by Liza Palmer
© 2019 Marvel
All rights reserved. Published by Marvel Press, an imprint of Disney Book Group. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission from the publisher. For information address Marvel Press, 125 West End Avenue, New York, New York 10023.
Designed by Kurt Hartman
Cover design by Kurt Hartman
Cover illustration by Hannah Templer
ISBN: 978-1-368-05058-6
Visit www.DisneyBooks.com
and www.Marvel.com
Title Page
Copyright
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Endnotes
About the Author
“IT’S LIKE YOU’RE NOT EVEN TRYING,” I TAUNT.
The deep rumble rips through the sky. It’s getting closer.
“You can’t hide from me.” I squeeze my eyes closed. “I’d know you anywhere.”
The thundering engine roars in reply and shakes the ground as it closes in.
“I’ve got you,” I say, smiling. The hairs on the back of my neck stand on end as its effortless growl draws near. Closer. Closer. Closer. And just as it’s overhead, I yell—
“The P-Fifty-One-D Mustang!” I open my eyes just as the pilot lines up the plane with the runway.
“I knew it!” I shout triumphantly to the sky.
Sitting back on the hood of my car, I watch as the pilot deftly lands the P-51D Mustang plane at a nearby airport, the screech of wheels signaling that both vehicle and pilot are safe and sound. The sky grows quiet once more.
With a sigh, I open my ancient canteen and sip the still-too-hot tea. I can feel its warmth traveling down my throat. I tear off the last bit of toast and jam that bravely survived the hours-long road trip, and pull my plaid blanket tight around me. Where I come from, it’s usually more than enough to ward off the earliest of daylight chills, but today, even all bundled up, I realize this colder Colorado weather is going to be something to get used to.
And then…I can feel it in my chest before I even hear it. Another magnificent rumble amidst the far-off clouds.
I close my eyes, lift my face upward, and listen. I’ve always been happiest sitting on the hood of my car with this same plaid blanket, canteen full of hot tea, and bread and jam, listening to planes take off and land. The scenery around me might be different now, but the game is intuitive no matter the surroundings—these sounds are seared deep into my bones, as familiar as a favorite song.
“Piper Saratoga,” I reverently whisper. I open my eyes just as the little plane soars overhead and smile as I am, once again, correct.
I check my watch. I’m still early. Way too early. But I can’t wait anymore. I’ve been waiting my whole life. And now that the day is finally here, I can no longer contain myself.
Today still doesn’t feel real.
A dream I once had turned into a fantasy I dared not mention aloud. But then with every step, every checked box, every application, every essay, every letter of recommendation, every physical test, and every envelope that came in the mail, I held my breath as I waited to see if I really would get the opportunity to become the person I’d always imagined.
And then the letter came. And the letter became a promise. And that promise became a red-circled day on my calendar. And then that red-circled day became a packing list, and then that packing list became a messy pile on my bed that definitely was never going to fit into any duffle bag. And then that duffle bag got loaded into my gassed-up Mustang. And then that gassed-up Mustang drove away from the hometown I always knew wouldn’t be able to keep me forever.
And now, that gassed-up Mustang is parked just outside this small airport in Colorado so I can feel like me again in these unreal hours before that long-ago dream finally becomes a reality.
I start at the United States Air Force Academy today. I am finally going to fly.
I’m going to spend the next four years making sure I become the very best airman I can be. Airman Danvers. Airman First Class Danvers. How about Master Sergeant Carol Danvers. Or even Second Lieutenant Danvers. No…what about:
Captain Carol Danvers—the first female fighter pilot in the Air Force.
A puff of excited breath bursts out into the cold morning air. I can’t stall any longer. I screw on the top of my canteen as tightly as I can. I ball up the napkin I had wrapped my toast and jam in, and slide down the hood of my car as gently as possible. I creak open the trunk of my Mustang and place the now-folded plaid blanket inside, along with the canteen and balled-up napkin. I shift my duffle bag and find that I’m fidgeting and nervous as I arrange and rearrange the trunk’s contents. I want to get there and not get there all at the same time.
It’s almost like I don’t want to wake from my lifelong dream only to realize that I can’t—
No.
I was born to fly.
Of all the things I’ve ever doubted, that was never one of them.
Filled with a reinforced sense of determination, I slam the trunk closed.
As I walk around to the driver’s-side door, I can feel another overhead plane’s low growl in the pit of my stomach. I curl my fingers around the Mustang’s door handle. The engine’s singsongy hum thrills me as the plane makes its approach. This one growls and purrs at the same time. It’s both magnetic and menacing. And it’s more beautiful than anything I’ve ever heard.
I screw my eyes shut and pay attention, unable to resist one last turn. It’s not a Cessna. Of course not. It’s not a newer plane either, so that’d rule out all the Beechcrafts. Is it a Marchetti? No. That’s…It could be an old Ryan PT-22, but that’s…No. That’s not right. I dip my head lower, feeling my brow furrow as my brain rakes and sifts through every plane, every engine, every roar I’ve ever chronicled. Shaking my head at last, I let out a frustrated snarl.
For the first time in ages, I cannot figure out what kind of plane this is.
