A custom campaign by Oraculum

PREFACE

December 20, 2025 – Milan, Raven-Controlled Territory:

(Song: Dawn of a New Time" – Battlefield 1)

I never thought I’d be the kind of man to write something like this.

The kind of man who sits in the dark, pen in hand, knowing these words might be the only thing left of him. The kind of man who talks to ghosts because there’s no one else left to listen.

But here I am.

The candle flickers, casting long shadows against the damp concrete walls. The ink smears beneath my fingers, mixing with dirt and dried blood. The air is thick with the smell of old smoke and rot. Somewhere outside, in the ruins of this city, boots crunch against broken glass. Distant voices murmur in a language I don’t understand. A radio crackles. Static. Orders. Then silence.

I exhale slowly. I’ve been here long enough to know that silence is worse than noise.

I don’t know how many days it’s been. Maybe five. Maybe ten. The hours stretch, twisting into something shapeless, endless. I wake up to the sound of distant gunfire. I fall asleep to the hum of drones overhead. I dream in flashes—cockpit alarms, missile trails, Torch’s voice screaming through the radio, the fire, the sky, the fall.

The fall.

God, the fall.

I still feel it in my bones. The weightless, helpless spin as the world rushed up to meet me. The explosion that swallowed my jet. The way the wind howled through my helmet as I tumbled through the clouds, the burning wreckage of my plane spiraling down beside me. I remember pulling the chute. The sudden, brutal snap of it catching air. The way my heart pounded against my ribs, my breath ragged in my mask.

I remember watching the war continue without me.

The bombers pressing forward. The fighters weaving through tracer fire. The missiles streaking across the sky, leaving white scars in the morning light.

I was part of that fight. And then I wasn’t.

Now I’m here, in a city that doesn’t belong to me, in a war that may have already forgotten me.

I should be dead. Maybe I am. Maybe the man who crawled out of that wreckage wasn’t me—just some hollow thing wearing my name, trying to hold onto something that’s already slipping away.

That’s why I’m writing this. To remember.

Not just me. Them.

The men I fought beside. The ones I laughed with, drank with, bled with. The ones who made it home. The ones who didn’t.

History won’t remember us.

The war heroes, the generals, the politicians—they’ll have their statues, their medals, their names etched into stone. But men like us? We vanish. Names carved into dog tags, lost in the dirt. Faces blurred in old photographs, tucked away in drawers. Stories left untold, fading with time.

I don’t want to be forgotten. I don’t want them to be forgotten.

So if you’re reading this, I’m already gone.

I don’t know who you are. Maybe you’re a friend. Maybe you’re a stranger. Maybe you’re the one who put the bullet in me. It doesn’t matter. This journal isn’t for me anymore.

It’s for them.

For the ghosts who still linger in the echoes of gunfire. For the ones who never got to say goodbye. For the ones who deserved better.

And for her.

Paige.

If you have this journal, please… send it to my home.

[James writes his address here]

It belongs to my wife.

She deserves to know.

My name is Second Lieutenant (2nd Lt.) James Everett Callahan, a pilot with the 56th Operations Group of the Eagle Federation Air Force and this is my story.

I was born in 2000, in Barre, Vermont—a small town that most people wouldn’t be able to find on a map if you asked them. It wasn’t famous, wasn’t the kind of place that made headlines, but to me, it was home. A place where the winters were long, the people were stubborn, and the past felt like it was built into the brick and stone of every building. They called it the “Granite Center of the World” because of the quarries—great, open pits carved deep into the earth, the kind of thing that made you stop and stare when you first saw them. My dad used to say that Barre was built by men with calloused hands and backs strong enough to carry the weight of the world. I believed him.

It was the kind of town where everybody knew each other, for better or worse. You couldn’t get away with much, not unless you wanted your parents to hear about it before you even made it home. The streets were lined with old brick buildings, the kind that had been there long before I was born, and probably long after I’d be gone. In the fall, the leaves turned the kind of red and orange that made postcards look fake, and in the winter, the whole town felt like it had been frozen in time, buried under feet of snow.

I grew up on a quiet street in a house that always smelled like coffee in the morning and firewood at night. It wasn’t big, but it didn’t need to be. Mom made it feel warm, dad made it feel safe. I had a younger brother and sister—twins, two years younger than me. When they were born, I remember staring at them, wondering how two people so small could make so much noise. But as much as they annoyed me back then, I would’ve done anything to protect them. That’s just how it was.

Some of my earliest memories are of riding in the back of my dad’s old truck, the kind of beat-up pickup that looked like it had been through a war of its own. He’d take me down dirt roads that stretched on forever, no destination in mind—just the sound of tires kicking up gravel and Johnny Cash playing on the radio. Mom would shake her head whenever we got back, always saying the same thing: “James, one of these days, he’s gonna drive you right off a cliff.” Dad would just grin, ruffle my hair, and say, “Not today.”

I didn’t know it then, but those drives meant everything. They were the calm before the storm, the moments I’d look back on when the world started moving too fast. And maybe, in some ways, they were the first time I understood what it meant to want to fly.

The Day I Met Paige
I don’t believe in fate. Never have. But if there was ever a day that made me question it, it was the day I met Paige Monroe.

It was summer—1999, maybe 2000. I was just a kid, barely old enough to understand what love even was. I don’t remember what I was doing before that moment, but I remember looking up and seeing her for the first time. Sunlight spilling through the trees, her brown hair catching the light just right, freckles dusted across her nose like constellations waiting to be connected. She was standing by the lake, barefoot in the grass, skipping rocks across the water like she’d done it a million times before.

I’d never seen someone skip a rock like that. Three, four, sometimes five skips before the water swallowed it. I don’t know why, but I walked over, picked up a stone, and tried to do the same. It sank immediately. She laughed—not in a mean way, but in that kind of way that made me want to prove myself.

"You’re doing it wrong," she said.

"Oh yeah?" I shot back. "Then show me how to do it right."

She did. Over and over, showing me how to flick my wrist just right, how to pick the right kind of rock. I must’ve failed a hundred times before I got it right, but she never got bored, never walked away. Looking back, maybe that was the moment I started falling for her. Not because of anything dramatic, not because of some grand love-at-first-sight moment, but because she had the patience to teach me something I couldn’t do.

We talked after that. About everything and nothing. About how she had just moved to Barre, how she missed her old home but liked the quiet here. About how her dad was in the Air Force and she’d been on more planes than she could count. About how she loved the color yellow, because it reminded her of summer, of warmth, of feeling safe.

I didn’t realize it then, but that was the day my world got bigger. Before Paige, my life was just Barre, Vermont—small-town streets, familiar faces, the same routines day in and day out. But she was different. She made me think about places I’d never been, things I’d never done.I didn’t know it at the time, but that was the day everything changed.

The Day Grandpa Took Me to an Airshow
I must’ve been five or six when Grandpa took me to my first airshow. The whole drive there, I could barely sit still.

"You ever see a fighter jet up close, kid?" he asked, smirking.

"Nope!" I said, practically bouncing in my seat.

"You're in for a hell of a show."

The moment we stepped out of the truck, a deafening roar filled the air. I looked up just in time to see a F-4 Phantom streak overhead, banking hard, trailing a thin line of smoke. My chest rattled from the noise, and I grabbed Grandpa’s hand.

"That’s a real warbird," he said. "Flew in Daidieu—fast, tough, and mean."

Then came a low, heavy rumble. The crowd murmured, pointing toward the horizon. Grandpa’s eyes lit up.

"Here she comes."

A B-52 Stratofortress loomed into view, massive, slow, unstoppable. It looked too big to fly, yet it soared over us like a king surveying its land.

"That thing could flatten a city block before breakfast," Grandpa muttered, shaking his head.

Then, the ground shook again. Another jet rolled onto the runway, sleek and sharp.

"Now, this one’s special."

Engines roared, blue flames kicking up dust. Then—liftoff. The jet shot into the sky, flipped upside down, and screamed past the crowd.

"F-14 Tomcat," Grandpa said proudly. "Top dog of the Cold War."

I stared, speechless.

Later, I got to sit in the cockpit of an old A-7 Corsair II. The controls felt overwhelming, but the moment I gripped them, something clicked.

"Feels good, doesn’t it?" Grandpa asked.

I nodded.

"You ever think about flying one someday?"

I hadn’t before. But now? I couldn’t think of anything else.

Family is everything. That’s what my dad always said, and the older I got, the more I understood what he meant. We weren’t just names on a family tree—we were stories, memories, sacrifices, and traditions that stretched back generations. The Callahans weren’t rich, we weren’t famous, but we carried something else: a legacy.

My father, Master Sergeant Richard Callahan, was the definition of discipline. A Marine to his core. He enlisted the day after 9/11, never looked back. Six deployments. Fallujah, Ramadi, Mosul—you name it, he was there. He wasn’t the kind of man to talk about war, but you could see it in his eyes, in the way he carried himself. It was like something inside him had been left on those battlefields, something none of us could ever fully understand. But before the Marines, before the war, he was just Dad. The man who taught me how to ride a bike, how to throw a football, how to shake a man’s hand and look him in the eye. He wasn’t just a soldier—he was the rock of our family.

My mother, Ellen Callahan, was the heart. A part-time hairdresser, full-time mother, the kind of woman who could silence a room with just one look. She kept us together, through every deployment, every sleepless night waiting for my dad’s call. She was the reason we had traditions—the Sunday scenic drives, the Christmas Eve dinners, the little things that made our family feel whole even when my dad was oceans away. She always smelled like hairspray and lavender, and no matter how tough things got, she made sure we knew we were loved.

Then there were my younger siblings, Connor and Lily—twins, two years younger than me. Connor was the wild one, always getting into trouble, always pushing limits. Lily was his opposite—quiet, thoughtful, the kind of person who noticed things no one else did. Growing up, they were my shadows, following me everywhere, wanting to do whatever I did. When Dad was gone, I felt like it was my job to step up, to be the man of the house. Sometimes I got it right, sometimes I didn’t, but I never stopped trying.

And then there was my grandfather, James “Jim” Callahan, the man I was named after. He was a war veteran, served in Daidieu, but you’d never hear him brag about it. He carried his service like an old jacket—worn, comfortable, part of who he was but never the first thing he showed the world. He taught me how to fish, how to sharpen a knife, how to appreciate the quiet moments in life. He was my first real hero.

My grandmother, Margaret Callahan, was different from him in every way. Where he was quiet, she was loud. She had a way of telling stories that made you feel like you were right there, living them. She was the one who told me about our family history, about the Callahans who had fought in wars long before my dad or grandpa. She made sure I understood that service wasn’t just about duty—it was about honor, about carrying something bigger than yourself.

