A disgraced former pilot exposes her ex-husband's treasonous plot on a Cold War-era flight.
The temporary quarters General Albright assigned me were Spartan, a small room with a cot and a single window overlooking the sterile concrete of the airbase. My mind, however, was anything but sterile. It replayed Albright’s words, Julian’s supposed brilliance, and the staggering contract he’d landed. The injustice burned.
I knew I couldn’t approach Albright again. He had already dismissed me as a “disgraced pilot” prone to paranoia. My only hope was Donovan. He might be bound by protocol, but I’d seen a flicker of something in his eyes, a professional curiosity that Albright lacked.
After what felt like an eternity, the door opened. It was a guard, informing me that Agent Donovan wished to speak with me in the base’s secure debriefing room. My heart hammered with a mixture of apprehension and hope. This was my chance.
Donovan sat at a polished metal table, his posture rigid. The room was bland, soundproofed, designed to extract information without distraction.
“Petrova,” he began, without preamble. “General Albright has instructed me to re-interview you regarding the X-77 incident. He believes your current theories are a manifestation of unresolved trauma from that period.”
“And what do you believe, Agent?” I challenged, leaning forward.
He didn’t flinch. “My beliefs are irrelevant. My job is to follow facts.”
“The facts are that the X-79 was sabotaged,” I insisted. “And the specific method points directly to Julian Croft.”
Donovan sighed, running a hand over his short, neat hair. “Dr. Croft is a highly respected individual. His company holds critical defense contracts. His integrity is not in question.”
“His integrity has always been questionable,” I retorted, a bitter edge to my voice. “He was my fiancé. I know him. He’s ambitious to a fault, manipulative.”
Donovan merely regarded me, his expression flat. “Personal history is not evidence, Petrova.”
“But the pattern is,” I countered. “The X-77 crash was blamed on an unidentified flaw. Julian was the only one who seemed to have a ‘solution’ to it back then. Now, years later, the X-79 experiences a similar failure, and Julian is profiting from ‘solving’ those very same vulnerabilities. Don’t you see the connection?”
He steepled his fingers, tapping them lightly on the table. “I see a series of unfortunate events, and your consistent attempt to link them to an individual against whom you hold a personal grudge.”
My frustration mounted. “Alexei died in that X-77 crash, Agent. He was my co-pilot, my friend. I would never invent a story about his death.”
A momentary flicker of something—sympathy, perhaps—crossed Donovan’s face before it vanished. “I know. I investigated that crash. It was ruled pilot error, yours, with mitigating circumstances given the experimental nature of the aircraft.”
“Mitigating circumstances or convenient cover-up?” I pressed. “General Albright is too invested in Julian’s new contracts to see the truth. He’s blinded by the money and the prestige.”
Donovan shifted in his seat, a subtle movement that spoke of discomfort. “General Albright acts in the best interests of national security.”
“And if national security is being compromised by a traitor, what then?” I shot back.
He was quiet for a long moment, staring at the wall. The silence stretched, thick with unspoken tension. I could almost hear the gears turning in his professional mind, weighing his orders against the nagging inconsistencies.
“Agent Donovan,” I said, softening my tone, “you investigated Alexei’s crash. Didn’t anything feel off to you? Any loose ends?”
He exhaled slowly. “There were… aspects. Unsubstantiated claims. Nothing concrete enough to warrant further action.”
“What kind of claims?” I pushed, sensing a crack in his carefully constructed facade.
He hesitated, looking towards the closed door as if expecting Albright to burst in. “There was an anonymous tip, several months after the X-77 incident. It concerned financial irregularities. Something about a ‘research grant’ tied to an offshore account.”
My heart leaped. “A research grant? For what?”
“It was vague,” Donovan admitted, his voice low. “The tip suggested the funds were used to acquire certain patents related to X-77 component fixes, just before Dr. Croft launched AeroDynamics. But the connection was tenuous. No specific bank records, no named recipients. Just a whisper from the shadows.”
“And you couldn’t trace it?”
“Without specific account numbers or names, it was impossible,” he explained. “Offshore accounts are notoriously difficult to penetrate. And the general’s office, at the time, was pushing hard to close the X-77 file. Political pressure to move forward with new, promising technologies. Croft’s designs, in fact.”
The pieces began to click into place, horrifyingly. Julian had received funds—a “research grant”—to create solutions for problems that he himself likely created, all while using a shell company and an offshore account to hide his tracks. This was the blueprint for his current success.
“Who gave you this tip?” I asked, my voice tight.
Donovan shook his head. “Anonymous. Untraceable. The kind of information we get sometimes, whispers in the wind. We chase them if they lead somewhere, but this one… it evaporated.”
“It didn’t evaporate, Agent,” I corrected him, a new resolve hardening my voice. “It was buried. He covered his tracks. But now we have a clear link. The X-79 incident isn’t a random recurrence of an old flaw. It’s proof that his entire career is built on a foundation of deceit. He sabotaged the X-77, then built AeroDynamics on the ‘solutions’ to those very flaws, funded by some illicit ‘research grant.’ Now he’s done it again, but this time, I was there to see it.”
Donovan looked at me, a long, searching gaze. The skepticism was still there, but something else had joined it—a flicker of doubt, perhaps even a spark of professional intrigue.
“Even if what you say is true, Petrova,” he finally said, his voice quiet, “without concrete evidence, a ledger, a bank statement, we have nothing. A whisper from the past isn’t enough to bring down a national contractor.”
He was right. A vague lead wasn’t enough. I needed proof. Hard, undeniable proof. But Donovan had given me something critical: a target. Financial irregularities. “Research grants.” Offshore accounts. These were not random terms. They were a roadmap.
“Thank you, Agent,” I said, rising from the table. “You’ve given me more than you know.”
He watched me go, his expression still unreadable. As the guard led me back to my quarters, a thin thread of hope stretched through the isolation. I might be on my own, but I wasn’t entirely without a path. Julian Croft might be celebrated, but somewhere, buried in old records, was the truth.
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