Chapter 1126: The Lone Wolf Piloting the "Blackbird" (Patreon)

"It looks like the method used to murder Julio Salazar is somewhat similar to that of the first two victims—each had their throats slit with a sickle, and the removal of the eyeballs seems to carry the same ritualistic symbolism as the severed arm of the second victim. However, while the second victim's arm was left at the scene, we couldn't find the removed eyeballs anywhere around here. And what about the paint on the body? Why wasn't our witch painted or smeared with anything? His corpse wasn't even moved—the pool of blood clearly indicates this was the primary scene."

Clay posed a series of questions that caused the other three to frown in unison.

Jack sighed and gestured toward the strange and chaotic occult symbols scattered inside the room. "You've seen everything here. Trying to figure out the exact ritual is almost impossible."

This stuff reminded him of the fringe cults that were once popular in his past life—cults cobbled together from a mishmash of religious practices.

If a legitimate religious studies or occultism expert were to design a cult ritual, even if they borrowed elements from Buddhist water-land ceremonies, Taoist jiao rituals, or Christian mass, it would still be traceable and follow certain patterns.

The problem here is that whether it's the local witch whose eyes were gouged out or the murderer behind all this, the belief systems they follow—Voodoo, Satanism, or the Holy Death—are all non-mainstream, cobbled together orally by semi-literates or complete illiterates.

It’s like that yin-yang flag from a certain cosmic superpower, where the yin-yang fish was forcibly altered to resemble the Pepsi logo, and the eight trigrams were reduced to four.

According to the original founders from Cerys, this symbolized the opposition of heaven and earth, imbalance of qi, disappearance of wind and thunder, obstruction of mountains and lakes, blind Taiji, clashing yin and yang, incompatible water and fire, doomed to fail, half a kingdom gone with four missing trigrams, and an incomplete five-element system missing wood, rootless and adrift—an unmistakable omen of disaster.

"No, maybe there's still a way." A smug smile appeared on Lopez's face.

"Although most Holy Death altars and shrines are hidden in homes, due to the need to spread their teachings, some believers design them in portable forms to be displayed on the streets. I can contact the local police and find some of these believers to ask whether similar blood sacrifice rituals are practiced here."

"That might actually work," Clay said, remembering how Lopez had mentioned he'd been ordered more than once to dismantle these mobile altars displayed on the streets.

Jack paused at the doorway, a thoughtful look on his face. "Those mobile shrines and altars—how are they usually displayed?"

"In the beds of pickup trucks or the cargo spaces of vans. Ah, I get your point now," Lopez realized.

"If the killer is a fanatic of the Holy Death, he’s likely one of those people who regularly drives around displaying altars."

"Exactly," Jack nodded. "And we also have the biodiesel lead—it should help us narrow it down."

Once the local police arrived to handle the aftermath, Jack and the other two agents said temporary goodbyes to Lopez.

The FBI agents returned to their hotel to continue the investigation, while Lopez went to the Tijuana police department to arrange the search.

After listening to JJ describe the gruesome murder scene, Alice rubbed the goosebumps on her arm and began reporting their side of the investigation.

"There are many interpretations of the color of the Holy Death's bridal gown—white for loyalty, blue for health, red for love, and black for witchcraft and supernatural power."

Aubrey took over. "This obviously doesn't match the colors found on the first two victims, but just as Jack said, these kinds of sacrificial rituals are extremely varied and bizarre. Even in Tijuana alone, there are dozens, maybe hundreds, of different blood rites. We even found a case where multiple victims' body parts were stitched together to form the image of the Holy Death."

This was probably inspired by the Aztec tradition of live human sacrifices. Jack grimaced and turned to Hannah. "Do we have the analysis results of that biodiesel?"

Hannah nodded. "Lab reports say the main components are peanut oil and soybean oil. It's first-generation tech, which should've been phased out a long time ago, since using this type of biodiesel requires modifications to the engine."

"Would those modified vehicles be specially annotated in the registration?" Jack asked.

"Yes. Since the U.S. has completely phased out this technology, we searched the local DMV database in Tijuana. Fewer than 20 vehicles have undergone similar modifications. But supposedly, all those cars were scrapped. Jubal and I are contacting their former owners one by one, but we haven't made any progress so far."

"Wait a second." Jubal suddenly appeared from the adjacent room after taking a phone call, interrupting Hannah with a serious expression.

"Jack, headquarters wants you at the San Diego Naval Base immediately. There's a plane waiting—they need you in Washington ASAP."

"What mission?" Jack was full of question marks. "Our plane's parked at San Diego International Airport, right?"

The Bombardier Challenger 850 had a cruising speed of 0.8 Mach, or 850 km/h. That was already among the fastest civilian aircraft, second only to BAU's Gulfstream G650, which could reach 0.9 Mach.

What kind of task was so urgent that even the Challenger was too slow? Even military transport planes don’t go faster. What were they gonna do, launch him in a rocket?

Jack hadn't heard that the U.S. was already building prisons in space (though the movie "Lockout" wasn’t bad, worth a watch). With that question in mind, Jack quickly bid his teammates goodbye and drove straight back to San Diego.

The speed of his border crossing alone signaled how extraordinary this mission was. CBP had reserved an entire lane just for him. Without letting off the gas, Jack sped past a long line of envious cars.

A Black Hawk helicopter awaited him just two kilometers from the checkpoint. The whole flight took less than ten minutes and dropped Jack directly onto a runway at the San Diego Bay Naval Base.

"Whoa~~~" Jack's jaw dropped when he saw the massive black object on the runway.

"Am I hallucinating, or has someone up there completely lost it? You're not actually planning to send me to Washington in that old beast, are you?"