We also had neighbors who felt more like extended family. Mr. Thompson, the old man next door, was a retired Air Force mechanic who’d sit on his porch and tell me about the planes he used to work on. The Monroe family, who owned the small diner downtown, always welcomed me like one of their own—especially after I met Paige. Barre was the kind of town where everyone knew everyone, where your name meant something, where people looked out for each other.

This was my family. This was where I came from. And no matter how far I went, how many miles separated me from home, I carried them with me.

Service isn’t just a duty in my family—it’s a tradition, one forged through blood, sacrifice, and the weight of history. My family has answered the call to arms for as long as I can remember. Every generation, without fail, there’s been a Callahan in uniform. Not for glory, not for medals, but because that’s just what we do. It’s in our blood.

The legacy started with my great-great-grandfather, Patrick Callahan. He was an immigrant, a young Irishman who left everything behind to chase a new life in the Eagle Federation. Back then, things weren’t easy for men like him—jobs were scarce, discrimination was everywhere, and the only way to prove yourself was through hard work or war. When the Eagle Federation went to war for the first time, he signed up without hesitation. He was part of the legendary 1st Infantry Division—the original Eagle Division—the very first wave of soldiers to land on Albatross during the war. He saw combat in trenches filled with mud, blood, and death, fighting in battles that would later become history lessons. But to him, they weren’t just battles. They were a nightmare.

Patrick never talked much about what he saw. He survived the war, but part of him never came home. My great-grandfather used to say he’d catch Patrick staring at his old uniform sometimes, running his fingers over the fabric like he was back there, knee-deep in mud with artillery shells whistling overhead. He never said a word about what happened, but the silence spoke louder than anything.

Then came my great-grandfather, William Callahan. December 7th, 1941. He never forgot that day. He was working the docks in Barre, probably thinking about dinner, maybe planning to meet a girl after work. Then the news hit—Eagle Harbor was under attack. The very next morning, he enlisted in the Eagle Navy. He said it wasn’t a decision; it was instinct.

A few months later, he stood on the deck of the EFS Missouri, the sea stretching endlessly in every direction. The steel beneath his boots was the only solid thing in a world that felt like it was constantly shifting. The Pacific was nothing like Vermont. Back home, he had rolling hills, quiet streets. Out there, it was open water and the distant rumble of war. He told me about the nights when the sky turned red with tracer fire, battleships exchanging shells so massive they made the ocean shudder. He saw Kamikaze pilots diving straight into carriers, heard the deafening roar of anti-aircraft guns trying to stop them. He watched friends get swallowed by the sea, their screams lost in the waves.

When the war ended, he came home, but like Patrick before him, he left a part of himself behind. He never talked about the worst of it. Instead, he’d tell us about the good times—the men he served with, the laughs they shared, the letters from home. But some nights, I’d see him sitting alone on the porch, staring into the dark with a cigarette in his hand. He never said what he was thinking, but I knew. The war never really left him.

Then came my grandpa, James “Jim” Callahan. Unlike the men before him, he didn’t want to fight. He grew up in a different time, in a different Eagle Federation—one that questioned war instead of glorifying it. He was what they called a "hippie," protesting in the streets, preaching peace while the world burned on the other side of the ocean. He was in college when the war in Daidieu escalated, thinking he’d never have to follow in the family’s footsteps. But fate—or the draft lottery—had other plans.

They gave him a choice: the Army or prison. He had no love for war, but he wasn’t about to rot in a cell either. So, against his will and against everything he believed in, he put on the uniform of the Eagle Army—the very branch my great-grandfather once told him never to join. "If you're going to be a soldier, be one at sea," he said. "Or at least have wings." But grandpa had no choice. They shaved his head, took his name, and threw him into the meat grinder.

Boot camp was a shock. He used to joke about it, calling it the worst kind of summer camp. Said his drill sergeant was the meanest ♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥ he ever met—could make a man cry without laying a finger on him. "Had a voice like a machine gun," he’d say. "And a mouth dirtier than the latrines." He’d tell us about the guys he trained with—one poor bastard they nicknamed 'Snowball' because of his skin, another called 'Joker' because he couldn’t keep his mouth shut. Grandpa would laugh about it sometimes, but I always noticed the way his hands shook when he lit a cigarette afterward.

Then he went to war. The jungle swallowed him whole. The heat, the rot, the ever-present hum of insects—it was a different kind of hell. The enemy was everywhere and nowhere. Booby traps, ambushes, snipers in the trees. He lost friends. Too many to count. He came back home, but he never really left Daidieu. He carried it with him, in the way he looked at the world, in the way he never quite trusted silence.

I remember one night, he was telling a story—something about his first patrol, about wading through a rice paddy and hearing the rotors of a Huey overhead. Then he got quiet. Real quiet. He took a long drag of his cigarette, exhaled slow, and said, "I watched good men die out there." His voice cracked. His hands were shaking. "Snowball didn’t make it past the first month. Joker—he got hit in the Tet Offensive. We were just kids."

That was the last time he ever mentioned Daidieu.

On September 11, 2001, it was just another Tuesday. Just another ordinary day at Home—until it wasn’t. I was sitting in the living room, playing with my mom, doing what toddler would do. Then the door swung open, and my dad walked in. His face was pale, like he’d just seen a ghost.

He was saying something but i don't know what he was saying i didn't understand what he said or what. He just kept dialing number after number—family, friends in New York. No one was answering. Every call that went to voicemail made the silence even heavier.

When we got home, my dad turned on the TV. That’s when I saw it. Fire. Smoke. People running through the streets, covered in dust. The news anchors trying to make sense of it all. And then, right there on the screen, another plane came into view—South Tower. Impact. Explosion. The world changed in an instant. My mom gasped, covering her mouth. My dad clenched his jaw so tight I thought it might break.

And me? I was just a kid—I didn’t fully understand what was happening, but in that moment, something inside me shifted. A feeling I couldn’t name at the time, but looking back, I know what it was: the quiet realization that life, as I knew it, was over.

That night, my dad didn’t sleep. He sat at the kitchen table, staring at nothing, his hands clasped together like he was praying. But he wasn’t. He was thinking. Deciding.

By morning, he had made up his mind.

When he told us he was enlisting, my mom broke. She didn’t just cry—she begged him not to go.

“Please, Richard,” she said, gripping his hands like she could hold him here with us. “You have a family. You don’t have to do this.”

“I do.” His voice was steady, but I could see it in his eyes—he wasn’t as sure as he wanted to be.

“No, you don’t.” Her voice cracked. “The kids need you. I need you.”

“I need to do this, Ellen.”

She shook her head, tears running down her face. She looked at him like she didn’t recognize him, like the man she married was slipping away right in front of her. “You don’t know what war does to people. You don’t know what you’re walking into.”

But my dad did know. He just didn’t care.

Boot camp changed him.

At first, he struggled. The screaming drill instructors, the relentless physical training, the lack of sleep—it pushed him to his limit. But my dad wasn’t the kind of man to quit. He adapted, fought through the exhaustion, and by the time it was over, he wasn’t just another recruit. He was a Marine.

He made friends—guys who became closer than family. They trained together, suffered together, and before long, they deployed together.

Then came Iraq.

He fought everywhere—Fallujah, Mosul, Ramadi, Baghdad. If there was a battle, he was in it.

He was ready for war. At least, he thought he was.

The first time he killed someone, it broke him.

He never told me the details—just that it was fast, over before he could even process it. But later that night, when everything was quiet, it hit him. The weight of it. He sat alone, gripping his rifle so hard his knuckles turned white. He didn’t cry. He didn’t shake. He just felt it.

He never talked about that moment again.

Fallujah was worse.

House-to-house fighting. Bullets tearing through walls. The constant threat of IEDs. My dad got hit—shrapnel to the waist. He was bleeding bad, but he kept going. Kept fighting.

One Marine under his command wasn’t so lucky.

He tried to save him—held him in his arms, told him to hold on. But there was too much blood. Too much damage. The Marine was gone before the medics even got there.

That was the one my dad never got over. The one he still dreams about.

And then there was OnyxCorp.

A private military company—mercenaries, ex-special forces, men who fought for a paycheck, not a cause.

My dad hated them.

He told me about a joint operation in Mosul—Marines and OnyxCorp working together. The mission was to clear the area and escort civilians out. But OnyxCorp didn’t care about civilians. The moment things got tense, they opened fire—combatants, non-combatants, it didn’t matter. They shot first and asked questions later.

The Marines had to clean up their mess.

One OnyxCorp contractor in particular got under my dad’s skin. After a mission, the guy was laughing about a kill. My dad—who had just pulled a wounded Marine out of the line of fire—snapped. He walked over and punched the guy in the face.

“You’re not one of us,” he said. “You don’t fight for anything ♥♥♥♥♥♥♥. You are lucky i didn't shot you.”

The contractor almost fought back, but the commanding officer broke it up. They never crossed paths again.

When my dad finally came home, he wasn’t the same.

The man who used to throw me in the air and laugh was gone. In his place was someone quieter, harder. Someone who flinched at fireworks, who spent long nights staring at nothing.

PTSD had its grip on him, and no matter how much he fought it, it never let go.

He didn’t drink to forget. He didn’t drown himself in a bottle. But he struggled. He went to rehab eventually, but it took time.

There were moments when the war almost came home with him. One night, he woke up in a panic, grabbed my mom’s wrist too hard. She didn’t say anything—just looked at him with that same heartbreak from the night he enlisted.

That was when he realized he needed help.

He never wanted me to follow in his footsteps.

One night, after a bad dream, we sat in the dark together.

“War isn’t what you think it is”, he told me. His voice was hollow, like he was somewhere else. “It’s not glory. It’s not heroism. It’s losing people you love. It’s coming home and not knowing who you are anymore.”

I remember looking at him—this man who had always been larger than life to me—and realizing he wasn’t invincible. He wasn’t unbreakable.

And for the first time, I saw my father not just as a Marine, but as a man who had given too much of himself to a war that would never give anything back.

And I hated that I couldn’t do anything to help him.

Now, it’s my turn.

My dad didn’t talk about the war much. Not in the way people expected.

There were no stories of heroism, no proud tales of battle. What I knew, I had to piece together over time—through the things he didn’t say, through the way his hands sometimes shook when he thought no one was looking. Through the nights when he sat alone in the dark, staring at something only he could see.

But before the war changed him, before everything changed, my dad was just Dad.

Some of my earliest memories are of us in the garage. My dad loved to fix things, and I loved to watch. It didn’t matter what it was—cars, leaky faucets, the old lawnmower that never wanted to start. If something was broken, my dad could fix it.

Or at least, he’d try.

