Chapter 3

Ricky

Somewhere In The Pacific

2 Years 9 Months Earlier

Lieutenant Commander Ricky Cruz stood aboard the USS Ronald Reagan as the North Pacific’s cool morning air brushed against him. The sun hovered low on the horizon, casting a pale light that never truly left from the night before. His commanding officer had just received a transmission from the destroyer USS Benfold, stationed fifty miles south of the Aleutian Islands. The Benfold’s radar was intermittently picking up an unidentified blip, and it was the responsibility of Ricky and his best friend Alonzo to perform some reconnaissance.

Ricky jogged toward his F-35, the familiar thrill of taking to the skies pushing aside any lingering grogginess. Alonzo was already at his jet, running through the final items on his pre-flight checklist.

“Did you release one of your birthday balloons into our airspace just to get us out here today?” Ricky called out, his voice tinny through the microphone in his helmet.

Alonzo turned, a grin spreading across his face. “Sounds like me, but I swear this one’s not my fault.” He raised his hands in mock innocence.

When Ricky reached him, they exchanged a quick handshake and brotherly embrace. “But seriously, happy birthday, man,” Ricky said, giving Alonzo a quick pat on the back.

“Appreciate it,” Alonzo replied, tapping Ricky’s helmet.

“I’d have baked you a cake, but I’m a little low on butter. And the nearest grocery store is…” Ricky raised a finger and spun in exaggerated circles before pointing at the empty horizon. “A million miles that way.”

Alonzo laughed.

To Ricky, Alonzo was the little brother he’d never had. Growing up, Ricky never had much of a family. His father had died trying to bring Ricky and his mother to the U.S. for a better life, and Ricky had been separated from his mother when he was so young that he couldn’t even remember her face. Orphaned, he bounced from one foster home to the next.

Despite everything, Ricky refused to let the cruel hand he was dealt define him. He’d clawed his way out of despair, driven by sheer grit and a refusal to give up. That determination got him into the Naval Academy, where he’d met Alonzo—and Alonzo’s family. They’d taken Ricky in, giving him the family he’d always longed for. Even now, at thirty-three years old, Alonzo’s mom never hesitated to dish out some tough love, which Ricky secretly cherished.

The two pilots climbed into their jets, glass domes sealing them inside. Moments later, they were launched off the carrier, streaking into a clear blue sky.

“Wait a second,” Ricky said, his voice crackling over the radio. “You’re turning 30 today. Maybe this is the year you’ll finally be able to grow a beard.”

Alonzo's staticky sigh filled Ricky’s helmet.

Ricky pulled up beside Alonzo’s jet, peering through his canopy. “No, really. I think I see some peach fuzz.” He tapped the glass with a gloved finger.

“Eyes on the road, funny guy,” Alonzo shot back.

Their banter was interrupted by the ground controller’s voice. “Radar anomaly is holding position, but its pattern remains erratic. Proceed with caution.”

After an hour in the air, the pair flew past the USS Benfold, their radars picking up the same mysterious blip intermittently. 

“We’re getting close,” Ricky said, his tone sharpening. “Focus up.”

As they neared the coordinates, Ricky slipped into his usual flow state when the pressure was on. His breathing slowed. His mind honed in on the mission, running through contingencies in case the situation turned hostile.

“Do you see anything?” he asked Alonzo, seeing nothing on his radar.

“Negative,” Alonzo replied.

The radar blinked again, and a red dot flickered on Ricky’s navigation screen. He banked left, and then he saw it.

Far in the distance, something metallic gleamed in the pale morning light—a perfect sphere, vanishing and reappearing in the blink of an eye.

“Are you seeing this?”

“Got it in my sights,” Alonzo said, his voice tight with adrenaline.

Ricky radioed their ground station. “We have visual confirmation of the unidentified object.”

Just as quickly as it appeared, the sphere vanished. “What the hell is going on?” Ricky said, perplexed.

A minute went by and then, “There! Bogey at 9 o’clock!” Alonzo’s voice cracked with urgency.

Ricky turned his head, his breathing accelerating as he caught sight of it again. The sphere hovered roughly a mile above the ocean, remaining visible for only seconds at a time. It was seamless, no visible engines or thrust, and defied logic by holding its position without effort.

