My breath caught.
The younger pilot turned to me. “Is that—”
I didn’t blink.
I didn’t breathe.
The voice repeated, weaker.
“Falcon One. Mission not over.”
I snapped on an encrypted channel my hands remembered without my permission.
“This is Falcon One,” I said. “Identify yourself.”
Static screamed.
Then a distorted reply.
“Falcon… failed extraction… Code Omega.”
And then silence.
The younger pilot’s face went pale. “Omega? That’s classified.”
I stared at the ocean like it might stare back.
A second signal appeared—different. Deeper.
A distress beacon buried under the seabed.
“There’s something down there,” I said. “Something still transmitting.”
I contacted command.
Requested deep-sea retrieval.
Told them we had probable classified wreckage.
The response came back cold.
“Negative. Stand down. Area restricted under Black Protocol.”
My jaw clenched so hard it hurt.
I killed the radio.
The younger pilot looked at me like he wanted to ask what Black Protocol meant.