I must’ve been five or six the first time I really helped him. The kitchen sink was acting up, and he had his head under the cabinet, muttering to himself. I sat next to him, holding the flashlight like it was my life’s mission.

“Hand me that wrench, bud,” he said.

I grabbed the wrong one.

He chuckled. “No, not that one. The crescent wrench.”

I had no idea what a crescent wrench was, but I was determined to figure it out.

Eventually, he just pointed to it. I handed it over, and together, we got the sink working again.

“You’re a natural,” he told me, ruffling my hair.

I beamed.

Looking back, that was one of the last simple moments we had before the war.

Before my dad left, Sundays were family days.

We’d wake up early, pile into the car, and go for long scenic drives. Sometimes, we’d stop for apple picking. Other times, we’d bring fishing poles and sit by the lake for hours, not even caring if we caught anything. My mom packed sandwiches, and my siblings and I would run around, laughing, playing.

I didn’t realize how much I’d miss those days until they were gone.

After he left, Sundays felt empty. My mom tried to keep the tradition alive, but it wasn’t the same. The car rides were quieter. The laughter wasn’t as easy.

And when he finally came home, things didn’t go back to the way they were.

The first night my dad was back, I was so excited I could barely sit still. I had this idea in my head that everything would be normal again—that the man who left would be the same one who walked through that door.

But when he hugged us, there was something different. His arms were strong, but they didn’t feel as warm. His voice was steady, but it didn’t carry the same lightness. And his eyes—his eyes were older. Tired in a way I didn’t understand at the time.

That night, I woke up to the sound of shouting.

I crept out of bed and peeked down the hallway. My parents were in the kitchen, whispering furiously.

“You’re home now, Richard,” my mom said, her voice strained. “You don’t have to sleep with your boots on.”

He ran a hand through his hair. “I don’t even realize I’m doing it.”

She exhaled. “That’s the problem.”

I didn’t understand what PTSD was back then. But I understood that my dad wasn’t sleeping. That some nights, he woke up drenched in sweat, breathing like he’d just run a marathon. That there were moments when his hands clenched into fists, not in anger, but in some kind of fight-or-flight reflex he couldn’t turn off.

I saw it in the little things, too. The way he’d freeze whenever a car backfired. How he’d scan the room every time we walked into a restaurant, checking exits, watching people too closely. How he flinched when my siblings ran up behind him, their laughter startling him in ways it never had before.

And once, just once, I saw him break.

It was late. I had woken up to get a glass of water, and as I passed the living room, I saw him sitting on the couch, his head in his hands. His shoulders were shaking. My mom knelt beside him, her hands on his, whispering something I couldn’t hear.

I didn’t know what to do. I wanted to help him. I wanted to tell him it was okay. But I just stood there, frozen, feeling like I was watching something I was never supposed to see.

I never told him I saw that.

Even with everything he carried, my dad still tried.

He still showed up to my baseball games, even though the crowds made him uncomfortable. He still helped me build model airplanes in the garage, even when his hands trembled. He still told my siblings and me bedtime stories—though sometimes, he’d get this faraway look, like his mind was somewhere else.

And he still taught me how to be me.

When I was seven, he taught me how to ride a bike. I was awful at it. I kept falling, scraping my knees, getting frustrated. But my dad never lost patience. He’d pick me up, dust me off, and tell me to try again.

“Balance, James,” he’d say. “You’ve got to find your balance.”

It took me a while to get what he meant. But when I finally did, when I pedaled down the driveway without falling, he clapped and grinned.

“There you go, bud!” he said. “Told you you could do it.”

Years later, I realized he wasn’t just talking about riding a bike.

He was talking about life. About finding my footing even when everything around me felt unsteady.

About picking myself back up, even when it hurt.

One of the biggest moments of my childhood wasn’t even about me.

It was the day my dad sat me down and told me, “I don’t want you to follow in my footsteps.”

It was late. I had been asking him about the war—pressing him for stories, for details. I wanted to know what it was really like.

And that was when he said it.

“War isn’t what you think it is.” His voice was quiet, but there was an edge to it. “It’s not like the movies. It’s not some grand adventure.”

I didn’t say anything.

He sighed, running a hand down his face. “You know what it really is, James? It’s losing your best friend in a hallway filled with smoke. It’s carrying a guy who’s begging you not to let him die, even though you know there’s nothing you can do. It’s waking up years later and still smelling the blood.”

I had never heard him talk like that before.

“Don’t chase war, James.” He looked me right in the eye. “Promise me.”

I wanted to promise him. I almost did. But the truth was, I wasn’t sure I could.

Because despite everything he said…

I still wanted to know what it felt like to be in the fight.

There’s something about looking back on your teenage years that feels almost surreal—like flipping through an old photo album where everything is familiar but just out of reach. Those years were a mix of freedom and frustration, excitement and uncertainty. It was the time when the world felt like it was opening up, but at the same time, I felt the weight of something closing in.

I was just a kid trying to figure things out, and at the center of it all was Paige Monroe.

2013-2014: Finding My Own Way
Being a teenager in Barre, Vermont, wasn’t exactly like something out of a movie. There were no neon-lit city streets or wild parties. Life was simple. My days were filled with school, helping around town, and finding any excuse to be near an airstrip. Planes still fascinated me. If I wasn’t at the small local airport watching them take off, I was in my room, carefully assembling model aircraft. My mom always said I had my head in the clouds—maybe she was right.

I worked part-time at a mechanic shop in town, changing oil and fixing up old trucks. It wasn’t glamorous, but I liked working with my hands. It gave me a sense of control, something tangible in a world that often felt unpredictable. My best friend, Nate, worked with me, and we’d always find ways to make the shifts bearable—usually by messing around until the old man who ran the place yelled at us.

Then there was my dad. Or, more accurately, the man my dad had become. The war had changed him, and by then, I knew it wasn’t just something he could shake off. The nights when he’d wake up screaming, the way he’d flinch at loud noises—it was always there, in the background, like a storm waiting to break.

Paige saw it too. She was there the night I had my first real argument with him. It wasn’t about anything big—just something small that spiraled. I don’t even remember what I said, but I remember the look on his face. And I remember Paige grabbing my hand afterward, pulling me outside before things got worse. She didn’t say anything at first. She just stood next to me, letting me breathe. And somehow, that was enough.

The First Dance (2014-2015, Age 14-15)
I still don’t know how it happened. One second, I was just some kid who barely knew how to dance, and the next, Paige and I were standing in the center of the gym, holding a damn trophy.

It was our first school dance together. I wasn’t the type of guy who cared about those things, but Paige? She loved it. The way she lit up when a song came on, the way she pulled me onto the dance floor even though I protested—it was impossible to say no to her.

We weren’t even supposed to be in the competition. It just kind of happened. One slow dance led to another, and before I knew it, we were the last couple standing. The judges called our names, and the crowd cheered. I looked at Paige, and she was laughing, shaking her head like she couldn’t believe it either.

That was the night I finally told her. I remember the music fading, the sound of people clapping, but all I could focus on was her.

"Paige… be my girlfriend."

She blinked, like she hadn’t expected it, and for a second, I thought I had screwed it up. But then she smiled—really smiled—and nodded.

"Took you long enough."

I laughed. She laughed. And just like that, we were us.

2016-2017: Driving Lessons & Our First Road Trip
Learning to drive was supposed to be easy. At least, that’s what I thought. Turns out, it’s a lot harder when your dad is in the passenger seat, gripping the dashboard like you’re about to drive off a cliff.

He tried to be patient—at first. But after the third time I stalled out, I could see his jaw tightening. Eventually, he sighed and got out of the car. “You’re on your own, kid.”

Paige, on the other hand, thought my driving failures were hilarious. She sat in the passenger seat, laughing as I tried to navigate the backroads without ending up in a ditch.

"You’re supposed to stop at the stop sign, James."

"I did!"

"Rolling through it doesn’t count."

By the time I finally got my license, we already had a plan: our first road trip. Nothing crazy—just a weekend trip up to Lake Champlain. We packed snacks, made a terrible playlist, and hit the road. It wasn’t about the destination. It was about the freedom, the idea that for the first time, we could go anywhere.

That weekend was perfect. We skipped rocks on the lake, stayed up late talking about the future, and drove down empty roads with the windows down, singing off-key to whatever was playing.

That was when I knew.

"One day, I’m gonna marry you."

She turned to me, raising an eyebrow. "Oh yeah?"

"Yeah. And we’ll have a family. Two kids."

She laughed, but there was something in her eyes—something soft, something real. "I like the sound of that."

Our Song (2016-2017, Age 16-17)
It was late summer, one of those nights where the air was thick with heat, but the stars shone bright enough to make up for it. Paige and I had taken a drive out to the lake—our usual spot. The windows were down, the scent of pine and damp earth filling the truck as we cruised down the backroads. Neither of us had much to say, but it was the kind of silence that didn’t need filling.

Then, "Die A Happy Man" came on the radio.

At first, it was just background noise, but then I caught the way Paige was listening—really listening. She smiled, that soft, thoughtful kind of smile that made me stop and pay attention. I reached over, lacing my fingers with hers, and she squeezed back.

“This is a good one,” she said, barely above a whisper.

We pulled up to the lake, and before I could even turn off the engine, Paige slid closer, her head resting against my shoulder. The song kept playing, the lyrics sinking in.

"And I know that I can't ever tell you enough
That all I need in this life is your crazy love…"

I looked down at her, and something about that moment felt… right. Like it was bigger than just a song.

"If all I got is your hand in my hand,
Baby, I could die a happy man."

Paige lifted her head, looking up at me. “This is our song.”

I smiled, pressing a kiss to her forehead. "Yeah, it is."

Neither of us said anything else. We just sat there, wrapped up in each other, the song playing softly as the night stretched on.

Christmas Eve. The house was packed, just like every year. The smell of ham and mashed potatoes filled the air, laughter echoed through the walls, and the tree in the living room flickered with soft, colorful lights. It was tradition—family, neighbors, everyone gathering under one roof to eat, drink, and celebrate.

But that night, I had something on my chest. Something I’d been carrying for a while. And I knew I couldn’t keep it to myself anymore.

So, in the middle of it all, between bites of food and stories being told, I stood up. Cleared my throat.

“I’m enlisting.”

Silence. A thick, heavy silence that swallowed the entire room. I don’t know what I expected, but it sure as hell wasn’t that. They all just stared at me—Mom, Dad, my grandparents, my neighbors. And Paige… God, I’ll never forget the look on her face.

My mom was the first to speak. “No, James. No, you’re not.” Her voice cracked. She already knew there was no changing my mind, but she tried anyway.

My grandparents shook their heads. My dad leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, jaw clenched. And Paige… she just looked at me like I’d betrayed her.

