Chapter 13 - Echoes in the StaticThe old radio shed smelled of bird droppings, dry rot, and oxidized copper. Inside, an old military-grade AN/TRC-75 transceiver sat on a steel table, covered in thick dust but protected from the salt air by a sealed aluminum case.
Daniel pulled out his multitool and began rewiring the power lead directly to the Gulfstream’s emergency auxiliary battery pack that we had unbolted and dragged across the runway.
“Power’s green,” Daniel muttered as the vacuum tubes inside the unit slowly began to glow amber.
A soft, warm static hissed through the heavy speaker.
I grabbed the heavy metal microphone, adjusting the frequency dial to a secondary emergency channel that Ethan and I had used during our deployment in Alaska—a legacy military frequency known only to veteran pilots of our old wing.
“Apex Control, this is Apex Two,” I transmitted into the mic, using my old squad leader handle. “Bering patrol, do you read?”
Static. Only the low, rhythmic crackle of cosmic background noise and ocean waves.
“Apex Control, this is Apex Two,” I repeated, my knuckles tightening around the metal casing. “Requesting direct vector to Thunderbird. I have critical telemetry from November fourteen.”
For thirty agonizing seconds, nothing happened.
Then, through the wall of white noise, a deep, gravelly voice broke through—faint, distorted by distance, but unmistakably real.
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“...Apex Two, this is Thunderbird. Say again your call sign.”
It was General Marcus Cole.
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