My High-Society Father Dismissed My Supersonic Jet Warnings As Hysteria Until He Crashed The Simulator — Then The Defense Board Forced Me To Take His Place
Arthur Harrington, finding his voice again, took a shaky step towards me, his hand outstretched as if to physically restrain me.
“General, this is preposterous!” he blustered, his face blotchy with anger. “Elena’s judgment is… unstable. Her involvement was minimal, and her recent history—”
Kensington raised a hand, cutting Arthur off mid-sentence. His eyes, usually so impassive, held a glint of steel.
“I am aware of Dr. Harrington’s past, Arthur,” Kensington said, his voice low and firm. “And I assure you, it changes nothing about her technical qualifications, which I am now confirming.”
He then looked directly at me. “Dr. Harrington, I command you to step inside that simulator cockpit. Execute the exact same flight path.”
Arthur moved to block my path to the simulator, his body language a desperate wall. “Elena, don’t,” he hissed, his voice barely audible. “Failing now, in front of this board, will permanently ruin what remains of your reputation. You have nothing left.”
I met his gaze, my heart pounding a frantic rhythm against my ribs. The insult, the gaslighting, the years of his dismissiveness—it all condensed into this moment. I could taste the dust and recycled air of the hangar.
Without a word, I calmly stepped around him, my shoulder brushing his as I passed. His hand dropped, useless.
The cockpit’s controls felt familiar under my touch, like an extension of my own mind. I settled into the pilot seat, the cold metal against my back. The lingering scent of Arthur’s fear and sweat clung to the upholstery.
“What are your intentions, Doctor?” Kensington asked, his voice echoing from the speakers.
I brought up the diagnostic interface on the auxiliary screen, fingers flying across the holographic keyboard. Lines of code, dense and complex, appeared. These were my lines, my algorithms, the very heart of the Specter’s flight control.
“I’m correcting the flawed parameters in real-time,” I stated, my voice steady, eyes locked on the code. “The XR-12 isn’t inherently unstable. It’s the standard flight profile that fails to compensate for the resonant frequency.”
I adjusted the real-time flight telemetry, line by painstaking line, from memory. Years of calculations, of sleepless nights, of battling Arthur’s dismissal, flowed through my fingertips. I bypassed the standard safety protocols that had locked Arthur’s controls, replacing them with a custom algorithmic bypass, a dynamic dampening sequence.
I leaned back, locking the harness. “Initiating high-speed run toward the canyon corridor.”
A hushed silence descended once more as the simulator doors slid shut.
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