Faced with a dozen ground crew members hauling out gear that looked like astronaut suits, Jack was stunned.

"Sir, we honestly don't know what's going on either, but the top brass insists you be in D.C. within two hours. This is the only way."

A portly, greasy-faced old man in a filthy ground crew uniform—his bushy beard soaked in oil—winked mischievously at Jack.

"But isn't this thing older than me? Can it even still fly?" Jack's voice wavered slightly.

The SR-71 strategic reconnaissance aircraft, nicknamed "Blackbird," was once mythologized as the high-altitude surveillance plane that had never been shot down, capable of cruising above 20,000 meters at over Mach 3.

The key problem? It was developed in the 1960s and had been officially retired before the 21st century. Jack had only seen its prototype, the Lockheed A-12, at the USS Intrepid museum (Chapter 634, "A Rare Vacation").

"Swear to me this isn’t some museum piece you hauled out for display!" he said while being suited up by the burly ground crew in a specialized pressure suit.

"Don't worry, kid." A slightly raspy voice spoke behind Jack.

"Just close your eyes, count to 100, and by the time you open them, we'll be at Andrews Air Force Base."

Startled, Jack turned to see a pilot already suited up. He wore a helmet that resembled an astronaut's, half open to reveal a face identical to Tom Cruise's, right down to the mole on his cheek.

Despite the ridiculously ugly tan pressure suit and the wrinkles that appeared when he smiled, the man's unruly, elite-pilot aura was unmistakable.

Jack had seen Top Gun, even though the sequel hadn’t come out before his transmigration. He had a good guess who this was.

"Hi, Jack Tavoller," he said, extending a hand.

"Pete Mitchell. You can call me ‘Maverick,’" the pilot replied, shaking his hand and glancing at the leaking, refueling Blackbird.

"Relax. Most of the 'Blackbirds' went to museums, but NASA kept this one—Number 831—for flight testing. It’s in great condition. Just like me."

Having met the legend in person, Jack stopped asking questions and obediently let the ground crew strap him in and prep him for this top-secret flight.

This Blackbird was slightly different from the A-12 prototype he’d seen—its rear cockpit sat higher than the front, with two small fixed ventral fins under the engine nacelles.

According to the lead mechanic, the grease-covered sergeant major, this aircraft—tail number 831—was actually an SR-71B.

The letter "B" meant it was a trainer model. The raised rear cockpit was for the instructor.

Only two SR-71Bs were ever built. The second one crashed in 1968. This one was still in use.

As for the leaking fuel, Jack had heard of that. It was a well-known quirk of the aircraft.

The Blackbird had no external fuel tanks. Its fuel was stored directly in the wing tanks, which doubled as part of the aircraft's titanium skin.

Even at altitudes above 20,000 meters, flying at Mach 3 generated immense heat due to air friction, causing the skin to expand.

That's why parts of the Blackbird’s fuselage were corrugated and intentionally left with large gaps. It leaked constantly at low speeds on the ground. Only after reaching high speed would the metal expand and seal the seams.

Strapped into the rear cockpit, Jack began breathing 100% pure oxygen through his flight suit. The man calling himself “Maverick” continued pre-flight checks from the front seat.

The tow vehicle slowly pulled away. The greasy sergeant major washed his hands with Coke and waved goodbye.

Engines roared to life, spewing six-meter flames. Minutes later, Jack was slammed back by over 8 Gs of acceleration, rocketing into the sky.

Although it's the 21st century, and sixth-generation aircraft easily break the sound barrier, there's still an often-overlooked “thermal barrier” at around Mach 2.5.

Since the Cold War, only two manned aircraft have ever breached that thermal barrier in operational use: the Blackbird and the Soviet MiG-25 “Foxbat.”

The former, made of titanium alloy, had so many rivets due to welding challenges that its frame couldn’t even perform basic maneuvers, forcing it to fly only in straight lines along pre-planned routes.

The latter, made of stainless steel, boasted unbeatable high-altitude performance but suffered from outdated electronics and poor maneuverability at lower altitudes.

Both were brutal, heavy-hitting black tech products of the Cold War. Ironically, the Foxbat was developed specifically to intercept the Blackbird, but the two never faced off directly.

Maverick's “count to 100” promise was obviously exaggerated, but reaching 24,000 meters with a climb rate over 60 meters per second didn’t take long.

This was probably the closest Jack had ever been to space. At 20+ kilometers above Earth, he was still a long way from the Tiangong space station’s 400-kilometer orbit, but it still felt surreal.

Okay, maybe it wasn’t that impressive. Still, as the paint on the Blackbird’s wings shifted from black to blue outside the thick quartz-glass window, Jack couldn’t take his eyes off it.

"You alright back there?" Maverick asked suddenly. Clearly, he hadn’t remembered Jack’s name.

"Doing great. Jealous of you elite pilots getting to see this kind of view all the time." Jack didn’t mind and didn’t bother reintroducing himself.

Maverick seemed slightly surprised by Jack’s calm tone but, being a quiet type, didn’t press further—he just said, “Enjoy it.”

At this altitude, the concept of a horizon vanished. You could see the curvature of the Earth. The atmosphere thinned into a faint halo, fading from white to light blue, deep blue, then almost black.

With just a glance upward, Jack could see the stars of space. Up here, even the planets no longer twinkled.

Just a brief gaze into that dazzling starfield gave the illusion of falling in. For a moment, it felt like the Earth beneath his feet and the cosmos above had reversed.

He slightly regretted not strapping his phone outside the flight suit. All he could do now was try to burn this incredible scene into memory, hoping he could someday describe it in writing.

But deep down, a faint worry grew: If HQ had gone to such lengths to get him to Washington in such an unconventional way, how serious could this mission be?

Was he really going to be the one to save the world this time?