Greenbreed East Municipal Airport
2016pm
Major Andrew Stanwell, retired, handled the approach with the economical precision of thirty-two years in military cockpits. At sixty-two, his hands remained steady, his instrument scan automatic. Beside him, First Officer Jane Calbridge monitored the engine parameters on the multi-function displays, her fingers resting lightly on the throttle quadrant. She was forty, a former logistics pilot for the Oakbreeze Forestry Service, recruited into this peculiar niche of aviation five years ago. She'd learned that the Frontier's true purpose had little to do with the "Air Service" lettering on its flank.
"Runway in sight," Stanwell murmured. "Flaps twenty."
"Flaps twenty," Calbridge confirmed, her eyes on the approach path vector displayed on her head-up display. "Localizer captured. No other traffic within fifty kilometers."
The landing gear kissed the asphalt at 20:21, a mere five minutes after initial descent—the efficiency of a crew that had performed this exact evolution hundreds of times. Stanwell reversed the props, the turbine whine deepening momentarily as they bled momentum. The aircraft taxied not toward the small terminal building, its lights already dimming for the night, but toward a distant, unmarked hardstand near a row of dilapidated hangars.
Waiting there, partially obscured by the shadow of a fuel truck, was a matte-black Flagship Strata utility vehicle with civilian plates. Three figures stood beside it, their postures radiating readiness. They wore subdued tactical gear—plate carriers in coyote brown, helmets with integrated night vision shrouds folded up, compact carbines slung across their chests. No unit patches, no names. Just function.
Stanwell killed the engines, the silence settling heavily in the cockpit. "Another dark-package run," he said, his voice flat. "Probably haven't seen sunlight in a week."
Calbridge began her shutdown checklist. "The manifest just says 'logistics.' Like always."
"Manifest says what HIA wants it to say." Stanwell stretched his neck, the vertebrae cracking softly. "Hundredstar Intelligence doesn't pay for detailed paperwork."
PRISMS Aviation Ltd. owned Air Service on paper. Another layer of shell companies connected PRISMS to Hundredstar International Defense Corp—HIDEC—one of the largest private defense contractors in the region. And HIDEC, in turn, maintained a cozy, opaque relationship with the Hundredstar Intelligence Agency. The aircraft, the crew, the quiet airfield—all of it existed in the interstices between corporate contract and state requirement. Dark-package charters were the most delicate of these operations: transporting detained persons deemed too sensitive for official channels.
The rear cargo door began its hydraulic descent. Calbridge watched on the exterior camera feed as the three operators moved toward the aircraft with practiced coordination. Between them walked a fourth figure—hooded, hands secured in front with composite restraints, feet shuffling in soft prison shoes. The operators flanked their charge, expressionless, efficient. One carried a sealed aluminum case chained to his wrist.
"Package is moving aboard," Calbridge reported into the log.
Stanwell grunted. "Tell ground services we need a fast turn. Fuel already arranged?"
"Confirmed. Fuel truck's on standby. Fifteen minutes, we can be airborne again."
The hooded figure disappeared into the cargo bay. The operators followed, and the door began its ascent. A moment later, a light on the instrument panel blinked green—cargo secure, internal environment locked. The Flagship pulled away, disappearing into the gathering dark.
Calbridge pulled up the flight plan for the next leg. Stonewin Point. A remote airstrip carved into a plateau three hundred kilometers north, accessible only by air or a day's drive on unpaved tracks. No services, no tower, just a gravel strip and a single hardened shelter. Perfect for discreet transfers.
"You ever wonder who they are?" she asked quietly. "The packages?"
Stanwell shook his head slowly. "Doesn't matter. They're cargo. We fly the plane, they handle the rest. That's the deal."
"That's always the deal." She paused. "But some of them look—"
"Jane." His voice carried the weight of rank, even in retirement. "We're pilots. We fly. The rest is someone else's problem."
She nodded, accepting the boundary. But her eyes lingered on the camera feed, now showing only an empty tarmac.
The Radimes Jupiter fuel truck arrived, its driver a taciturn contractor who worked night shifts exclusively. He connected the hose without a word, the meter ticking silently. Calbridge completed the weight and balance calculations on her tablet, factoring in the three operators, their gear, and the single restrained passenger. The numbers worked. They always worked.
Twenty minutes later, 323-5 taxied toward the runway again, its navigation lights off until the last possible moment. Stanwell advanced the throttles, and the Frontier accelerated into the darkness, lifting off at 20:47. Below, Greenbreed East shrank to a cluster of lights, then nothing.
Calbridge set course north. Behind her, in the dimly lit cargo compartment, three silent professionals sat motionless, their eyes fixed on the hooded figure between them. No conversation. No unnecessary movement. Just the drone of turbines and the soft hiss of pressurization.
Another routine flight. Another dark-package chartered. Another night of not asking questions.
Stanwell checked his instruments, adjusted course by half a degree, and settled into the long, quiet hours ahead. Somewhere below, the lights of small towns flickered past. Above, the first stars emerged through broken clouds. The aircraft pressed on, a gray ghost in the night sky, carrying its secret toward a destination known only to those who needed to know.