I swallowed hard. “I have to enlist. I can’t just sit here while other men fight for me. Maybe it’s pride, maybe it’s stupid, but I don’t know how to live with myself if I don’t stay true to what I believe. It’s not right that other men should fight and die while I sit at home, safe. I need to serve.”

My mom was crying now. My sister just stared at her plate, like if she didn’t move, this whole conversation wouldn’t be real.

And then Paige. She pushed her chair back, stood up, and without saying a word, walked out. The front door slammed behind her.

I should’ve run after her. I should’ve said something, done something. But I just stood there, my feet planted on the floor, feeling like I’d just lost something I didn’t know how to hold onto.

Later That Night – A Private Conversation
After dinner, when most of the guests had left and my mom had gone upstairs to cry, my dad called me into the garage. Grandpa was there too, sitting in his old recliner, a beer in his hand. They didn’t waste time.

“You want to serve,” my dad said. “I get that. More than anyone, I get that. But if you’re gonna do this, don’t be an idiot about it.”

Grandpa leaned forward. “Don’t join the Army or the Marines.” His voice was firm, like he wasn’t giving me an option. “If you want to serve, join the Air Force.”

I frowned. “Why?”

Grandpa exhaled through his nose. “Because you’ll live.”

My dad didn’t say anything, just stared at me.

“You wanna follow in your old man’s footsteps? Fine,” Grandpa continued. “But I’ve buried too many good boys who thought they had something to prove. Army, Marines? That’s a one-way ticket to getting shot at, blown up, or coming home in pieces.”

I clenched my jaw. “I don’t care about taking the easy way out.”

“This ain’t about easy,” Grandpa shot back. “It’s about being smart. You want to serve your country? Serve it in a way that doesn’t put you six feet under.”

My dad sighed, rubbing his hands together. “Just think about it, James. That’s all we’re asking.”

I nodded, but deep down, I knew they are right.

The Night I Couldn't Sleep

I couldn’t sleep. Not after everything that happened. The argument, the disappointment in my mom’s eyes, the way my dad and grandpa tried to talk me out of it.

And Paige…

I kept replaying it in my head—how she just stood up and left. How she didn’t even say a word. The slam of the door still echoed in my ears. I knew she was hurting. I knew I should’ve told her sooner. But I didn’t.

And now? Now, I had to make it right.

The clock read past midnight when I finally gave up on sleep. I got up, threw on a hoodie, and slipped out the front door. The cold December air bit at my skin as I made my way down the quiet streets toward Paige’s house. Lights were still on inside. That meant she was awake.

I hesitated for a second before knocking.

A few moments later, the door cracked open. And there she was.

Her eyes were red and swollen, her cheeks stained with dried tears. She had been crying for hours. My chest tightened at the sight of her like this. Because of me.

She didn’t say anything at first. Just stared at me. Then, without a word, she stepped aside and let me in.

Upstairs – A Conversation We Should’ve Had Sooner
Her dad was sitting in the living room, barely looking up from his chair. He just gave me a nod.

“She’s upstairs,” he said. “Go talk to her.”

I didn’t need to be told twice.

I found Paige sitting on the edge of her bed, knees pulled to her chest, staring at the floor. She didn’t look up when I walked in, didn’t say anything when I sat down beside her.

“I’m sorry,” I said, my voice barely above a whisper. “I should’ve told you sooner.”

She sniffled but still didn’t look at me. “Yeah… you should have.”

I swallowed hard. “I didn’t want to hurt you.”

“Well, you did.”

Silence.

I reached for her hand, and for a moment, I thought she was going to pull away. But she didn’t. She let me hold it, her fingers cold against mine.

“I just…” I exhaled, struggling for the right words. “I don’t want to look back one day and regret not doing something that mattered.”

Paige finally met my eyes, her expression softer now, less angry, more… sad. “And I don’t want to look back one day and regret losing you because of it.”

That hit me harder than I expected.

I squeezed her hand. “You won’t lose me.”

“You can’t promise that.”

I wanted to. I wanted to tell her I’d come back, that nothing would ever change. But we both knew better.

Instead, I leaned in and pressed my forehead against hers. “I love you, Paige.”

She closed her eyes. “I love you too, James.”

And then, in that quiet room, with the weight of everything hanging over us, we found comfort in each other the only way we knew how.

Journal Entry – February 2019
I walked into the recruitment office on a cold February morning, hands stuffed into my jacket pockets, heart hammering in my chest. The place smelled like fresh coffee and old paper, the fluorescent lights buzzing faintly overhead. The walls were covered in posters—“Aim High.” “Fly, Fight, Win.” Big words. Bold promises.

There wasn’t a recruitment office in my hometown of Barre, Vermont, so I had made the trip to Burlington Air National Guard Base. It wasn’t a long drive, but it felt like I was crossing a line between the life I had always known and the one I was about to step into.

I wasn’t here on impulse. I had thought about this for months—maybe years—but now that I was finally standing here, reality weighed heavier than I expected.

A receptionist waved me over to take a seat, and after a few minutes, I was led into an office. The man sitting across from me was Technical Sergeant Williams—a no-nonsense guy with a flat-top haircut and sharp eyes, the kind of man who could size you up in ten seconds or less.

He glanced at the paperwork in front of him. “So, you’re thinking about the Air Force,” he said, leaning back in his chair.

I nodded. “I want to be a fighter pilot.”

He smirked. “That’s what they all say.”

Then, he laid it out for me. Basic Military Training. Officer Training School. Specialized training. Flight school—if I made it that far. He didn’t sugarcoat it. The washout rate was high. The competition was brutal. A lot of guys didn’t make it.

“Are you willing to put in the work?” he asked, watching me closely.

I swallowed. “Yes, sir.”

Two weeks later, I was standing in front of a flag, right hand raised, swearing in. The moment the words left my mouth, everything became real.

"I, James Callahan, do solemnly swear to support and defend the Constitution of the United States against all enemies, foreign and domestic—"

When I stepped outside, I looked up at the sky—the same sky I’d flown under a thousand times in my dreams. Now, it was time to make those dreams real.

Basic Military Training – Lackland Air Force Base, Texas (March 2017)
If I thought I knew what I was getting into, I was wrong.

The moment we got off the bus, the MTIs (Military Training Instructors) were on us like a pack of wolves. They barked orders, demanded perfection, and crushed any sense of individuality we had. The air was thick with stress, sweat, and the faint scent of disinfectant.

Week One – Shock and Survival
Everything had to be perfect—our uniforms, our bunks, our lockers. If one guy messed up, we all paid for it.

One night, a guy in our flight forgot to properly fold his shirt in his locker. We were woken up at 3 AM, forced to stand outside in the cold, doing push-ups on the concrete until the MTI got bored. My arms burned, my breath turned to mist in the air, but I learned fast—don’t be the one who screws up.

Week Four – Learning to Fight
By Week Four, we weren’t just recruits anymore. We were starting to feel like airmen.

We hit the Confidence Course—climbing ropes, crawling through mud, pushing past exhaustion. I remember one obstacle, a towering wooden wall that we had to scale. My arms ached, my fingers dug into the rough wood, but I forced myself over the top.

It wasn’t just about me anymore. It was about us.

“Move, move, move!” The MTI screamed at one of my bunkmates, a guy named Dawson who was struggling on the course. I reached back and grabbed his hand, yanking him up before he could fall.

That’s when it clicked—you don’t do this alone.

Graduation – A New Beginning
When graduation day came, I stood on the parade ground in my dress blues, staring straight ahead as the national anthem played. I had made it through the first step.

But this was just the beginning.

Undergraduate Pilot Training – Sheppard Air Force Base, Texas (2017)
Pilot training wasn’t just about skill. It was about endurance. Focus. Proving you had the mindset to fly a multi-million-dollar war machine.

The first time I sat in a T-6 Texan II, I felt like I was on top of the world. The engine roared, the controls felt weightless in my hands. But my instructors weren’t impressed.

“You think flying is about instinct? Wrong. It’s about discipline.”

They hammered us on aerodynamics, navigation, formation flying, emergency procedures. If you made a mistake, you heard about it. If you repeated it, you were done.

Then came the T-38 Talon. Faster. More aggressive. A real jet.

The first time I took off, the G-forces slammed me into my seat. I could barely breathe, my vision blurred at the edges, but I forced myself to focus. This was where I belonged.

The Lottery – My Fate as a Fighter Pilot (2017 – Fighter Pipeline Selection Day)
This was the moment we had been waiting for.

We sat in a room, waiting for our names to be called. Some guys were sweating bullets, gripping their chairs like they were waiting for a death sentence. Others sat still, faces blank, ready to take whatever they got.

One by one, the names were called.

Some guys got F-15s. Others got A-10s, F-22s, F-35s. A few unlucky ones got stuck with trainers.

Then, it was my turn.

The officer in charge looked at his list, then at me.

“James Callahan—F-16C Fighting Falcon.”

I exhaled. Not bad—definitely not bad.

The F-16 wasn’t the newest jet, but it was a warrior’s plane—fast, agile, deadly. A fighter jet that had proven itself in war.

Some guys got lucky with the F-22 Raptors, and I won’t lie—I envied them for a second. But as I held that piece of paper in my hands, I knew—this was mine.

And soon, I’d prove it in the skies.

Luke AFB – Graduation Day, 2016
I stood at attention, my uniform crisp, the silver wings gleaming on my chest. The sun burned high above the Arizona desert, casting long shadows across the parade ground. My boots were polished to a mirror shine, but inside, my heart pounded. This was the moment I had worked for, bled for.

They called my name.

I stepped forward, back straight, chin up. As the wings were pinned to my chest, the weight of them settled deep in my bones. Fighter pilot. Not just a dream anymore—reality.

The applause barely registered. I turned my head, scanning the crowd, and there they were—my family. My dad stood tall, arms crossed, nodding slightly—his way of saying he was proud. My mom wiped her eyes, trying and failing to keep it together. My sister smirked, pretending not to care, but I caught the pride in her eyes. my younger brother, his hands cupped around his mouth as he yelled, “Hell yeah, James!”

I let out a small breath, a half-smile tugging at my lips.

Then my eyes found Paige.

She stood a little farther back, arms crossed, her expression unreadable. She didn’t clap. Didn’t smile. Just watched.

I had promised her once—back when this was just a dream, back before the long months of training and distance—that she wouldn’t lose me. That no matter what, this wouldn’t take me away from her.

But standing here, under an endless sky, I knew—I couldn’t promise that anymore.

Because soon, I’d be in that sky. And war had a way of breaking promises.

Life in the Military
Journal Entry – 2018

Wake up at 0430. PT at 0500. Breakfast at 0630. Briefings at 0730.

That’s the routine. Every damn day.

