Priya heard all of it.

That was the part the simulators had never taught her.

In the simulator, there was engine noise, alarm tones, instructor voices, radio chatter, artificial turbulence. But there were no passengers. No mothers praying. No children crying. No bodies behind her trusting a maneuver they could not understand.

For half a second, the sound reached for her.

She pushed it away.

Stay in the second.

“Transponder standby now,” she said.

Walsh moved.

The radar return shifted.

The first drone signature flickered.

Merritt held the descent.

Walsh did not breathe.

The cloud layer rushed upward.

“Six.”

The second drone adjusted.

“Seven.”

Priya’s eyes stayed on the screen.

“Eight.”

The cockpit shuddered with speed and descent.

“Nine.”

The first signature widened.

“Ten.”

Merritt’s jaw clenched.

“Eleven. Transponder back.”

Walsh switched it.

“Left bank twenty degrees now,” Priya said.

Merritt rolled left.

The aircraft entered the cloud.

The impact was violent.

Not impact with matter, but with weather—turbulence at the boundary, layered winds, water vapor, pressure changes. The cockpit rattled. The cabin roared again. Somewhere behind them, glass shattered.

“Let it yaw,” Priya said.

Merritt’s instincts screamed against it.

A 777 yawing in turbulent cloud during a high-rate descent was not something a commercial pilot allowed unless something had already gone badly wrong.

But he did not correct.

For three seconds, he let the nose swing.

“Right rudder, easy pressure. Hold two seconds.”

He applied it.

The aircraft’s nose swung through a narrow angle in the cloud, presenting a reduced radar profile to the pursuing drone. To a human, it was barely understandable. To the algorithm hunting them, it was suddenly less certain where the target was, what shape it had, and whether it was still the same target at all.

The second drone’s lock degraded.

Walsh saw it first.

“It’s losing lock,” she said.

Priya nodded.

“It will search-reset in twenty-eight seconds. Climbing right turn, twenty-two degrees bank. Add climb thrust. We exit the cloud on a new heading.”

Merritt executed.

The aircraft climbed.

Behind them, in the cloud below, two autonomous machines began searching for the aircraft where the aircraft no longer was.

When United 2291 burst out above the cloud layer, the sky was clear and full of stars.

Walsh stared at the radar display.

“They’re heading south.”

Merritt’s chest moved once in a hard breath.

“They’re going the wrong way.”

“For now,” Priya said. “They’ll recalibrate. We have approximately eleven minutes before Navy interceptors arrive. We cannot fly straight. Small heading changes every ninety seconds. Not enough to injure passengers further. Enough to complicate reacquisition.”

Walsh turned to her.

The girl’s braids had come loose slightly during turbulence. One hung over her shoulder. Her face was calm, but her eyes were brighter than before, and her small hands were folded tightly in her lap.

“Were you scared?” Walsh asked.

Priya looked at the radar.

“Yes,” she said.

The honesty of it moved Walsh more than bravery would have.

“I heard the passengers,” Priya added. “In training, you don’t hear that.”

Merritt looked briefly toward the cockpit door.

“No,” he said. “You don’t.”

For the next eleven minutes, Priya gave corrections.

Ten degrees left.

Hold.

Eight degrees right.

Descend five hundred feet.

Twelve degrees left.

Back to heading.

The drones recalibrated and began moving north again. Once, one achieved a temporary lock. Priya called a sharper heading change with a brief descent, and Merritt executed without argument. The lock broke.

Walsh stopped questioning.

Merritt stopped thinking of Priya as a child giving instructions.

He thought of her as the only tactical mind in the cockpit.

At minute ten, new radar signatures appeared.

Fast.

Close.

Friendly.

The radio came alive.

“United 2291, this is Sidewinder Flight from Strike Group Seven. We have eyes on both bogeys. Maintain current evasive profile. Stand by.”

Priya closed her eyes for half a second.

Not relief.

Not yet.

Two missile tracks appeared on the radar.

Bright.

Brief.

Decisive.

The drone signatures moved erratically, then vanished.

“United 2291, Sidewinder Flight. Both targets destroyed. You are clear. Repeat, you are clear.”

For the first time since the announcement, Captain Merritt’s body seemed to remember it was human.

He exhaled long and unsteadily.

Walsh pressed one hand over her mouth.

Priya looked down at her own lap and noticed, distantly, that her fingers were trembling.

Merritt reached for the passenger microphone.

“Ladies and gentlemen, this is your captain. The threat to our aircraft has been neutralized by United States Navy fighter aircraft. We are safe. We are continuing to San Francisco, where we will arrive in approximately two hours and forty minutes. I want to thank you for your courage during a very frightening experience. We will be coming through the cabin shortly.”

He released the button.

For a moment, no one spoke.

Then Merritt turned in his seat.

“Priya.”

“Yes, Captain.”

“I have been flying for twenty-nine years. I have never seen anything like what just happened.”