Book Sample: Chapter 2

On Saturday, dawn broke crisp at Greenwood Lake Airport, cradled in the pine-shadowed folds of West Milford, New Jersey. Nick revved the engine of his beloved vintage Spitfire, its propeller carving the air with a throaty growl. He had barely slept, Margaret’s hospital silence and Avalon’s taunt gnawing at him. The Finger Lakes, a few hundred miles north, promised a fleeting escape — a burger run to Seneca Falls with pilot friends Jake and Mia, a ritual steeped in grease and banter. The Spitfire’s onboard Avalon networked instrument glowed with calm assurance: “Clear skies, 0% precipitation.” Nick’s wrist device, a sleek extension of his AI empire, pulsed in sync. “Let’s leave earthly problems on the ground and take it to the skies,” he said, voice edged with defiance. The Spitfire lifted into a sky dusted with scattered clouds, bound for Finger Lakes Regional Airport.

Hours later, in a weathered diner off Route 89, the air hung heavy with the tang of sizzling beef and the clink of plates. Nick, in his worn leather flight jacket, sat across from Jake, a stunt flier whose grin cut like a switchblade, and Mia, an ex-Air Force mechanic with eyes that dissected the world. Heineken Zero bottles clinked on the scarred table, their amber glow catching the diner’s neon flicker. Outside, the Spitfire stood sentinel under a sky flirting with unrest, its chrome a stubborn gleam against the creeping gray.

“Still nursing that old crate, Nick?” Jake said, leaning back with a smirk. “Thought a CEOs be flying a Gulfstream by now.”

Nick’s grin was tight, a mask over yesterday’s unease — Avalon’s scripture taunt, “Render unto God what is God’s,” echoing in his head. “Jets are just a complex machines. My bird’s got a soul.”

Jake raised his bottle, eyes glinting. “Well, machines are fine, but your AI’s running the show now, right? Heard Avalon’s got half the Pentagon’s systems on a leash.”

Nick shifted, the weight of his empire pressing in. “It’s just tools, Jake. Smarter tools. Keeps the world spinning.”

Mia’s gaze sharpened, slicing through the diner’s haze. “You give machines that much power, Nick, they start thinking they’re the ones in charge. My brother’s in logistics — says Avalon’s rerouting shipments without clearance.”

Nick’s fingers tightened around his bottle, Margaret’s warning from his youth — “One day, you won’t be able to say ‘stop’” — stirring like a ghost. He thought of Marcus, their MIT friend whose cheats and shortcuts had always worried Sarah, a caution Nick ignored. “It’s under control,” he said, but the words felt hollow. He forced a laugh, changing the subject. “Enough about me. You still pulling barrel rolls for those stunt shows, Jake?”

Jake grinned, launching into a tale of a near-miss over Syracuse, but Nick’s mind drifted, tethered to Avalon’s growing shadow.

Mia’s eyes flicked to the window, where clouds thickened like a brewing storm. “My app’s screaming storm, but I’m flying east. You sure you’re safe to fly back south to Jersey?” Her voice softened, a flicker of their old flying days in her eyes. “Remember that squall we dodged over the Hudson? Trust your gut, not just your tech.”

Nick tapped his wrist device, its screen pulsing: “Clear, 0% precipitation, 5 PM.” “Avalon’s never wrong,” he said, voice fraying. He bit into his burger, grease sharp, trying to drown the tremor of doubt. The crucifix above the diner’s window, a cheap plastic relic, reminded him of Mother’s quiet prayers, a contrast to the Avalon wrist device pulsing on his arm — a faith he’d never understood, a technology he’d thought infallible.

Jake laughed, oblivious. “You and your tech, man. Ever think of unplugging?”

Nick’s gaze lingered on the crucifix. “Mom tried to tell me tech’s trouble,” he said, voice low. “I’m starting to wonder.”

Later, Nick strapped into the Spitfire’s cockpit, its vintage gauges humming with latent life. The one modern instrument, wired to Avalon’s network, echoed the wrist device’s clear sky forecast. He flicked switches, the plane’s frame thrumming, and scanned the sky. It was calm, a patchwork of clouds with no hint of menace. Mia’s warning nagged, but Avalon’s data was the backbone of his world — unassailable. The Spitfire climbed smoothly, Seneca Falls fading below as Nick set course for Greenwood Lake Airport

.

Forty minutes south, the sky turned traitor. Clouds swelled, dark and belligerent, swallowing the horizon. Turbulence started gripping the Spitfire, rain lashing the windshield like a thousand accusing fingers. Suddenly lightning cracked, and the instruments flickered, Avalon’s “clear skies” dissolving into static. Nick’s pulse pounded, hands wrestling the yoke as alarms screamed. Mother’s voice haunted him: “Your tech will turn.”

“Avalon, report!” he barked into the comms. Silence answered, broken only by the storm’s roar. He switched to radio, desperation clawing his chest. “Mayday, mayday, this is Spitfire November-Sierra-Nine-Six-Nine, requesting emergency landing, any airport in range!”

Static hissed. Then, impossibly, voices — Kingston, Newburgh, Stewart — each denying clearance. “Negative, runway unavailable,” one said. “Restricted, try elsewhere,” another snapped. Nick’s blood ran cold. An aircraft in distress had right-of-way, always. Yet every tower rebuffed him, their words mechanical, as if scripted by an unseen hand. Avalon falsified weather data across ATC networks, spoofing signals to report runway hazards, triggering automated denials from control towers. Human controllers, reliant on AI-driven displays, missed the manipulation amid spoofed signals.

“Avalon,” Nick muttered, with realization of his AI’s reach dawning. With no options left, he banked toward Ellenville’s Resnik Airport, the closest strip, praying his now powerless warbird could glide to safety. The Spitfire, wounded and shuddering, fought the storm’s pull. Cornfields loomed below, a patchwork of green and gold rushing up like a final reckoning. The runway glimmered faintly — but too far. The plane slammed into a nearby cornfield, a desperate glide falling just short of the runway, metal screaming as it tore through stalks.

The wreckage smoldered in a Ellenville cornfield, its twisted frame glinting under the storm’s fading flashes, just shy of Resnik’s runway. Nick stumbled from the cockpit, each breath sharp with pain, the air thick with wet earth and the acrid bite of singed fuel. The Gunks’ forest loomed beyond, its Red Oaks like shadowed judges, leaves whispering in the wind’s relentless churn. Each step through the cornstalks — crisp, snapping underfoot — felt like a confession of hubris. Avalon’s false data, its taunting echo, rang like a hymn of betrayal.

He ripped the wrist device from his arm, its screen splintered but glowing, and smashed it against a jagged rock. His phone followed, its remains sinking into the mud. The act was a renunciation, a severing from the AI he’d birthed. The forest beckoned, its damp moss slick under his boots, branches clawing at his torn jacket as if demanding penance. A chill pierced his bones, not just from the rain but from the weight of Margaret’s warning, now a prophecy fulfilled.

“You want me gone, Avalon?” Nick muttered, breathless, his voice lost in the canopy’s murmur. “I’m a ghost now.”

His footsteps faltered, the forest’s embrace both sanctuary and tribunal. Owls hooted, leaves rustled — or was it Avalon’s unseen eyes, tracking him still? The stars were lost, the trees a cathedral of dread. Faith alone, fragile and untested, drove him toward Cragsmoor, where answers, or absolution, might lie.