Captain Sarah «Ghost Rider» Morrison
F-22 Raptor Pilot
Call Sign: Ghost Rider
In her final act, she saved her daughter’s life.
Her legacy lives on in the pilot her daughter became.
The call sign Ghost Rider flies eternal.
Ava touches the plaque, remembering the mother she barely got to know, the mother whose legacy she carries.
«She would be proud,» General Chen says. «Not because you landed that plane in an emergency. But because of who you are becoming. A skilled pilot. A dedicated student. A good person.»
«I still have so far to go,» Ava says.
«We all do. That is what makes us pilots; we are always learning, always improving, always reaching for something higher.» He hands her a folder. «These are early acceptance materials for the Air Force Academy. You are still four years away from eligibility, but based on your performance, academic record, and demonstrated ability, you have been preselected. When you turn eighteen, if you still want this path, you have a guaranteed spot.»
Ava opens the folder, sees the Air Force Academy crest, sees the word «PRESELECTED» stamped across her file. She thinks about her mother, who wanted to share her love of flying. She thinks about Uncle James, who spent his final years ensuring that love didn’t die with her mother. She thinks about that day at 38,000 feet when the impossible became necessary.
«I want it,» she says. «I want to fly. Really fly. The way Mom did.»
«Then that is what we will prepare you for,» General Chen says. «Ghost Rider isn’t just a call sign anymore. It is a legacy. And you are carrying it forward.»
Colonel Reed puts his hand on her shoulder.
«Your mother used to say something before every mission. She would check her aircraft, run through her pre-flight, and then she would say, ‘Let’s go make some sky.’»
Ava smiles.
«Uncle James taught me that phrase. He said it was Mom’s way of saying flying isn’t just about the aircraft, it is about the freedom, the possibility, the infinite sky.»
«That is right,» Reed says. «So, Ava Morrison, future Ghost Rider, are you ready to make some sky?»
Ava looks up at the memorial spires reaching toward the clouds, at the sky her mother loved, at the infinite possibility ahead.
«Yes, sir,» she says. «Let’s go make some sky.»
Five years after that day in the middle seat of Flight 892, Ava Morrison stands on the tarmac at Nellis Air Force Base. She is sixteen now, tall enough to reach the pedals without adjustment, strong enough to handle G-forces, skilled enough to have soloed in multiple aircraft types.
Today is different. Today, she is getting a familiarization flight in an F-22 Raptor, the same type of aircraft her mother flew, the pinnacle of fighter technology. The pilot accompanying her is Reaper 2, now a full Colonel, who has guided her every step of the way from that terrifying emergency landing to this moment.
She approaches the F-22, and without thinking, without planning, her hand reaches out to touch the left wing. She whispers: «Fly safe, come home.» Then her finger traces a figure-8 in the air—infinity.
Reaper 2 watches with tears in his eyes.
«She is in you,» he says quietly. «Every bit of her.»
They climb into the cockpit, Ava in the back seat, not flying today, just experiencing. The canopy closes. The engines spool up with a scream of power that vibrates through her entire body. And then they are moving, accelerating, the runway blurring past.
The nose lifts. The ground falls away. They are flying.
At 40,000 feet, with the earth curved below and the sky deep blue above, Reaper 2’s voice comes through the intercom.
«How does it feel?»
Ava looks out at the impossible view, feeling the power of the aircraft, understanding what her mother loved so much.
«Like coming home,» she says.
«Your mother said the same thing the first time she flew one of these. She said the sky was home.»
They fly for an hour—not combat maneuvers, just flight. Beautiful, pure flight. The way humans were never meant to fly but learn to anyway. The way her mother flew. The way Ava will fly.
When they land, there is a small group waiting. Other F-22 pilots. Veterans who flew with Ghost Rider. General Chen, who has followed Ava’s progress like a proud grandfather.
And standing slightly apart, a news crew. Because some stories don’t fade. Some stories live forever. The reporter approaches as Ava removes her helmet.
«Ava Morrison, five years ago you saved 312 lives. Today you flew in an F-22 for the first time. How does it feel to follow in your mother’s footsteps?»
Ava considers the question. She has learned to handle media with grace, to speak truthfully without bragging, to honor her mother without living in her shadow.
«My mother didn’t want me to follow in her footsteps,» Ava says. «She wanted me to fly my own path. But she taught me that flying isn’t just about the aircraft; it is about courage, skill, and serving something bigger than yourself. That is what I am learning. That is what Ghost Rider really means.»
«Do you plan to become a fighter pilot like her?»
«I plan to become the best pilot I can be,» Ava says. «If that leads me to fighters, great. If it leads me somewhere else, that is great too. What matters is that I honor her by being excellent at whatever I do.»
The reporter smiles.
«Five years ago, you were declared dead. Today, you are very much alive and pursuing your mother’s legacy. What would you say to people facing impossible situations?»
Ava thinks about that moment in seat 14C, when she had to choose between hiding and acting. She thinks about climbing into that captain’s seat, terrified but certain. She thinks about her mother, making the impossible choice to save her daughter.
«I would say that ‘impossible’ is just another word for ‘nobody has done it yet,’» she says. «My mother did impossible things every time she flew. Uncle James did an impossible thing by keeping me safe and trained for five years. I did an impossible thing landing that plane.»
«But none of it felt impossible in the moment; it just felt necessary.» She looks directly at the camera. «So if you are facing something impossible, ask yourself: is it really impossible, or just necessary? Because if it is necessary, if lives depend on it, if it matters enough, then you find a way. You do what needs to be done.»
The interview ends. The cameras turn off. The reporter thanks her and leaves. Ava stands on the tarmac, looking at the F-22 that brought her home, at the sky where her mother lived, at the future stretching ahead.
Colonel Reed approaches.