Switching to infrared, Ricky frowned. He flipped it on and off multiple times but the sphere didn’t register at all. Through the glass canopy, it seemed to shimmer, like a mirage on a hot day. Its surface flickered in and out of existence with no discernible pattern, as if sections of it were glitching before vanishing altogether. When visible, it occasionally appeared to blur and distort, turning into a hazy dark smudge against the sky—reminiscent of a fleeting floater in his eye.

“It’s like… it’s cloaking itself,” Ricky muttered.

The object reappeared, this time closer, and Ricky felt a twinge of unease. Whatever this was, it wasn’t anything they’d ever seen before.

As Ricky and Alonzo continued to tighten their circular flight path around the sphere, its size became increasingly clear. It was massive, reminding Ricky of the giant geodesic dome at EPCOT. He thought back to last Christmas, when Alonzo’s family had taken him to Disney World. Growing up, Ricky never got to go on vacations like that. It was one of many ways Alonzo’s family had made him feel like he belonged.

Ricky keyed his mic. “USS Benfold, this is Cruz. We’re circling the object now. Estimated diameter: 100 to 150 feet. Perfectly spherical. No visible seams or propulsion. The surface… it’s hard to describe. The best way I can put it is like it’s glitching in and out of sight. When I do have a visual, at times it appears to randomly go out of focus.”

The warship’s commander responded, his tone sharp. “You’ve given it more than enough time to leave our airspace, Lieutenant. If it doesn’t immediately retreat, you are authorized to engage.”

Alonzo snorted, though the tension was palpable. “You really think we’d survive a firefight with that thing? Fucking look at it! It’s just sitting there, daring us. If it’s as advanced as it appears, our survival rate’s got to be… what? Less than 1%?”

“Probably closer to zero,” Ricky admitted, trying to keep his voice steady while he thought of what to do.

“Well, the way I see it, we don’t really have a choice,” Ricky said grimly, his tone heavy with resolve. “It’s our duty to neutralize this thing—no matter where it’s from.” He lingered on that thought before adding, “If it’s from a foreign adversary, then for the sake of national security, we need to capture it and reverse-engineer the hell out of its tech.” Ricky hesitated before continuing. “And if it’s… otherworldly,” he said, the words cautious but deliberate, knowing Alonzo had been thinking the same, “then we’re not just talking about national security anymore.”

He paused, letting the enormity of the situation settle over them. “The implications could be much bigger,” he said quietly, his voice tinged with both awe and unease. Lost in thought, his hands guided the jet on instinct alone. “Besides,” he added with a wry edge, “if this thing is alien, you know our commanders would want more than just its technology. They’d want a shot at dissecting the little green man inside.”

“God, I pray this thing is unmanned,” Alonzo said under his breath.

Alonzo adjusted his jet’s position to match Ricky’s, moving into an attack formation. As he did, something changed. A metallic rod slowly extended from the top of the sphere, gleaming in the sunlight.

“You seeing this?” Alonzo asked, his voice tight.

“Yeah,” Ricky replied. “Looks like a—”

“Weapon system,” Alonzo interrupted. “It’s got to be!”

Before Ricky could stop him, Alonzo fired. “Launching Fox3!” A medium-range air-to-air missile streaked from under the jet’s belly in a plume of fire and smoke as its rocket motor ignited.

Ricky, wide-eyed, looked to the sphere. It didn't move or appear to deploy any countermeasures. It just waited.

Then, inexplicably, Alonzo’s missile detonated mid-air, only a second after it was deployed. The resulting explosion sent a shockwave rippling outward, nearly tearing the left wing off Alonzo’s jet.

“Alonzo, eject!” Ricky screamed.

Alonzo’s F-35 spun wildly out of control, a streak of smoke and sparks carving a chaotic path through the sky. Ricky watched, helpless. 

In an instant, the sphere materialized beneath Alonzo’s corkscrewing jet—but something was off.

“Ricky!” Alonzo shouted, panic flooding his voice. “I can’t eject! I’m stuck!”