I shield my eyes from the newly risen sun and look up to behold a yellow biplane with blue and red accents. As the plane soars overhead, I commit every stunning curve and throaty rumble to memory.
I will find out what kind of plane it is.
I fold myself into the driver’s seat through the open window—the driver’s-side front door has been busted for months now—buckle up, and turn the key in the ignition. The engine hums to life as I skim the directions I’d written out and compare them against my dog-eared map, tongue poking between my teeth in concentration as I trace out the remainder of my route. It’ll take me another thirty minutes to get there, and I will still be about two hours early. I tuck my creased directions under the guide, turn on the radio, and begin the delicate dial dance of finding a good station to listen to for the rest of the drive. Whether I’ll be able to get good reception on these mountain roads is anybody’s guess.
Just as I think I’ve found a promising station that plays top-forty hits, a black blur followed by a huge wake of dust nearly sideswipes me. I grip the radio dial and watch as the black blur speeds off down the vacant stretch of highway, followed closely by a little blue Honda. A ping of curiosity radiates through me, then the unmis
takable feeling that something is wrong. Leave it alone, Danvers, my inner voice warns. You’re so close. Don’t mess this up like you mess up everything else.
Can’t hurt it check it out though, right?
The radio station crackles through just as I’m putting the car into drive, the opening chords of a hit song clear as a bell. I check to make sure there are no more little blurs closing in on me, and take off after the two cars, my chase now inconveniently sound-tracked by some soapy ballad about the pitfalls of love. So not the vibe I need right now, radio.
As I close in on the little blue Honda and pull up alongside it, I can see big scrapes of black paint along the now-crumpled driver’s side of the car; it looks like they extend all the way to the front end. The girl behind the wheel flicks her gaze over at me. I try my best to gesticulate Are you okay? and What happened? She thrusts her arm forward, revealing a wrinkled and stained fast food uniform, and mouths, He hit me. She then runs her little fingers in the air between us, a gesture I’m pretty sure means the black blur hit her car and ran. Her face morphs from anger to worry as her car begins to slow and sputter from the damage. She bangs the steering wheel over and over while her car continues to slow.
Oh, hell no. If there’s one cause I’m hopeless against, it’s the little blue Hondas of this world that get sideswiped and ditched by big black blurs. It’s on.
I honk the horn and roll down my window. She looks at me. I point to me and then toward the black blur. Her face dissolves into sobs as she figures out what I said.
“Can you keep up?” I yell over the smooth tunes of the ballad. She nods and swipes at her newly determined tear-lined face. I give her a big thumbs-up. She valiantly returns it. I gun my Mustang and roar down the road. I see a sign for a highway on-ramp in about three miles, and suddenly I know exactly where the driver is headed. And, thanks to the map resting on my front seat that I’ve studied for hours on end, I figure out how I might be able to cut him off at the pass.
I bank right and make a sharp turn onto a winding mountain road. The little blue Honda is way behind me. When I speed around the next curve, I can see the black blur hurtling toward the upcoming freeway on-ramp. I look from the blur to the gas station signs cropping up on the horizon and slam my foot down on the gas pedal.
That’s right about the time I hear the sirens.
“Good,” I say, looking back to see that my driving has attracted the attention of a state trooper. I skid around the last curve and begin the descent to the frontage road, sirens wailing behind me. I finally get to the base of the mountain just in time to see the black blur pull up to the final stoplight before the freeway on-ramp. Up close, I notice that the black blur is in reality a rather expensive black Jaguar, and that it has been scratched and damaged and has scrapes of blue paint all down the side. The man driving the Jag actually has the audacity to rest his arm languidly out his open window, as he takes a long drag off his cigarette. My eyes dart from the Jag to the empty intersection, to the freeway on-ramp, to the corner gas station, and take a quick peek back at the now-closing-in state trooper.
There is only one thing to do.
I floor it and hurtle down into the empty intersection, approaching the Jag head-on and squealing to a stop just centimeters from its front bumper. I turn off my car, silencing the ballad, climb out my open window, and hop down.
“You hit and ran,” I say coolly, walking over to Mr. Jaguar. The state trooper screeches to a halt behind me, sirens finally muted. I see the Jaguar guy weighing the pros of giving me a piece of his mind versus getting away from the state trooper.
“Move your car!” he finally screams, flicking the butt of his cigarette onto the road.
“Stop right there!” the state trooper calls out. And then a confused “Both of you?” As the trooper emerges from the car, I take in the fact that she’s a woman.
“He hit and ran,” I say, pointing at the man as he subtly begins to reverse down the road. I see the state trooper scan the Jaguar’s damage.
“Why don’t you just stop right there,” the state trooper says to the man, her voice calm and cutting. He’s still inching his car back. Does this guy actually think he can still get away? The state trooper merely arches an eyebrow. The man in the Jaguar huffs and puffs and finally puts his car into park, just as the little blue Honda clackers down from the mountain and comes to a sputtering rest at the gas station. The girl gets out of her car and runs over, her face still tear-stained.
