Okay, so I thought this was going to be one of those Cold-War-meets-cyber-punk guy books — planes, guns, grim men growling about honour.
And yes, there are planes (a Russian bomber, no less) and there are guns… but the people actually running the show are women.
Not sidekicks. Not decoration. Running the show.
There’s Christina, who pilots a Kamov helicopter like she’s pouring a martini; Charlie, cool as a CEO in crisis; and Chantal, pure chaotic energy disguised as couture. They’re not “strong female characters” in that fake marketing way — they’re competent, unpredictable, and slightly terrifying.
By the time they’re flying a nuclear-capable Tu-160 into NATO airspace (in heels, I swear I could hear the heels), I realised: the guys are background noise.
Even Farallon, the nominal narrator, feels like he’s just trying to keep up with them.
And the writing? Gorgeous. Lyrical in one line, surgical the next. I was expecting hardware porn; I got myth, politics, and perfume.
Favourite bit: “Concorde carried passengers into futures of glass towers and champagne. The Tu-160 carried no future, only endings.”
That’s not just aviation; that’s heartbreak.
Summary:
Imagine if Killing Eve, Dr Zhivago and Dune had a literary baby. Then give it caffeine, a nuclear bomber, and three women who don’t wait for permission.
Unexpectedly addictive.
2 comments:
Is that the Cristina we know from previous times? Jlo
No, It's Amber who reads all chic-lit!
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