Richard scoffed.
“You mean me?”
“No, sir,”
the pilot stammered.
“Her.”
I stood calmly, quietly, like I’d stood a thousand times before when protocol changed the room. The pilot handed me back my ID with both hands as if it were something sacred, and said the words that started this entire story.
“Your protection detail is ready, Admiral Ghost.”
Richard blinked.
“Admiral what?”
And then, outside the window, two F-22 Raptors rolled into position beside the jet, engines rumbling like thunder. Richard’s jaw slid open. He was speechless. And for the first time since I’d met him, he didn’t have a single instruction to give.
Richard didn’t speak for a full 10 seconds, which for a man like him was practically an eternity. His eyes bounced from me to the pilot to the F-22s still idling beside the jet like silent metallic predators waiting for a command. Finally, he managed to choke out this.
“This is some kind of joke, right?”
The pilot shook his head so fast it looked painful.
“No, sir. This is a federal level designation. I’ve I’ve never even seen this one before. I didn’t know we had clearance systems this high.”
He said it with the kind of trembling awe you hear from lifelong baseball fans when they meet a Hall of Famer. Then he added, almost whispering,
“Admiral Ghost is an extremely restricted naval intelligence marker.”
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