first impossible fight, Daisy stood once more at the edge of a runway, rotors thumping the air around her.

A Shade lifted into the sky, piloted by someone else now — a new call sign painted under the cockpit, a new legend beginning. She watched it climb, felt the familiar clench in her chest ease when the bird leveled out, smooth and clean.

Her phone buzzed.

A message from an unknown number.

The text was simple.

Saw your student lecture on tactics. Good material. My cadets were… unsettled. That is good.
— N.

She smiled, a small, private thing, and typed back.

Tell them this: the sky belongs to the ones who respect it and each other. The rest are just falling and don’t know it yet.

She hit send, then slipped the phone into her pocket.

The wind whipped at her uniform. In the distance, mountains smudged the horizon — jagged, indifferent, eternal.

Once, seven enemy jets had surrounded her Apache helicopter, certain they were escorting her to her grave.

She had shot down six and brought the seventh home.

They’d tried to steal her life the way men had tried to steal her worth since the first day she walked into a hangar.

Instead, they’d given her a name.

Ghost 7.

Not a curse.

Not just a kill count.

A promise.

That when the sky turned hostile and the odds tipped into impossible, someone out there would remember the woman who refused to accept the ending everyone else had written for her — and choose to fight, to think, to feel, to become the machine and something more.

Daisy Mitchell turned away from the runway, the echo of rotors fading behind her, and walked back into the hangar where a new generation waited.

The legend of Ghost 7 would outlive her.

The woman who’d worn the name was content with something simpler, something harder earned.

She had been surrounded.

She had not surrendered.

And she had made sure that the next time the sky closed in on somebody else, they wouldn’t be facing it alone.

END!

Disclaimer: Our stories are inspired by real-life events but are carefully rewritten for entertainment. Any resemblance to actual people or situations is purely coincidental.