“He hit my car,” she says to the state trooper. “He came through the drive-through just as I got off my shift. He was trying to put ketchup on his fries—wasn’t paying attention at all—and just ran right into me.” The state trooper listens to the girl with one eye firmly focused on the man in the Jaguar, who is, once again, inching toward the freeway on-ramp.
“You”—the state trooper points to the man—“out of the car.” I start to walk back over to my Mustang. “You”—the state trooper points to me—“sit on that curb.”
“But—”
“Sit.”
The state trooper takes everyone’s statements, gets all of our information, and even gives the girl a hand with calling her insurance company and making introductions at the gas station so she can get her car fixed. An hour later, the Jaguar has been impounded, the man has been ticketed and taken into custody, the little blue Honda is being pushed into the gas station’s garage, and the girl has used the garage’s pay phone to call her mother. As she walks over to her mom’s car, the girl looks back at me (still sitting on the curb as I was told, thank you very much) and waves, a smile playing on her features. I wave back.
The state trooper finally ambles over to me. I push myself up into a standing position, brush the dirt off my pants, and stick out one hand, making my voice as formal as it will go.
“Officer. My name is Carol Danvers. I’m starting at USAFA today. I have to—”
She ignores my outstretched hand and interrupts. “You broke—and I’m just throwing this number out there because I didn’t see the full extent of your little mountain racing tour—but I’m pretty sure you broke at least five Colorado laws,” she says. I look down at her badge. WRIGHT. Her hair is natural and closely cropped. Her light russet skin is wrinkled at the edges of her eyes from smiling—not at me, or here, but, you know, with other people in other places.
I jerk my thumb toward the backseat of her car, where Jaguar man is awaiting justice, arms crossed and glowering. “He hit and ran. He’s the bad guy,” I reason.
“So that makes you…”
“Not the bad guy?”
“Uh-huh.” The state trooper pulls out her ticket book.
I begin to panic. “Please. I…I couldn’t let him get away. I didn’t think, I just—”
“Exactly. You didn’t think.”
“There was no time. He was getting away—” I’m about to launch into the myriad of reasons why what I did was justified, and then maybe some quick backstory about how, yes, this is apparently a thing I do and that this state trooper isn’t the first authority figure to break it to me that I have issues with maybe launching myself into things before I’ve really thought them through, and, no, it hasn’t always worked out, but I never regretted doing it, not one time. But instead I just think about how today is supposed to be the day all my dreams come true, not the day I’m reminded that even in my dreams I’m still the same me.
I swallow hard. What if she writes me a ticket, and this does me in? What if USAFA kicks me out of the program before I’ve even begun? I finally come up with this: “Please. I was going to get to fly.”
“You remind me a lot of me when I was your age,” the state trooper says. I puff up a bit. “That’s not a compliment.”
“Oh, um—”
“Usually the smartest in the room? The fastest?” I nod along. “Yeah, me too. Here’s the thing about that. When you think you know everything, when everything comes easy—”
“It’s not easy,” I say, unable to conti
nue to hold my tongue through this little lecture. She waits. “Fine. It’s easy adjacent. How’s that?”
“Always an excuse ready when things go sideways. Which they will, more often than not—”
Now it’s my turn to interrupt. “I think I’d rather just have the ticket,” I say. A wry smile breaks across the state trooper’s face. An efficient nod, and then she whips out her ticket book and a pen and starts writing. My heart sinks, but I try not to let my face show my fear.
“I’m going to let you off with a warning,” the state trooper says, ripping the ticket from the book.
“Oh,” I exhale. I didn’t even realize I’d been holding my breath. “Thank y—” She hands me the ticket.
“Read it.”
“So, it’s an actual warning warning. I thought warning just meant to caution, not that there were actual”—the state trooper arches an eyebrow—“words,” I finish lamely, then I shut up and read.
Scrawled on the ticket are three actual words: Let yourself learn. I thought a warning would be more ominous.
“Let myself learn?”
“You’re going to make split-second decisions up there, and the thing that will get you—and your fellow airmen—killed the fastest is thinking you know everything.”
“What does that—?”
“The best split-second decisions are rooted in knowledge. You can act fast and be impulsive because you know what you’re doing. And you’ll know what you’re doing if you have the patience to let yourself learn. Just think about it like this. Every new thing you learn—and I mean, really learn—buys you some knee-jerk, spontaneous, seemingly rash decision up there.” I’m just about to speak, when she cuts me off. “I know it’s not as fun as speeding around a mountain road, but…” She waits. “Will you do that for me?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
She nods. “Then good luck up there, Danvers.”
I GO FROM BEING YELLED AT ON A BUS, TO BEING yelled at standing next to the bus, to being yelled at to walk away from the bus, and then we’re yelled at to stand in lines and drop our duffle bags and to definitely not look any of the cadet cadre in the eye when they’re talking to us. The din and the chaos, the yelling and hundreds of kids scrambling to follow orders becomes white noise in no time at all. And then we’re being yelled at to walk—no, not that way, walk this way—into a stately looking building where we’re yelled at some more. We’re called rainbows and doolies and basics and cadets and trainees and every other iteration in between. We don’t even get to be called airmen until the very end of Basic after the Acceptance Parade. I mean, we don’t even get a name tape with our last name on it until week three.