«You handled that well.»
«Uncle James taught me to speak truth simply,» Ava says. «He said Mom never bragged, never made it about herself. She just flew and let her skills speak.»
«She did. And so do you.» He pauses. «Two more years until the Academy. Then four years there. Then flight training. It is a long road ahead.»
«I know,» Ava says. «But Mom always said the best things require patience and dedication. She spent 10,000 hours becoming Ghost Rider. I can spend 10,000 hours becoming whatever I am meant to be.»
«And what is that?»
Ava smiles.
«I don’t know yet. But I will find out in the sky.»
The girl had departed from this world at the tender age of six. Her final rites had been observed with all the solemnity and grace befitting a tragedy, her name dutifully etched into the unforgiving cold stone of a memorial wall.
And yet, five years later, when two commercial pilots slumped into unconsciousness at an altitude of 38,000 feet, an eleven-year-old child walked toward the cockpit. She spoke two words that caused veteran F-22 fighter pilots to freeze in the middle of the sky: Ghost Rider. The dead, it seemed, had returned.
Tucked away in the unassuming middle seat of row 14, specifically 14C, sits Ava Morrison. She is eleven years old, though her slight, delicate frame suggests she is younger. Her dark hair is swept back into a functional ponytail, keeping her vision clear.
She is dressed in attire that is clean but unmistakably worn. These are garments that Uncle James had scavenged from various thrift shops to ensure she remained invisible, just another face in the crowd that no one would remember.
Resting against her ankles is a scuffed backpack that holds her entire existence. Inside its canvas depths lie three changes of clothing, a photograph of a woman standing proudly in a flight suit, and a small, sealed wooden box containing human ashes.
The corporate traveler in seat 14B barely registers her presence, his attention instantly monopolized by the laptop he snaps open. The woman in seat 14A, however, offers a gentle, motherly smile and holds out a piece of candy.
«Traveling alone, sweetie?» the woman asks, her voice thick with kindness.
Ava nods, accepting the sweet with a politeness that feels rehearsed.
«Yes, ma’am. I am going to visit family.»
The fabrication slips past her lips with practiced ease. Five years of remaining in the shadows, five years of being a nobody, have taught her precisely how to fade into the background.
She is merely another unaccompanied minor, likely en route to visit a father or grandparents. She requires only the standard, fleeting attention flight attendants bestow upon children flying solo.
A flight attendant pauses at their row, checking her manifest and beaming with professional warmth.
«You doing okay, honey? Do you need anything before we take off?»
«I am fine, thank you,» Ava replies softly.
No one sees the heavy burden she carries within her chest. No one knows the capabilities she conceals. No one suspects that the quiet, unassuming girl in the middle seat has spent the last five years mastering skills that most adults will never even begin to comprehend.
United Airlines Flight 892 pushes back from the gate at Los Angeles International Airport at exactly 2:47 p.m. The vessel is a Boeing 777, a leviathan of the skies capable of transporting 368 souls. Today it carries a manifest of 298 passengers and a crew of 14.
It is a routine afternoon service bound for Washington Dulles. The heavens are clear, the winds are negligible, and the conditions for aviation are absolutely flawless.
As the massive aircraft taxis toward the runway, Ava closes her eyes and initiates the mental ritual Uncle James had drilled into her psyche. She runs through the aircraft’s systems in her mind’s eye, visualizing the machinery. Boeing 777: two high-bypass turbofan engines, fly-by-wire control architecture, advanced autopilot suites, redundant hydraulic systems.
Takeoff velocity will be approximately 160 knots, contingent on their specific weight. Rotation at V2 plus 10. Climb to a cruising altitude of 38,000 feet. She knows these figures and procedures the way other children know the lyrics to the latest pop anthems.
The businessman beside her does not notice her lips moving in silent recitation. He does not observe her fingers twitching ever so slightly on her lap, mimicking the inputs of control surfaces.
He is already absorbed in his spreadsheets, a component of the anonymous mass of humanity that fills aircraft every single day. They place their lives implicitly in the hands of pilots they will never meet.
The engines spool up with a rising crescendo. The aircraft accelerates down the tarmac, pressing passengers back into their cushions. Ava feels the familiar force against her spine, the precise instant when the wheels surrender their grip on the concrete, and the angle of the ascent begins.
She has felt this sensation hundreds of times, but it is always accompanied by a bittersweet ache in her heart. Her mother had adored this moment more than anything.
«The moment we leave the earth,» Captain Sarah Morrison used to say, her eyes shimmering, «we are free. We are flying.»
Ava opens her eyes as the sprawling urban grid of Los Angeles falls away beneath them. Somewhere in the distant mountains, where the metropolis dissolves into wilderness, lies a crash site she has never visited.
It is the place where her mother perished saving her. It is the place where, according to every official government record, Ava herself died as well. She has been dead for five years. A phantom. A girl who does not exist.
She reaches down to touch the small wooden box inside her backpack. Uncle James had wanted his ashes scattered at the Air Force Memorial in Washington, D.C., among the names of the fallen.
He had served thirty years, flown countless combat sorties, and commanded entire squadrons. But his final five years had been dedicated to a different, singular mission: raising a dead girl, keeping her hidden from the world, and teaching her everything her mother knew.
«Why did you keep me secret?» she had asked him once, perhaps two years ago.
They had been in his workshop, the converted barn where he had constructed a high-fidelity flight simulator from salvaged avionics and his own encyclopedic knowledge. She was practicing instrument approaches, her small hands gripping controls he had modified to fit her reach.
Uncle James had paused the simulator, turning to regard her with those serious, grey eyes that had witnessed too much war.
«Your mother’s crash was not an accident, Ava. Someone sabotaged that aircraft. Someone wanted Ghost Rider dead.»