Ricky circled the scene, his breath catching in his throat. Time itself seemed to stop for everyone but Ricky. Alonzo’s jet stopped spiraling and hung completely still in the air. It was pointing straight up, with smoke frozen mid-billow from its engines. The sight didn’t make sense. Ricky shook his head hard and blinked, willing the surreal scene to snap back into reality—but it didn’t.

“Nothing’s working!” Alonzo’s movements inside the cockpit were frantic, his voice cracked with desperation.

Ricky’s mind raced. He banked his jet into a tighter circle, maneuvering closer to his friend. “Hold on, I’m coming in!”

As soon as Ricky neared, Alonzo’s jet and the sphere beneath it abruptly broke free of their frozen state and began plummeting toward the ocean at a devastating speed.

Ricky dove after them, his heart pounding.

The distance between their jets closed rapidly. Ricky positioned himself just above Alonzo’s falling aircraft, the tips of the jets only feet apart. “You have to eject! Now!”

Alonzo shouted back, his voice shaking. “Ricky, you’ve got to pull up! You’ll die if you follow me down!”

“I’m not leaving you!” Ricky snapped.

The ocean below rushed toward them, filling Ricky’s entire field of view. He gritted his teeth and locked eyes with Alonzo for a few fleeting seconds.

“Please, just get out of here! Get the fuck away from this thing and don’t come back!”

Ricky’s throat tightened, but he forced himself to respond. “I’ll send the ship to your position. You’re going to make it.”

Tears stung his eyes as he yanked the control stick back with all his strength, feeling the crushing G-forces as his jet leveled out just in time.

Below him, the ocean bloomed with fire.

***

At Eareckson Air Station on Shemya Island, a remote and sparsely staffed Aleutian island of Alaska, drone operator Brandon Key received an urgent transmission.

“Hostile bogey in U.S. airspace. Engage and terminate immediately.” The desperate command crackled through his headset, jolting him from his thoughts.

Alarms blared, red lights flashed on his console, and the walls of his small control room seemed to close in around him. Brandon’s heart raced as he struggled to process what he had just heard.

“What? No, wait!” he stammered, trying to catch up to the unfolding situation.

Brandon had only been at the base for a few months and was scheduled for on-the-job training today. The certified operator he was supposed to shadow had left an hour ago on emergency bereavement leave, and her backup was still en route. Brandon was alone.

In his previous life, he liked to call himself a professional gamer, though that title was a bit generous. He competed in small tournaments, pulling in anywhere from two hundred to a thousand dollars here and there—just enough to keep the dream alive but nowhere near enough to build the comfortable life he craved. When the Air Force came calling with a hefty signing bonus, it felt like the answer to his mounting frustrations. 

The transmission repeated. Brandon hastily dropped his yogurt cup, its contents splattering across the desk. “Shit.” He ignored it and cleared his throat.

“Uh, this is Airman Key. I acknowledge, but… I’m not certified for live action and no one else is here,” he said, trying to keep the nervous edge out of his voice.

“Stand by,” came the short response.

Brandon wiped his sweaty palms on his uniform, his thoughts racing. This was it. An actual real-life mission. The chance to prove himself. During that moment he let the shock subside, and then started to feel mildly giddy at the opportunity that may be presenting itself. Sure, he wasn’t officially certified, but he’d terminated thousands of targets in simulators. As far as he was concerned, the simulated digital representation of an enemy target on his monitor wouldn’t appear much different from the real thing.

Also, a darker part of him that he didn’t know was there surfaced. He thought how having a confirmed kill was an opportunity most people would never get, and something he was privileged to get to experience. 

After the brief pause, the voice returned. “Key, the order stands. Authorization granted. Proceed immediately.”

Brandon’s heart thumped in his chest. He tightened his grip on the controls and launched the drone. Within ninety seconds, the bogey appeared on his screen.

“What the hell is that?” he muttered to himself.

It wasn’t a Russian MiG like he expected, nor any kind of aircraft he recognized. A massive metallic sphere hovered 1,500 feet above a patch of the island, motionless. Brandon hesitated for a moment, the implications of what he was seeing were rapidly taking shape. The thought caused him to grip his controls tighter than normal and made him a little trigger-happy. 

