Later the next day the pilots are summoned once again to the briefing room. A broadcast is streamed to the large display screen—breaking news. The screen shows images of a humble older man in vaguely religious-looking robes slowly walking down the stairs from a medium-sized airplane on a tarmac.
On the TV: “The latest twist in the unfolding Formosa Island Crisis occurred today when famed philanthropist and peace activist Solomon Park arrived on the island. It is unclear how his private jet was able to bypass the military blockade, but Park is now offering to act as an intermediary in any peace talks between the Red Star Empire and the self-proclaimed Independent Republic of Formosa.
“Solomon Park, once considered the wealthiest man on Earth, stepped away from his role as CEO of several highly successful corporations to pursue a life of contemplation and minimalism in Tibet a few years ago. He is now recognized as the founder of a movement popularly known as The Wheel and holds the world record for most money given away to charitable causes. His current net worth is unknown, even to Mr. Park himself according to sources close to the movement.
“A spokesman for the Red Star Empire’s Ministry of Defense stated that Mr. Park’s presence would be welcomed, so long as he helped the residents of Formosa Island, quote, ‘denounce their illegal separatist actions or be thrust on the ash-heap of history.’
“For his part, Park has called for a temporary easing of the blockade so that much-needed food and medical supplies can arrive on the island while waiting for talks to commence.”
Commander Carver turns off the broadcast.
“We will keep monitoring this situation, but it does not change our mission. We have no new intel on our missing pilot, and we are running down some of those ‘key words’ that Hanami recovered from the Icarus mainframe. We have some ideas but are not ready to share our findings just yet.”
Reo raises a hand and asks,
“What about that number we found scratched into the cockpit?”
Doctor Yi takes the question.
“Assuming that number was in fact left behind by Mr. Cook, which is only an assumption, we’ve been racking our brains for an answer. There are twenty-two bones in the human skull, twenty-two letters in the Hebrew alphabet, twenty-two is the designation for the stealth fighter F-22 Falcon. That seemed promising, but…”
At this point Winter interjects from the side of the room.
“That model has been officially retired and no known allies or adversaries have access to those planes, aside from the United States of Columbia.”
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Doctor Yi coughs, gives a quick nod in agreement.
“Another interesting fact is that ‘22’ is the atomic number of titanium. So what? In this part of the Pacific, that instantly brings to mind the so-called Titanium Isles. As you likely know, the Red Star Empire has been building and reinforcing a series of artificial islands off the mainland to increasingly bolster their military presence in disputed territorial waters.”
At this point Commander Carver resumes control of the conversation. He switches the display to a series of overhead photographs.
“We had Winter pull time-lapsed satellite footage of the man-made islands, and we see no evidence of intensified military activity related to any of them. At this point we don’t have a clear answer. The number you claim to have seen may be totally unrelated. Our focus is locating the whereabouts of Reginald Cook, dead or alive.”
Commander Carver gestures to the operation’s Head of Intelligence and continues,
“And nothing has surfaced through any of the intelligence channels so far about a downed or captured pilot. Winter is going to reach out to her underworld contacts as a backup.”
Kora casts a sideways glance across the room to Winter, who has removed one of her gloves and is nonchalantly studying her fingernails from behind dark glasses. Underworld contacts? I bet. Of all the dodgy buggers in this place, she is the most sus of all.
“In the meantime,” the Commander continues, “I am appointing Hanami Goto as interim Squadron Leader.”
Murmurs of surprise come from the other three pilots. Hanami shows no reaction beyond a single nearly imperceptible flinch.
“B-but…!” Chase begins to protest. Her?
“This is not a discussion, MacArthur. Goto has shown sound tactical judgment in the field and… sufficient progress in other areas related to this mission. I repeat this is an INTERIM arrangement as your original Squadron Leader remains M.I.A.”
The Commander gives a hard stare directly at Chase.
“I expect that you will respect the chain of command. Dismissed.”
As they get up to leave, Reo gently squeezes Hanami on the shoulder, causing her entire body to go rigid.
“Congratulations. You got this!” he says encouragingly.
---
An uneventful afternoon passes for the pilots as the higher ups and support staff work behind the scenes to follow up on leads and final diagnostics are run on the Mech upgrades.
Hanami stays in her room except for when absolutely necessary. No one really knows what she is doing in there—possibly practicing moves with her shogi set that made it through security, maybe reading, maybe meditating.
Chase attends a physical therapy appointment in the med bay and, getting the green light, plays several rounds of table tennis with Reo. He even wins one.
Kora misses her little sister so bad that it hurts and wishes she could contact her. Her request is quickly denied by Commander Carver, but he assures her that her sister is in good hands.
Needing some air, Kora makes her way outside to an observation area connected to the main bridge overlooking the flight deck. The salty ocean breeze envelops her senses as dusk falls over the Floating Fortress.
Pinpricks of light—stars—dot the sky above. Kora leans against the railing, admiring the constellations that come into focus on this moonless evening. She hears a click behind her and turns to see the dark silhouette of Winter leaning against the bulkhead, drawing on a freshly lit cigarette.
“Gah!” Kora startles. “What… what are you doing lurking there in the shadows?”