Twelve years after leaving the Navy, Sarah Mitchell had mastered the art of disappearing.
No fame.
No callsigns.
No more adrenaline at Mach 2.
Just a quiet life in Montana—drinking black coffee on her porch, teaching teenagers how to fly old Cessnas, and pretending she didn’t miss the sky.
But once you’ve been Top Gun, the sky never forgets you.
The Incident
It was a perfect afternoon—clear blue, wind calm, nothing unusual—until Sarah heard it.
A roar.
Too loud. Too sharp. Too close.
She rushed outside just in time to see a shining silhouette slice across the sky.
An F-22 Raptor.
Her heart kicked. She hadn’t seen one in a decade.
But something was wrong.
The jet wobbled—hard. Smoke streamed from the right engine. It pitched downward, trailing sparks. The pilot ejected a moment later, parachute unfurling like a desperate flower.
Sarah’s instincts exploded awake.
She grabbed her truck keys and tore down the dirt road toward the landing zone.
The Survivor
The pilot hit the ground in a meadow, tangled in his chute. Sarah sprinted to him.
He wasn’t moving.
She knelt, lifted his helmet visor—
He was barely twenty.
Way too young to be flying a Raptor alone.
His lips trembled.
“They… they forced me up,” he whispered. “I wasn’t supposed to go.”
Sarah frowned. “Who forced you?”
The kid shook his head weakly.
“Ma’am… that F-22 wasn’t ours.”
Sarah froze.
“What do you mean it wasn’t ours?”
He pressed something into her hand before passing out.
A small black data card. Military format.
“It’s… it’s not U.S. tech. It only looks like ours.”
Her blood went cold.
The Jet Wreckage
Minutes later, the sky thundered.
Three unmarked helicopters swept in, low and fast.
Men in matte-black gear jumped out, rifles raised.
“Step away from the pilot!” one barked.
Sarah didn’t move.
“Who are you?” she demanded.
The man did not answer. But his patch was wrong. No unit. No country.
And they weren’t helping the injured pilot—they were seizing him.
“Ma’am,” another said, leveling his rifle. “We need the item he gave you.”
Sarah’s fingers tightened around the data card in her pocket.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
The soldier’s jaw flexed.
“Then I’m afraid you’re coming with us.”
The Twist
Before they could grab her, a jet thundered overhead.
Another F-22—but this one real, U.S. Air Force markings visible.
It dropped flares and screamed past at a blistering angle.
The black-ops soldiers dove for cover.
Sarah saw her chance.
She yanked the parachute cords, flinging dirt into the soldiers’ eyes, then dragged the unconscious pilot into the trees.
Bullets ripped through the grass behind them.
They sprinted until they reached the old barn near the ridge—her improvised hangar.
Inside sat her pride and joy: a restored 1960s F-5 Tiger II. Old, loud, outmatched—but airworthy.
She lifted the pilot into the back.
Climbed into the cockpit.
Her hands moved on instinct.
Throttle. Fuel. Switches. Ignition.
She hadn’t flown in combat in twelve years.
But today wasn’t about combat.
It was about survival.
And answers.
As the engine roared to life, Sarah looked at the data card.
One line displayed on its cracked screen:
PROJECT RAPTOR GHOST
Status: Active
Origin: UNKNOWN NATION
She stared in shock.
Someone had built next-generation stealth fighters…
designed to mimic U.S. jets perfectly…
and was flying them in American airspace.
The young pilot stirred behind her.
“Ma’am… what do we do now?”
Sarah pushed the throttle forward.
The F-5 screamed down the runway.
She rose into the sky—a sky she thought she’d left behind forever.
“We find out who’s pretending to be us,” she said, voice steady.
“And then we stop them.”
The Top Gun had returned.