He fired three missiles in rapid succession. For a moment, time seemed to stop in the dim, musty control room, the tension pressing in like a vice. Then, reality snapped back as the screen before him erupted with the brilliant flash of three successive explosions, each one confirming his target's damning fate. Brandon exhaled sharply, letting out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. The adrenaline coursed through him and dulled the sounds in his headset. It wasn’t until seconds later, when the muffled rumble of the delayed explosions reverberated through the station’s walls, that the full gravity of what had just happened hit him.

He felt lethal. “Nobody can fuck with me,” he whispered to himself through a smug smile. He was already imagining the stories he’d share with his old gaming buddies, relishing how he’d describe taking down a real-life target. Not just the part about reducing it—and possibly a person—to a cloud of fiery debris, but the eerie thrill of not knowing whether it was even human on the receiving end of his missiles.

“Three direct hits,” he radioed back to the warship. “Moving in for recon.”

“Good work,” came the reply. “Be advised, we have one jet en route to assist and four more just a minute behind.”

As the smoke began to clear, Brandon stared at his screen in disbelief.

“No way…”

The sphere remained in place, untouched. For a moment, Brandon thought it appeared distorted on his monitor, like a blurry smudge against the sky. When he glanced away and back again, the image sharpened. The metallic sphere now appeared in perfect detail, its surface gleaming pristinely, as if the missiles had never even touched it.

“Uh, Benfold, this is Key. Target is… still intact. I—” His words faltered as his controls stopped responding. “I’ve lost control of the drone!”

On his screen, the drone began to veer without command. Its camera feed tilted to an odd angle, indicating it was holding an unnatural orientation relative to its flight path. It whipped around the sphere as if being slung by an invisible force, and then shot out to sea at an impossible rate.

“Drone is compromised! Repeat, drone is—”

Before he could finish, the drone rocketed toward the arriving jets. Ricky, still circling above, caught sight of it.

“Raptor Flight, this is Cruz. The drone’s gone rogue—it’s incoming directly at your 12 o’clock! Break formation!” Ricky yelled into the comms, but it was too late.

The drone collided with one jet, detonating it in a fiery explosion. The sphere again went blurry and then surged forward, smashing through another jet, unscathed.

“No no no!” Ricky shouted as he whipped his jet around to follow.

The sphere barreled toward the last two jets, glitching erratically as it went. Ricky saw the sphere lose its blurry cloak and come back into focus. Suddenly, it collided with a third jet, but this time, the impact sent the sphere spiraling out of control. It spun violently, plummeting into the Pacific with a thunderous crash.

“Target is down!” Ricky shouted, diving toward the water.

The sphere bobbed in the ocean, parts of its surface still shimmering and glitching in and out of sight. Ricky’s cockpit was alive with tones and the clipped commands of the onboard AI. His gloved hand hovered over the controls. Once the heads-up display for his weapon system read “Target Acquired,” he unleashed his entire payload. Missiles and machine gun fire ripped through the air, slamming into the sphere in a cacophony of mayhem.

“Did I get it?” he asked, breathing heavily.

The lone remaining pilot responded. “Target appears to be neutralized. Looks like the top of it was nearly ripped off.”

Ricky leaned his head back, a wave of relief washing over him—yet it felt hollow. Taking down the sphere was a final gesture to honor Alonzo, but offered no real closure. Ricky had always been the one to look after Alonzo, his wingman in the air and in life. No amount of action could erase the crushing weight of failure. He had let him down.

The other pilot’s voice jolted Ricky away from his feelings. “Hold on. There’s… there’s a body inside. It’s not moving, but I can see it through the opening.”

“A body?” Ricky whispered, his stomach tightening.

“Looks like a man,” the pilot added hesitantly, “but can’t tell.”

Ricky’s mind raced. What had they just encountered? Whatever it was, it had taken Alonzo, and now it was lying broken in the ocean.

“Benfold, this is Cruz. Target neutralized. Request immediate recovery team to my pinned coordinates.”

As he circled above the wreckage, he felt no satisfaction, only the heavy burden of loss and unanswered questions.

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