The nose came up, the main gear left the ground, and the heavy thud of the wheels folding away rang through the airframe.

At three thousand feet, Atlanta turned into a grid of tiny headlights crawling along endless ribbons of highway.

The thick gray clouds swallowed the wings and turned the glass beside me completely black.

I slipped my thumb and index finger into my right jacket pocket.

My fingers brushed the folded travel orders with General Vance’s red authorization mark, flat and undamaged.

The cabin lights faded to a soft amber glow as we crossed over the state line into Tennessee.