By now, military life feels less like a challenge and more like a habit. I don’t think about it anymore—I just do it. That’s how it is when you’ve been in long enough. You stop questioning it, stop wondering if there’s an easier way. You just move. Wake up. Work. Train. Fly. Sleep. Repeat.

Luke AFB – The Grind Never Stops
Luke AFB hasn’t changed much since I got here—still scorching hot, still surrounded by endless desert, and still feels like home. The airmen here are either new blood looking to prove themselves or seasoned guys who’ve seen it all. And me? I’m somewhere in between. Not a rookie, not a veteran. Just another pilot doing his job.

Most of my days revolve around training flights and mission simulations. Some days, we run dogfight drills, practicing combat tactics against other fighters. Other days, we work on ground attack training, learning to drop bombs with pinpoint accuracy. And when we’re not in the air? We’re in the simulators, running scenarios over and over until it’s second nature.

Then, there’s Maverick.

Nobody knows his real name—just that he flies an F/A-18, and that he’s one of the best damn pilots anyone’s ever seen. He’s been around longer than most of us, but he keeps to himself. Some say he used to be a test pilot, others swear he’s been in every major air battle of the last two decades. All I know is, when we run exercises against him, we lose. Every. Single. Time.

I once asked him how he got so good. He just smirked and said, “It’s not the plane, kid. It’s the pilot.”

Sounded straight out of a damn movie.

Squadron Life – Brotherhood in the Sky
The 310th Fighter Squadron – “Top Hats” is my home. Every pilot has their own reputation, their own story. And like any good squadron, we give each other hell constantly.

Rerun still gets ♥♥♥♥ for failing his first qualification flight.
Hiccup can’t go five minutes without someone fake hiccupping over the radio.
Torch will never escape the time he almost burned himself alive.
Bumper? Let’s just say nobody lets him land without at least one joke about "not scratching the paint."
And then there’s me—Fall-Guy. Still the butt of every joke when it comes to coordination on the ground. It’s funny. I can control a 30,000-pound jet at Mach speeds with precision, but I can’t walk through the damn hangar without almost tripping over something.

But when we’re up there, in the sky? None of that matters. Up there, we trust each other with our lives. No one flies alone, not in combat, not in training.

The Ghost of Luke AFB
It all started with a story.

We were sitting around after a long day, drinking beers and bullshitting like we always do. Someone brought up ghost stories—because of course, nothing says “macho fighter pilots” like trying to scare the hell out of each other.

Then, Bumper leaned in and said, "Alright, you guys ever hear about the Phantom of Luke AFB?"

A few groans. Some laughs. But he kept going.

"Back in the ’60s, a pilot was taking off in an F-4 Phantom. Something went wrong—maybe mechanical failure, maybe pilot error, no one knows. He never made it off the runway. Crashed and burned right there. They say his spirit never left."

Most of the guys laughed it off. A few of us weren’t so sure.

That night, I couldn’t sleep. Maybe it was the heat, maybe it was the story, but I decided to step outside for some air. Lit up a cigarette, stared at the stars, tried to clear my head.

Then, I heard footsteps.

I turned and saw a man walking toward me. He wasn’t familiar, but something about him felt… off. He wore an old EFAF flight suit—not like the ones we wore now. It looked vintage, like something out of an old war documentary.

"Got an extra one?" he asked.

I nodded and handed him a smoke, striking a lighter. The flame flickered, casting shadows on his face. He looked young—maybe late twenties. His hair was neatly combed, his features sharp but calm.

I took a drag and asked, "What are you doing out here this late?"

"Heading to the other airbase," he replied casually.

We stood in silence for a while, just smoking. Then, he nodded. "Thanks for the smoke, buddy."

He turned to walk away.

That’s when I heard a voice behind me.

"Who the hell are you talking to?"

I turned. It was one of the privates on duty.

Confused, I looked back toward the man.

But he was gone.

No sign of him. No footsteps in the dirt. No sound. Just… gone.

A chill ran down my spine. I replayed the conversation in my head, my mind racing. And then it hit me—his flight suit. The way he talked. The way he just… disappeared.

I had just spoken to the pilot from the story.

I had just given a cigarette to a ghost.

The First Deployment – War on Khorakistan
Training is one thing. War is another. You spend years preparing, learning every system, every maneuver, every emergency procedure. But nothing prepares you for the moment you taxi onto the runway, knowing that when you take off, you're heading into a real fight.

My first deployment came in late 2018. Orders came down—we were heading to Bagram Air Base to support ground operations in Khorakistan. Close air support. CAS. It sounded straightforward on paper—find the guys on the ground, make sure they lived to fight another day. But war doesn’t work like it does in the training simulators.

The first time I flew a live mission, the JTAC’s voice came over the radio, calm but urgent. “Viper Two-One, troops in contact. Danger close. Marking target with red smoke.” I scanned the terrain below, but from 20,000 feet up, all I saw was desert and mountains. No uniforms, no front lines—just a battlefield where friend and enemy were sometimes only a few hundred meters apart.

I rolled in, eyes locked on the red plume rising from the valley floor. Heart pounding, I keyed the radio. “Viper Two-One, tally smoke.” I flipped the master arm switch. This was it. No more training rounds. No more drills. The guys on the ground were counting on me.

When I squeezed the trigger, the jet shuddered as the Mark 82 bombs released. Seconds stretched into eternity. Then, impact. A fireball bloomed in the distance. The JTAC came back, voice steady. “Good hits, Viper Two-One. Enemy neutralized.”

I pulled back into the sky, adrenaline still running high, but there was no celebration. No thrill. Just the next task. Another call. Another target. Another mission.

That night, back at Bagram, we didn’t talk much. No high-fives, no cheers. Just silence. The weight of what we’d done settling in. The realization that, out there in the dark, someone was alive because of us—and someone else wasn’t.

March 15, 2021:

I was off base when the call came in.

"All personnel report back to base. Urgent."

No details. No explanations. Just urgency in the voice—get back. Now.

At first, I thought it was another training exercise. Maybe some high-priority readiness drill. But then I checked my phone—missed calls, unread messages, news notifications piling up faster than I could process.

Something was wrong.

By the time I got back to Luke AFB, the base was already awake.

Cars lined up at the gates, guards waving people through without the usual protocol. Pilots, officers, ground crew—everyone moving with the same quiet urgency. No talking, no small talk. Just heads down, moving fast, like they already knew something I didn’t.

I parked and walked straight to the briefing room. I could already feel it—the weight.

Luke AFB – The Announcement
Inside the room, it was dead silent.

The usual pre-briefing chatter wasn’t there. No jokes, no whispered bets about who was getting deployed where. Just rows of stiff-backed pilots and crew, all staring at the screen like it held the answer to a question none of us wanted to ask.

Then, the TV flickered on.

Breaking news.

A news anchor sat behind the desk, her expression somewhere between shock and forced professionalism. The words on the screen hit harder than any missile ever could.

"Breaking news: The Raven Union Has Declare War on the Global Security Alliance."

No one moved. No one spoke.

I could feel my own heartbeat in my throat.

We always joked about this.
Over beers, in flight debriefs, during the quiet moments between training exercises—what if World War III actually happened?
How would it start? Who would fire the first shot? Would we even have time to react?

Turns out, we didn’t know ♥♥♥♥.

Briefing – 0400 Orders
Command wasted no time. Briefings started immediately.

They didn’t have all the details yet—just the broad strokes:

Missile strikes had already happened.
Airspace violations were escalating worldwide.
Entire nations were mobilizing.
One thing was certain: we were going to war.

Colonel stood at the front of the room, his voice level but cold.

“Tomorrow, 0400 hours. We deploy to Vermont Air National Guard Base. Be ready.”

No questions. No hesitation.

Dismissed.

Calling Paige
I stepped outside, the Arizona night stretching endlessly around me. The desert air was dry and still, but I felt like I couldn’t breathe.

I pulled out my phone. Dialed the number.

She picked up on the first ring.

"James?"

Her voice was tight—like she already knew.

"Yeah. I just… I just wanted to hear your voice."

Silence.

Then, softly—"You’re leaving, aren’t you?"

I swallowed hard. "Tomorrow morning."

A pause. Then—"James… I'm scared."

"Me too."

She sniffled. "Just promise me you’ll come back."

I wanted to promise her that. God, I wanted to.

But I couldn’t. Not now.

"I’ll try."

It was the best I could give her.

And somehow, I think she understood.

"I love you," she whispered.

I closed my eyes. "I love you too."

I hung up, staring at the dark Arizona sky. The stars were out, oblivious to the madness unfolding below them.

The Hangar – Final Checks
Back at the hangar, the squadron was already prepping.

Live ordnance was being loaded. Pre-flight checks. Weapons inspections. Every system double-checked, then checked again.

I saw Bumper sitting on the wing of his F-16, staring into space.
Rerun was pacing, hands on his hips, muttering under his breath.
Hiccup was quiet, which is probably the scariest part.
And Torch—stupid, reckless Torch—lit a cigarette right next to the fuel line.

Nobody even cared enough to yell at him.

Me? I just stood there, helmet in my hands, trying to breathe.

I should be asleep right now. I should be resting.

But how the hell do you sleep when you know tomorrow could be the last time you ever touch the ground?

The Tower – One Last Time
We all gathered in the command tower that night.

From up there, we could see the whole base—the runways, the hangars, the lights glowing against the endless dark. Home.

I leaned against the glass, staring out at the familiar view.

“This is it,” I muttered. “Last view of home.”

Bumper rolled his eyes. “Don’t be dramatic, man.”

Then he smirked. “Tell you what—after the war ends, we’ll meet here again. Same spot. We’ll celebrate our safe return, and I’m buying.”

I exhaled, not wanting to say it, but the words slipped out anyway.

“We’ll see.”

Rerun shook his head. “Nah, that’s not the right answer.”

We all looked at each other. Then, as if on cue, we all said it at once:

“Deal.”

No hesitation. No doubts.

We laughed—not the nervous kind, not the “we’re-about-to-die” kind, but real laughter.

Like we believed it.

Like we had to.

The Ghost
We left the tower one by one. The sound of boots on metal stairs echoed through the air.

As I was heading down, still gripping my helmet like a damn lifeline, I saw him again.

The ghost pilot.

Standing at the bottom of the stairs, leaning casually against the railing. The dim lighting cast long shadows across his face, but I could still make out the details—the same old EFAF flight suit from the ‘60s, the same unreadable expression.

No way.

I’d seen him before—the night of the first briefing. Thought maybe I was just overtired, maybe my mind was playing tricks on me.

But now? He was here. Again.

Clear as day.

He looked up at me, lighting a cigarette. The same brand I gave him last time.

“Long night?” he asked.

