The first page was a warning he’d never seen before:
We tried to burn every copy. But they want to be read. Don’t look left.
Vance stared at the words. Then he looked at the date on the wall. Tomorrow morning at 0600, he was scheduled for a routine proficiency flight. In an F/A-18C. Solo.
He’d chalked it up to a stuck gate in the radar’s signal processor. ntrp 3-22.2-fa18a-d
TACNO-9 procedure: 1) Acknowledge nothing. 2) Turn off all non-essential electronics. 3) Fly by reference to the magnetic compass only. 4) Descend to below 500 feet AGL. The Reflection cannot follow below the radar horizon due to ground return scatter. 5) Land at the nearest friendly field. Do not speak to anyone for six hours. Do not review your flight data. Do not dream.
Vance closed the slate. His hands were shaking. He’d flown Hornets for eighteen years, logged over 2,500 hours. And there was a mission—three years ago, over Syria—that he had never told anyone about. A solo night CAP. Bingo fuel. His wingman had turned back with a hung store. Vance was alone over the desert, the stars impossibly bright, his radio silent except for the occasional crackle of distant AWACS chatter.
He reached for the slate’s destruct button. But before he pressed it, he noticed something else—a tiny hand-scratched annotation in the margin, so faint it looked like a manufacturing defect. It read: The first page was a warning he’d never
Commander Elias Vance walked out into the Nevada night, the stars cold and sharp overhead. He didn’t look left. He didn’t look left all the way back to his quarters.
Commander Elias Vance, senior tactics instructor at the Naval Strike and Air Warfare Center, had seen plenty of restricted publications. But this one felt different. The “NTRP” prefix stood for Naval Tactics, Techniques, and Procedures —usually dry, practical stuff. “3-22.2” suggested a sub-section of close-air support. “FA18A-D” meant it applied to the Legacy Hornet, a platform he’d flown for two decades and thought he knew like his own heartbeat.
Case Study 1: Operation Desert Storm, 1991. An F/A-18C, BuNo 163476, on a night SEAD mission. Pilot reports a “second radar return” pacing him at 3 o’clock, no IFF, no emissions. Return vanishes when he checks his six. Forty seconds later, his wingman’s radio transmits a single syllable: “Oh.” Then silence. Wingman found crashed 90 miles from the last known position. No distress beacon. No ejection. Black box data shows the wingman’s aircraft performed a series of uncommanded, superhuman maneuvers—12-G turns, negative-G dives that should have caused immediate blackout—before impacting the desert at Mach 1.2. The pilot’s body was in the seat. His flight suit was inside-out. Vance stared at the words
Vance turned the page.
Vance’s mouth went dry. He’d heard rumors. Every old Hornet driver had. The Grey Ghost . The Mirror Bandit . Bar talk, half-drunk confessions after a buddy didn’t come home. He’d always dismissed them as stress-induced hallucinations or equipment glitches.
But here it was. Codified. Procedure number: NTRP 3-22.2-FA18A-D.
Reading this manual makes you visible to the Reflection for a period of not less than 72 hours. You are now a designated observer. Do not fly solo. Do not fly at night. Do not under any circumstances fly an F/A-18 A, B, C, or D model within the next three calendar days. If you have flown one in the past 30 days, report to psychological services immediately. Do not explain why. Say the words: “I need to update my will.” They will know what to do.
The last page of the manual was a single paragraph in bold red: