I was taxiing for the big exercise. Major Fairbanks was screaming on the comms about “showing the brass what we’re made of.” The jet felt a little loose, but the logs were clean. Green across the board. Then I saw it. A beat-up maintenance truck driving right onto the taxiway, blocking my path.

A woman got out. Old, gray hair, worn-out flight suit.

Fairbanks went nuts. “Run her over if you have to, Captain! That’s an order!” Security was swarming her with rifles drawn, but she just walked calmly to my F-16 and plugged a headset into the side panel.

Her voice cut through the static, quiet and steady. She told me to look at my secondary hydraulic gauge. The one I’d ignored because it was known to be buggy. Then she started reading from a piece of paper.

“Aircraft 301,” she said. “Leaking pump actuator. Red-lined this morning by Sergeant Morland.”

I felt a knot in my stomach. Morland was a good man, but they’d just transferred him out last week for “incompetence.” The woman kept reading.

“The official log you signed says pressure is at 3,000 PSI. But Sergeant Morland’s real log, the one he gave me before they shipped him out, says the pressure is at…”

She paused, letting the words hang in the air between us. “It says it’s fluctuating between 800 and 950 PSI, Captain.”

My blood ran cold. Anything below 2,500 was a no-fly. Below 1,000 was basically a death sentence waiting to happen.