His voice was calm. Too calm.

I swallowed hard. “Yeah… you could say that.”

He nodded like he understood.

I hesitated. “You heading somewhere?”

He exhaled smoke and smirked. “Always.”

And just like that, he pushed off the railing and walked toward the door.

My gut told me to say something, to ask him who he really was—but before I could, someone called out behind me.

“Hey, Fall-Guy! You coming?”

I turned my head for a split second—just a second.

And when I looked back…

He was gone.

Vanished.

Like he was never there.

I stood there for a long time, staring at the empty space where the ghost pilot had been.

And for the first time since this all started…

I was afraid.

March 16, 2021:

0345 Hours – Luke AFB, Arizona
The alarm klaxons ripped through the night.

I was already awake.

Most of us were.

I lay in my bunk, staring at the ceiling, listening to the distant hum of jet engines warming up outside. Sleep had been impossible since the briefing. We were leaving. Where exactly? Still unclear. But we knew what it meant. No more training. No more exercises. This was it.

I sat up, rubbing my face, trying to shake the fatigue. Around the barracks, the others were stirring, groggy but moving fast. Boots hit the floor. Lockers slammed shut. No words—just quick nods and silent motions as we suited up.

By the time I stepped outside, the base was already alive. The runways were bathed in artificial light, illuminating the rows of F-16s lined up on the tarmac, crews swarming them. The scent of jet fuel and morning chill mixed in the air.

The sky was still black, the stars barely clinging on before dawn swallowed them whole.

I reached into my flight suit, pulled out my phone.

One missed call from Paige.

I stared at it for a moment, then exhaled sharply and typed out a message.

"Meet me where we first met."

No explanations. No promises. Just that.

I hit send and prayed she’d see it. Prayed she’d be there.

“Viper Squadron, gear up! Fifteen minutes!” The comms crackled to life.

Time to go.

0400 Hours – Takeoff from Luke AFB
The engines roared to life. The cockpit vibrated beneath me as I flipped switches, running through preflight checks.

“Control, Viper Two-One. Radio check.”

A brief pause, then—“Loud and clear, Viper Two-One.”

I glanced across the tarmac. My squadron—Bumper, Rerun, Hiccup, Torch, the whole crew—were in their cockpits, visors down, ready. The night was fading, the horizon turning from black to deep blue.

One by one, the taxi lights flicked on.

“Viper Squadron, cleared for takeoff.”

I tightened my grip on the throttle.

This was it.

I took one last look at the Arizona desert, the mountains in the distance, the base I had called home for years.

Then, with a deep breath, I pushed the throttle forward.

The jet lurched, rolling down the runway. The speed built—100 knots, 150, 180—until the desert floor blurred beneath me.

Then, I pulled back.

The wheels lifted. The ground fell away.

And just like that, I was leaving home.

Vermont Air National Guard Base – Refueling Stop
The flight from Arizona to Vermont was quiet. Too quiet. Normally, Indigo Squadron would be cracking jokes, talking trash over the radio, but not today.

Today, we flew in silence.

It was a long flight—just under five hours—and the whole way there, I kept thinking about that message. Whether she saw it. Whether she’d be there. Whether this was the last time I’d ever set foot on Eagle soil.

We broke through the cloud layer as the Green Mountains of Vermont came into view, the airfield stretching out beneath us. The runway lights flickered in the distance, guiding us home—at least for a little while.

“Viper Squadron, commence landing sequence.”

One by one, we touched down, taxied to the refueling stations, and climbed out of our jets. Ground crews swarmed us immediately, refueling, checking every system, getting us ready for the long haul over the Atlantic.

I barely heard them.

My eyes scanned past the hangars, past the parked planes, past the security fences—looking for her.

And then, I saw her.

She stood just beyond the perimeter, arms crossed, jacket wrapped tight around her frame against the early morning chill. The moment I saw her, my chest tightened.

She came.

Without thinking, I popped my canopy, climbed down the ladder, and jogged toward the fence.

She met me halfway, slipping through the gap in the barrier, and suddenly, she was right in front of me.

For a moment, neither of us spoke. We just stood there, staring at each other.

Then she reached into her pocket and pressed something into my hand—a folded letter.

“I didn’t know what to say,” she whispered, voice barely audible over the distant hum of jet engines. “So I wrote it instead.”

I clenched my fist around the letter. “Paige…”

She shook her head. “I don’t want you to go.”

I swallowed hard. “I know.”

She took a shaky breath, her hands gripping the front of my flight suit. “You better come back to me, James.”

I wanted to promise her I would. God, I wanted to. But I couldn’t.

“I’ll try.”

She forced a weak smile. “That’s not a promise.”

“It’s the best I can give you.”

A long silence stretched between us. Then, suddenly, she wrapped her arms around me, holding on like she was afraid to let go. I held her just as tight.

The radio on my vest crackled.

"Viper Squadron, form up. Five minutes."

I exhaled sharply, pulling back. “I have to go.”

She closed her eyes. “I love you.”

I reached out, brushing my fingers through her hair. “I love you too.”

And then I turned and walked away.

I didn’t look back.

Takeoff from Vermont – Last View of Home
Fifteen minutes later, we were back in our cockpits. The sky was lighter now, the first hints of sunrise creeping over the horizon.

“Viper Squadron, tower clears you for takeoff. Good luck up there.”

One by one, we rolled onto the runway, lined up side by side.

I stared straight ahead, my heart hammering in my chest.

I wasn’t just leaving Paige behind. I was leaving everything behind.

Home. Family. The life I had before all this.

I pushed the throttle forward.

The jet surged down the runway.

100 knots. 150. 200.

Then, the ground disappeared beneath me.

Vermont shrank below us, fading into the distance, the rivers and forests nothing more than patches of green and blue.

I took one last look.

Then I turned my head forward and kept flying.

Mid-Flight Over the Atlantic
Hours passed.

The ocean stretched below us—dark, endless, unknowable. At 30,000 feet, there was nothing but sky, water, and the steady hum of our jets cutting through the cold air.

Bumper broke the silence first.

“Yo, anyone else freezing their ass off up here?”

Torch chuckled. “Suck it up, man.”

“I’m serious, dude. You’d think they’d make these cockpits warmer.”

I smirked. “Bumper, the Air Force didn’t issue you a spine?”

“Ha-ha. Real funny, Fall-Guy.”

For a moment, things felt normal again. Like we were just another squadron on another routine flight.

But we weren’t.

I reached into my flight suit, feeling the folded paper against my chest. Paige’s letter. I still hadn’t opened it.

I wasn’t sure if I ever would.

Approaching the Cormorant Commonwealth
The clouds began to break.

Far in the distance, the coastline of the Cormorant Commonwealth came into view. Rolling green hills, winding rivers, a landscape that looked like something out of a painting. A stark contrast to the war waiting for us.

“Viper Squadron, prepare for descent.”

One by one, we adjusted course. The air traffic control tower guided us in, clearing us for landing at Cormorant RAF Station Windmere. The massive airbase stretched beneath us, a flurry of activity—fighters taxiing, bombers loading ordnance, fuel trucks moving nonstop.

I exhaled.

We had made it.

But for how long?

March 16, 2021
Cormorant RAF Station Windmere, Cormorant Commonwealth

Landing at Windmere
We touched down just after sunset. Ten hours in the air, plus refueling stops, and my body felt like it had been put through a damn meat grinder. As soon as the wheels hit the tarmac, I felt the weight settle in my chest.

We weren’t in Arizona anymore.

Windmere is something else. The moment we taxied off the runway, I could see it—the war machine, in full motion. Fighters lined up along the tarmac, crews working under floodlights, fueling, arming, repairing. Even the air smelled different. Not just jet fuel, but something heavier—like metal, sweat, and the weight of a thousand decisions hanging in the air.

By the time I climbed out of the cockpit, my legs were stiff, my hands aching from the long grip on the stick. No one spoke much as we got out—no jokes, no comments. Just the sound of engines, radio chatter, and the occasional barked order from a ground crew chief.

Refueling & Instructions
They had us park in a designated section of the airfield, alongside a few other foreign squadrons. As soon as I stepped down, a crew was already on my jet, refueling it, checking every inch. These guys worked fast. Efficient. Like they’d done this a thousand times.

Torch stretched, letting out a groan. "Tell me we get to sleep after this."

Bumper snorted. "Sleep? You think war stops ‘cause you’re tired?"

None of us laughed. We were all too busy watching the constant motion around us.

A Cormorant pilot passed by, his Commonwealth accent thick as he called out, "Long flight, boys?"

I exhaled, rolling out my shoulders. "Too long."

He smirked, patting the side of my jet. "Better get used to it. Won’t be your last."

I already knew that.

The Mess Hall & Meeting Other Pilots
The mess hall was packed—pilots, mechanics, ground crews, all trying to get a moment of normalcy before everything went to hell. It was strange, seeing so many different uniforms, different patches, all in the same place. Commonwealth pilots, Federation pilots, even a few from the Republic of Ostian Air Force. Some laughed, some sat in silence, but everyone had the same look in their eyes.

We grabbed food, not because we were hungry, but because it was something to do.

A group of Cormorant pilots sat across from us, watching. One of them—tall, sharp features, and an easy smirk—finally leaned in. "You the Yanks?"

Rerun, never missing a beat, leaned back. "Yank is an east coast thing. We’re from the West."

The guy grinned. "Same thing to us."

We went back and forth, talking aircraft, dogfights, training routines. No one talked about the war. Not directly. Not yet. But we all knew why we were here.

Eventually, someone brought up the big question.

"Where are you guys headed?"

Torch just shrugged. "Wherever they tell us to go."

The Cormorant pilot—Fox—raised an eyebrow. "Word is some of you are getting sent to Albatross."

That got our attention.

Albatross. The frontlines.

Before we could press for more, a voice cut through the mess hall.

"Viper Squadron, briefing room. Now."

The room went silent. We stood up. It was time.

Briefing: Orders to Albatross
The operations room was dim, the glow of the projector lighting up a map of Albatross Forward Airbase. The colonel didn’t waste time.

"At 0400 hours, Viper Squadron departs for Albatross."

No sugarcoating. No buildup. Just the facts.

He clicked to the next slide. Satellite images. Enemy positions. Red zones. Combat air patrol routes.

"Enemy forces are making aggressive movements near key strategic locations. Albatross is one of them. Your job is to keep the skies clear and assist ground operations. You’ll be running intercepts, strike missions, and close air support. Expect resistance."

Then, after a pause: "This isn’t training anymore. This is real."

Silence. No questions. No one needed to ask what we already knew.

One Last Night at Windmere
After the briefing, we stepped outside into the cold. The airfield never slept. Fighters were still landing, still taking off. This was it. Our last night before we entered the war.

