They stopped calling for help. Eight special forces operatives were trapped in a remote area, surrounded by enemy forces. Ammunition was running low, blood soaked the ground. Command had already signed their death certificates. The radios went silent, because hope died first. Then, suddenly, the roar of engines shattered the stillness. Not a rescue, but retribution. A sound that made everyone freeze, because they’d heard it before.

Two years ago, one pilot flew through here, and survived. She, the one they grounded. The woman they tried to erase. She’s back. Captain Nadia “Hawk” Jensen never asks for permission anymore. And the area that swallowed countless aircraft will soon learn why they called her “Hawk.”

At a small airbase in the middle of the desert, Nadia sat alone on a bench outside Hangar 14. Her flight suit was undone at the waist, revealing old scars on her body. She stared at the Blackhawk parked under the hot sun. Her Blackhawk. It had been 10 months since she last flew it. 10 months since they grounded her. 10 months since she saved three teammates and lost her entire career for doing so.

The bench she sat on had a dent in it. She had worn a groove into it from sitting here every day, watching, waiting for what? She didn’t know anymore. A mechanic walked past, glanced at her, then continued with his work. He didn’t speak, just dropped two words: Bang Lang Area. Nadia stood up immediately. The words hit her like a jolt of electricity. She didn’t need to ask more. She knew. When someone mentions that area, people die. She walked quickly towards her Blackhawk.

Her boots struck the concrete with purpose. Her steps were strong, sure. It was the walk of a pilot heading to her bird. A crew chief, a young kid, looked up as she approached. His eyes widened. He started to step forward, then stopped. His hand fell from his radio. He knew who she was. Everyone did. She reached her Blackhawk.

She ran her hand along the fuselage, feeling the warmth of the metal. The scars from her last mission were still visible. They were patched, but not repainted. They never got around to it. Easier to let the aircraft rot than admit they might need her again. Ma’am, you’re not cleared to… The crew chief began, but she was already climbing the ladder. She didn’t look back.

The cockpit smelled of hydraulic fluid and the dry air of the desert. Home. She dropped into the seat. Muscle memory guided her hands. Master switch. Battery. APU start. The systems hummed to life. Reluctantly, like waking something that wanted to stay asleep. Diagnostics scrolled across the display. Fuel at 56%. Hydraulics showing yellow. Flares questionable. Guns green. Good enough.

In the operations room, controlled chaos filled the space. Screens glowed with satellite data and drone footage. Radio chatter overlapped. Someone shouted coordinates. Colonel Alex Carter stood at the center. Tall, with gray at the temples, his jaw clenched. He had been base commander for three years. A good officer, by the book.

That was his strength. That was his weakness. Major Emma Scott, the intelligence officer, looked up from her screen. They’re pinned down, no way out. We need extraction immediately.

The room went silent. Not the kind of silence that comes with hope, but the kind that comes when everyone knows what the words mean. Throat, someone muttered.

Carter clenched his jaw. That was the only sign. Available air assets? Major Curtis Hammond asked, not needing to check his roster. Two Apaches at Chapman. Four F-16s on standby here. One Reaper drone over Kandahar. Get them in the air, now. Hammond’s voice carried weight. That canyon has a 92% loss rate. Seven aircraft down in three years.

The Apaches wouldn’t risk it. The F-16s couldn’t operate that low. The geography was the problem. I know the geography, Major. Carter turned to face Hammond directly. Those are 12 American operators dying in that canyon. We don’t write them off.

I’m not suggesting we write them off. I’m suggesting we find another way.

What other way? Hammond had no answer. Staff Sergeant Michael Delgado sat at the communications console. He’d been listening to the radio chatter from the trapped operatives for six hours. Listening to them slowly die. His screen flickered. Sir, we have an unauthorized engine start. Hangar 14.

Carter turned, his voice dangerously quiet. Identify.

Delgado’s fingers flew across the keyboard. He pulled up the aircraft ID. His face changed. Warthog 51. Tail number Alpha 72 Niner.

The room shifted. Everyone knew that tail number. Who authorized this? Carter’s voice dropped. Dangerous. No one, sir. No flight plan filed. No clearance requested.

Carter’s hands clenched into fists. Get me the tower, now.

Inside the tower, Sergeant Rodriguez manned the radio. He saw the A-10 taxiing toward the runway. No call sign, no request, just rolling. His radio crackled. Tower, this is Carter. Who cleared Warthog for taxi?

Rodriguez swallowed. Sir, no clearance given. Aircraft is moving without authorization. Stop her. He keyed his mic. Warthog 51, you are not cleared for taxi. Return to Hangar 14 immediately.

The A-10 kept rolling. Engines spooling higher. Warthog 51, acknowledge. You are not cleared. This is a direct order. Nothing. Radio silence. Rodriguez watched the Warthog reach the runway threshold, line up, and roar to full power.

Sir, she’s taking the runway. Scramble security. Block the— Too late. Warthog 51 surged forward. The wheels lifted. The A-10 clawed into the sky.

Rodriguez stared. He had never seen a takeoff so aggressive, so desperate. Inside the cockpit, Nadia climbed steeply, G-forces pressing her into the seat. She ignored the radio. They were shouting at her, ordering her to return, threatening court martial. She’d already been grounded, already lost everything. What more could they take?

The canyon was 40 kilometers east. She banked hard, leveled off at 2,000 feet. Her eyes scanned the horizon, looking for the ridge that marked the entrance to hell. Her radio suddenly cleared. One voice cut through. Carter. Wolf, turn around. That’s not a request. She didn’t respond. Captain, you are violating direct orders. If you continue, there will be consequences.

She keyed the mic once. There already were. Then she switched frequencies.

Two Years Ago, The Canyon of Death.

In the rugged terrain, the SEAL team was pinned down. Commander Rashid Amadi watched through binoculars from the northern ridge. His SEAL team was scattered, some already dead, some severely wounded. No cover worth a damn. They were out of ammo, and the enemy was closing in.

But there was one thing he never expected.

The sound of engines, louder this time, and the unmistakable silhouette of a Blackhawk appeared, breaking through the enemy lines. Nadia was back. The woman who had flown through here before and survived.

If she comes… Amadi whispered. We’ll be ready this time.