3 January 2015:  “Fuck!” shouts Commander Brandi Schofield as she smashes her fist into the control panel of her fighter, sending shards of glass whizzing around the cockpit.  “How dare that idiot order us to retreat!!  Just who the hell runs Flight Division in this army?  I do, not him!!”

Behind her is Lieutenant Michael Sheerer, the “See-Con” or Secondary Controller, who handles the weapons systems and radar intercept functions of the aircraft.  Over the years of working with Brandi, he has become accustomed to her temper just after a battle.  Obviously, today will be no different.

“Relax, Brandi,” he says, while flipping switches on the navigational computer.  “Zombie Field was kicking our ass anyway, we had to retreat.”

“Who the fuck asked you?” she retorts.  “Besides, that fucking Riley was the one who ordered us along that flight path and it was so obvious that it was a trap!  Hell, a Common Guard would have known the Resistance Air Wing was strongest there!”

“You won’t get any arguments out of me on that one,” Sheerer agrees.

The Commander sharply turns the fighter into a steep bank, then kicks in the afterburners, sending it into speeds past Mach two.  Her grip is heavy on the flight yoke as she navigates through the bright, blue skies.

“I’m telling you, Mike, that idiot Jeremy Riley is going to get us all killed one day... or worse, caught.”  Brandi’s statement clearly exemplifies her train of thought: Better to die than be captured by the Resistance.

“Not too much we can do about it since Riley is the Venome leader.”

“Leader?!” she growls.  “Jeremy Riley couldn’t lead his dick to a whorehouse!”

“The fact remains, Brandi, Riley’s in charge,” Mike continues to argue.

“Yes, well, I think it’s about time that mistake is corrected.”

“Oh?  And who do you propose as the new leader... yourself?” the Lieutenant says jokingly.

She decides to ignore Mike’s sarcasm, for she is in no mood to be toyed with, especially by a subordinate.  By military law, she can have him up on charges for that comment.  However, Brandi has known Mike for a number of years now and he has come to be the only person she can trust in this whole twisted regime.  Lucky for him, she never held a grudge where he is concerned.

Ten minutes pass with nothing but the sounds of sixteen-thousand pounds of jet thrust filling the air.  It pisses Brandi off to lose, even if the odds were stacked against them from the outset.  She prides herself on being one of the best pilots to ever set foot in a plane, and top guns don’t lose.  Suddenly, a piercing blare shrieks inside the fighter, followed by a pulsing, yellow alarm mounted on the flight board.  The Commander responds by dropping the fighter below mach and maintains cruising speeds.  A crackling sound comes from over the intercom perched above their heads.

“Attention pilot, you have entered Venome Air-Space.  Give your flight number and destination or your craft will be intercepted and destroyed.”  The message from the Com-Link cycles over and over, meaning they have just crossed the Outer Marker Beacon.

Venome Headquarters has remained a secret location since the war began thanks to wave deflective technology.  Not only is it hidden from radar, but it bends light waves around it as well, making it invisible to satellite imagery.  It’s safe to say, the very existence of the regime hangs on the stability of Venome Headquarters, therefore, high levels of security must be maintained to ensure its location is not compromised.

The Commander flips more switches on the Com-Link and speaks loudly into her oxygen mask, “This is Commander Air Group, 3rd Fighter Squadron - Commander Brandi Schofield;  Flight: Charlie-Delta-Victor-Romeo, Two One Two Six Nine, escorting squadron from battle; requesting landing clearance.”

Within minutes, a voice on the Com responds, “Identification verified: Charlie-Delta, Two One Two Six Nine, you are cleared to land at dock fifteen.”

“Welcome back, Schofield,” the voice pleasantly adds.

“Fuck you,” she snorts in return.

The fighter is well into the mountains of the Black Range, New Mexico, when the Commander begins final approach procedures.  She first drops the plane’s speed under two-hundred-sixty-knots and pushes the nose forward.  Soon, Schofield notices the small, flickering, green lights of the Inner Marker Beacon on her Heads-Up Display.

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