Torch lit a cigarette, exhaling into the night. "Well… guess we’re really doing this."

Bumper stared up at the sky, hands in his pockets. Rerun muttered something under his breath, rubbing his temples.

I reached into my flight suit pocket and felt Paige’s letter. Still unread.

Tomorrow, we’d be gone. Tomorrow, we’d fight.

Tonight, all we could do was wait.

March 17, 2021
0400 Hours – Cormorant RAF Station Windmere, Cormorant Commonwealth
The alarm tore through the barracks like a gunshot.

I was already awake.

Most of us were.

Lying in my bunk, staring at the ceiling, listening to the wind rattle the windows. The air was cold, but my body felt like it was burning. Maybe from the nerves. Maybe from the anticipation.

I swung my legs over the edge of the bunk and ran a hand over my face. Day one. Our first real mission.

Across the room, Torch was already up, lacing his boots. Rerun sat on the edge of his bed, rubbing his face with both hands, still shaking off whatever restless sleep he got. Hiccup just stared at his helmet like he was seeing through it. Bumper leaned back against the wall, silent.

No jokes. No nervous laughter. Just the weight of the moment pressing down on all of us.

Nobody spoke as we suited up.

Zipping up the flight suit felt different this time. Heavier. More real.

I checked my watch. 0410.

Time to move.

0415 Hours – The Briefing Room
The room was filled with pilots from different squadrons, all standing or sitting in quiet anticipation. Some leaned against the walls, arms crossed. Others tapped their feet anxiously. A few whispered to each other in low voices, but no one dared to break the thick silence.

At the front of the room, a massive digital map of Albatross—the frontline warzone—was projected on the wall. Red enemy markers dotted the sky above it. Too many.

We didn’t have air superiority here.

That’s why we were being sent in.

A side door swung open, and Commander Ashford walked in. He didn’t waste time.

“Alright, listen up. You’re wheels up in less than an hour, so I’ll keep this short.”

He clicked a remote, and the map zoomed in.

“We’re losing control over the frontlines. The Ravens have been hitting our ground forces with surgical precision. Their Typhoons are dominating the airspace, and our guys can’t breathe down there. That ends today.”

The red markers moved in a looping patrol pattern.

“We’ve identified at least four enemy aircraft in your sector. Their patrols are tight. They know we’re coming, and they will engage. Make no mistake—this won’t be a simple escort or recon run. This is a fight for air superiority.”

The room stayed deadly silent.

Ashford’s eyes swept over us.

“Weapons free. Engage and eliminate. No hesitation. No mistakes. You either win up there or you don’t come back. Understood?”

A chorus of “Yes, sir.”

He nodded.

“Viper Squadron, you lead the strike. Your call signs stay the same. Support units will be running CAP to back you up, but don’t rely on them. You’re the tip of the spear. Dismissed.”

The room emptied fast, pilots moving with the precision of men who had done this before. For us?

This was the first time.

0500 Hours – The Runway
The moment I stepped onto the tarmac, the sheer scale of the war machine hit me.

Jet fuel filled the air. Ground crews moved between the parked aircraft, refueling, arming, and inspecting every inch of the machines we were about to fly into battle.

I stopped at my F-16, running my gloved hand along the cold fuselage. The familiar gray paint, the Eagle Federation insignia on the tail, the kill markings from past pilots who had flown this bird before me.

Tonight, it would earn more.

The radio in my helmet crackled.

“Viper Squadron, check-in.”

One by one, the voices of my squadmates followed.

“Viper Two-Two, standing by.” (Torch)
“Viper Two-Three, all systems go.” (Rerun)
“Viper Two-Four, ready for launch.” (Hiccup)
“Viper Two-Five, locked and loaded.” (Bumper)

I climbed into the cockpit, strapping in, locking my mask into place.

Throttle forward.

The beast roared to life.

“Viper Two-One, good to go. Let’s do this.”

The tower’s voice came through.

“Viper Squadron, you are cleared for takeoff.”

I exhaled slowly.

“Viper Two-One, rolling.”

I pushed the throttle forward. The jet surged down the runway, the force pressing me back into my seat. The world blurred past me until—

Liftoff.

We climbed into the dark sky, engines screaming as we turned east toward Albatross.

0600 Hours – Mid-Air Over the Albatross Frontline
The first warning tone blared through my headset.

“Viper Two-One, multiple bogeys inbound. Vector 310. Angels 25.”

I glanced at my radar. Four red blips moving fast.

Torch’s voice crackled through. “We’ve got company.”

A few seconds later, they appeared—dark silhouettes against the rising sun. Raven Eurofighter Typhoons.

The hunters had found us.

They didn’t wait. The first missiles streaked toward us before we even locked on.

Missile warning.

I yanked the stick left, throwing my jet into a high-G turn as a missile screamed past my canopy. Another one locked onto me.

Dumping flares.

Bright white streaks fired from my jet. The missile veered away at the last second, missing by inches.

“Hiccup, on your six! Break left!”

“♥♥♥♥—copy!”

Hiccup yanked his jet into a hard left roll, narrowly dodging cannon fire from a pursuing Typhoon.

“I can’t shake him!”

“I got him! Fox Two!”

I fired a Sidewinder. The enemy tried to evade, but my missile found its mark. The Typhoon burst apart, the pilot ejecting just in time.

Hiccup let out a shaky breath. “Thanks, Fall-Guy.”

“Stay sharp! We’re not done yet!”

Torch pulled into a sharp climb, locking onto another fighter. Fox Three. His AMRAAM missile screamed forward, taking out the second Typhoon.

Bumper and Rerun tag-teamed the third.

The fourth?

Hiccup took it.

His guns ripped through the last Typhoon, and the enemy pilot punched out.

Four ejections.

Four Ravens down.

I exhaled. We survived.

Bumper’s voice came through. “That’s three for you, Fall-Guy. One more, and you’re an ace.”

I swallowed. Four down. One more to go.

But I wasn’t thinking about that.

I was thinking about the next fight.

March 17, 2021
0730 Hours – Albatross Air Reserve Base, Eagle-Occupied Albatross

By the time we touched down at Albatross Air Reserve Base, the fight was over.

The airfield was a controlled chaos of ground crews, fuel trucks, and mechanics swarming over returning aircraft. The sun had fully risen, casting long shadows across the tarmac. I popped my canopy, exhaling slowly as the cold morning air hit my face. My hands were still shaking.

Torch climbed down from his jet first, stretching his arms before slapping my shoulder.

“Hell of a first run, Fall-Guy.”

I forced a small smile. I wasn’t sure if I agreed.

Hiccup pulled off his helmet, running a hand through his sweat-soaked hair. “If that was a warm-up, I don’t wanna know what the real fight looks like.”

Neither did I.

Welcome to the war.

0830 Hours – Post-Mission Debriefing
We barely had time to process anything before we were herded into the debriefing room. The place smelled of stale coffee and jet fuel, the air heavy with exhaustion.

Command was already reviewing mission footage, highlighting our dogfights and maneuvers.

“You held your own out there,” the CO said. “But don’t get cocky. Raven pilots are no joke, and this war isn’t slowing down.”

Nobody spoke. We just sat there, absorbing the reality of it all.

Torch cracked his neck. “Damn, my shoulders are killing me.”

Bumper leaned back in his chair. “Welcome to fast jets, buddy.”

Some pilots exchanged nervous glances. Others forced laughs. But I just sat there, staring at the screen as the footage replayed. My first kill. My first downed aircraft.

It didn’t feel like victory.

The CO finally dismissed us. “Get some rest. You won’t be flying again for a few days.”

0930 Hours – The Barracks
Our quarters were nothing special—plain bunks, no real privacy, the scent of sweat and jet fuel lingering in the air. I dropped my gear and sat on my bunk, staring at the ceiling.

Hiccup and Bumper were already arguing over who got the bottom bunk.

“No way, man. I called dibs.”

“Dibs? This ain’t elementary school, dude.”

Torch just shook his head, pulling out a beat-up novel and a pack of smokes.

I leaned back, still hearing the echoes of the dogfight in my head. The comms chatter. The missile lock warning. The moment I fired.

I had expected relief. Maybe even excitement.

But all I felt was tired.

1130 Hours – The Chow Hall
The mess hall was packed with pilots from different squadrons, a melting pot of nationalities and callsigns. The scent of reheated rations filled the air, and the hum of conversation buzzed around us.

I grabbed a tray without thinking. Didn’t care what was on it.

Torch sat across from me, poking at his food. “This chicken’s drier than the damn desert.”

I barely heard him. My mind was elsewhere.

A group of Cormorant pilots sat nearby, their distinct accents cutting through the noise. One of them, a veteran-looking guy with gray streaks in his hair, glanced at us.

“You’re the new squadron?”

Torch nodded. “Viper. Just touched down.”

The pilot smirked. “Hope you boys are ready. Raven’s got some of their best flyers in this theater. They won’t go easy on you.”

I stared at my food. The thought of another fight—another kill—sat heavy in my stomach.

1300 Hours – Rest & Reflection
The sun hung high over the base when I found myself sitting outside the barracks, writing.

I wasn’t much of a writer, never had been. But I needed to put something down, something for Paige.

"When the war is over, we’ll get married, and the earth will grow flowers like you, and your womb will bear the most beautiful kids in the universe."

I stared at the words for a long time. Then, instead of sending the message, I folded the paper and tucked it away.

“What’s that?”

I looked up to see Bumper leaning against the doorway.

“Just something for later,” I said.

He nodded, then pulled something from his flight suit—a photograph. A little boy, maybe five years old, smiling wide, missing a front tooth.

“My son,” he said. “Haven’t seen him since I deployed.”

I studied the photo. “You talk to him much?”

“Not as much as I’d like.” He sighed. “He doesn’t really understand why I’m gone. Just knows I am.”

I didn’t know what to say. So I just nodded.

Bumper put the photo away. “You got someone waiting for you?”

“Yeah.”

“Then make sure you get back to her.”

That was the plan.

1400-1700 Hours – Free Time & Base Exploration
Some guys hit the gym. Others found their way to the rec room, playing pool, watching old movies, trying to find some normalcy.

I took a walk around the base.

Rows of fighter jets stood lined up, mechanics working tirelessly beneath them. The sound of distant gunfire echoed from a nearby training range.

I passed a small chapel. Thought about stepping inside.

But I didn’t.

Instead, I found a quiet corner, leaned against a crate, and just watched the sky.

1900-2300 Hours – Nightfall
Back in the barracks, the atmosphere was lighter. Guys joked around, played cards, cleaned their gear.

But I couldn’t sleep.

I pulled the letter from my flight suit, unfolded it, read it again.

Then, slowly, I tucked it away.

I stepped outside, the night air cool against my skin. The stars stretched endlessly above, oblivious to the war raging beneath them.

Hiccup joined me, lighting a cigarette. We stood there in silence.

Finally, he asked:

“Think we’ll make it back?”

I exhaled, watching the smoke drift into the night.

“I don’t know.”

March 19, 2021
Albatross Air Reserve Base

0730 Hours – Another Day in the War
The morning sun crept over the base, casting long shadows over the tarmac. The air was cold, but the smell of jet fuel and burning coffee from the chow hall made it feel warmer.

We weren’t flying today. Another day of waiting. Another day of preparing for the inevitable.

The base was alive with movement—mechanics working on aircraft, officers coming in and out of buildings, Cormorant and Eagle pilots moving between hangars. Some looked fresh, others carried the weight of too many missions.

I pulled my flight jacket tighter around me as I walked toward the chow hall. Hiccup was already inside, halfway through his plate, shoveling eggs into his mouth like it was his last meal.

“You ever eat like a normal person?” I muttered, sitting across from him.

He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “You ever shut up and eat?”

Fair enough.

I picked at my food while Torch and Bumper joined us. We weren’t the only ones. A few Cormorant pilots sat nearby, talking quietly among themselves. I recognized one—Laurent, the veteran.

Laurent glanced at us, then leaned over to his squadmate. “The Eagles look younger every year.”

“Yeah, well,” Torch shot back. “We age fast out here.”

Laurent smirked but didn’t argue.

1000 Hours – The Hangar
With no mission today, most of us spent the morning in the hangar. The mechanics were running final checks on our jets. Even on standby, everything had to be ready to go.

I stood by my aircraft, running my hands along the fuselage. It was strange—just a machine, metal and wiring, but up there, it felt like an extension of me.

Hiccup walked up beside me. “Think we’ll see action soon?”

I exhaled. “You know the answer to that.”

He nodded. We both did.

From across the hangar, some Cormorant pilots were checking their own birds. One of them, a guy named Calloway, was looking at us.

“You boys ever fly over the front?” he asked.

Torch answered for us. “Not yet.”

Calloway chuckled, shaking his head. “Enjoy the quiet while it lasts.”

I wasn’t sure how to take that.

1300 Hours – Outside the Barracks
We had time to kill, but no one really knew what to do with it. Some guys played cards, others wrote in notebooks or just lay on their bunks staring at the ceiling.

I sat outside, watching a group of Cormorant pilots near the flight line. They carried themselves differently—more at ease but also harder, like they’d been through this too many times already.

Laurent was among them. He caught me looking and walked over.

“Bored?”

I shrugged. “Just thinking.”

He sat down next to me, lighting a cigarette. “Bad habit,” he muttered. “But after a few years in this war, you stop caring.”

He took a drag and exhaled slowly. “You ever wonder why we fight?”

“All the time.”

He nodded. “Me too.”

We sat in silence for a while.

Before he left, he glanced at me. “Your first mission over the front… it’ll change you.”

I didn’t ask how. I already knew.

1600 Hours – The Briefing
The call came.

Viper Squadron gathered in the briefing room, along with a few officers from command. A map flickered onto the projector screen—lines and arrows, too many of them heading in the wrong direction.

The officer in charge didn’t waste time.

“The frontline is shifting. We need more assets in the air over contested territory.” He looked at us. “Viper Squadron, you’re being reassigned to Albatross Frontline Air Reserve Base.”

No one spoke.

“You’ll be running combat air patrols starting tomorrow. Expect engagement.”

We were dismissed. No one said much as we left the room.

Tomorrow, we weren’t just waiting anymore. Tomorrow, we were at war.

1800 Hours – Sunset Over Albatross
The base quieted down as the sun dipped toward the horizon. The sky burned in deep oranges and purples, the kind of view that made you forget, for just a second, where you were.

I sat on a crate near the hangar, watching the light fade.

Hiccup walked over and sat beside me. He didn’t say anything at first, just looked up at the sky.

“Think we’ll be okay?” he finally asked.

I didn’t answer right away.

“…I don’t know.”

He nodded. “Yeah. Me neither.”

The last bit of sunlight disappeared, and the air turned colder.

Tomorrow, we fly into war.

March 20, 2021
0400 Hours – Early Morning Alert
The sirens went off before the sun even touched the horizon. A long, piercing wail that rattled me awake in an instant. No time to think, just muscle memory—out of bed, boots on, flight suit zipped.

The barracks were alive with movement. Pilots shoving on gear, scrambling for the door, still shaking off sleep. I caught Bumper rubbing his eyes as he muttered, “Damn alarm’s gonna give me a heart attack one of these days.”

“Better that than a Raven missile,” I shot back.

No one laughed.

By the time we hit the tarmac, the entire base was moving like a hive that had been kicked open. Ground crews were running, mechanics checking last-minute systems, fueling trucks crawling between jets. The sky was still that deep, pre-dawn blue, and the floodlights cast long, restless shadows across the aircraft.

Viper Squadron gathered outside the hangar, tension settling in our bones as we waited for orders.

0415 Hours – Tension Before the Briefing
No one talked much. Just the occasional muttered curse, someone adjusting their gear, Torch tapping his foot against the concrete like he was trying to shake off nerves. We had all been flying together long enough to recognize the mood—this wasn’t just another patrol.

I caught Laurent and his men across the hangar, the 124th Tactical Fighter Squadron. Even from here, I could see them prepping just as fast as we were. That meant whatever was coming, it was big.

Bumper finally broke the silence, arms crossed. “We betting on what fresh hell this is?”

“Maybe another long-range strike,” Torch guessed. “Hit-and-run stuff.”

Hiccup shook his head. “Not this time. I saw extra ordnance being loaded. Someone’s expecting a dogfight.”

That didn’t sit right with me. If the Ravens were pushing this aggressively, it meant they were after something.

0430 Hours – Mission Briefing
The briefing room was packed—pilots, squad leaders, intelligence officers, all crowded around the large map at the front.

Colonel Mitchell wasted no time.

“At 0230 hours, Albatross Frontline Air Reserve Base was hit by an enemy airstrike. Ravens came in heavy—Mirages, Tornados, MQ-28 drones, Harriers. Damage assessment is ongoing, but the base is barely holding. If they push again, it’s gone.”

A heavy silence. We all knew what that meant.

“You are being scrambled to reinforce the airspace. Viper Squadron, you launch immediately. The 124th will back you up if needed.”

A satellite image flicked onto the screen—fire and smoke rising from what used to be a frontline base. Even from a grainy image, it was clear. We weren’t flying in to help. We were flying into a graveyard.

“Rules of engagement?” I asked.

Mitchell locked eyes with me. “You see a Raven jet, you kill it.”

No more words were needed.

0500 Hours – Takeoff from Albatross Air Reserve Base
The engines roared as we taxied onto the runway. The entire squadron was lined up, afterburners primed, waiting for the green light. The tower’s voice crackled in my headset—

“Viper Squadron, you are cleared for takeoff.”

I pushed the throttle forward, and the F-16 surged ahead. The G-force pressed me into the seat as the world blurred past. Within seconds, we were airborne, the base shrinking behind us.

“Form up,” I called. “Standard combat spread.”

The squadron shifted into formation, the radio filling with check-ins.

Viper 2-2, in position.
Viper 2-3, in position.
Viper 2-4, in position.
Viper 2-5, good to go.

We climbed higher, banking west toward the frontline. The sun was creeping over the horizon now, painting the sky in deep oranges and reds. A hell of a view. But none of us were looking at it.

0515 Hours – Arrival at Albatross Frontline Air Reserve Base
The moment we arrived, it was obvious.

The base was wrecked. Smoldering craters where hangars used to be. Burned-out vehicles. Fire crews scrambling to put out the last of the flames.

And then—movement. Fast, sleek shapes against the morning sky.

“Contacts! Eleven o’clock, low!” Torch called out.

I snapped my head toward them. Rafales. Mirages. A whole ♥♥♥♥♥♥♥ swarm.

“They’re coming back to finish the job,” Bumper muttered.

“Then let’s make them regret it,” I said.

0520 Hours – Engagement Begins
“Viper Squadron, weapons free.”

I didn’t even hesitate. I flipped the master arm switch—guns hot.

The sky exploded into chaos. Missiles streaked through the air, countermeasures flaring, afterburners kicking in as we merged into the fight.

A Mirage came straight at me, guns blazing. I yanked the stick hard, rolling out of his sights before snapping back around. He broke left—I stayed on him, radar lock blaring in my headset.

Fox Two.

The Sidewinder shot off the rail, screaming toward him. He dumped flares, but it wasn’t enough. The missile slammed into his wing, and a second later, his canopy blew. The ejection seat fired, and the Mirage spiraled into the dirt.

One down.

The fight raged on. Torch bagged a Harrier. Bumper splashed a drone. I saw Hiccup narrowly avoid a Rafale’s missile before Torch saved his ass.

Then I spotted another Eurofighter on my six.

0530 Hours – Low Fuel & Ammo
“Bingo fuel,” I heard someone say over comms.

I checked my own gauge—not good. We had been fighting hard, burning through ammo and fuel.

“James, we gotta wrap this up,” Torch called.

I knew he was right. We couldn’t keep this up much longer.

And then—new contacts.

“Unidentified aircraft inbound!”

For a second, I thought we were screwed. But then a familiar voice cut through the static.

“Viper Squadron, this is Laurent. We’ve got your backs.”

0540 Hours – Laurent’s Squadron Arrives
The 124th Tactical Fighter Squadron roared into the fight, missiles streaking past us as they dove into the enemy formation.

Laurent’s voice came through again, calm and commanding. “You’ve done enough. Fall back and follow us.”

I didn’t argue. “Vipers, form up. We’re leaving.”

We broke off, Laurent’s squadron covering us as we turned east. I spared one last look at the battlefield—wreckage, smoke, parachutes drifting down.

Not a victory. Not a loss. Just survival.

0600 Hours – Aftermath
We followed Laurent back to his base, my jet running on fumes. The moment I touched down, I let out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding.

I climbed out, my legs feeling heavier than usual. Torch walked past, giving me a pat on the back. “Hell of a fight, Fall-Guy.”

I just nodded.

Bumper sat on a crate, helmet off, staring at the sunrise. “This is just the beginning, isn’t it?”

I didn’t have an answer for him.

Because I knew he was right.

April 13 2023 – Albatross Air Reserve Base

0600 Hours – Another Day Begins
I woke up to the sound of my alarm, the same grating beep that had pulled me out of sleep every morning since we got here. For a second, I just lay there, staring at the ceiling of the barracks, listening to the faint hum of life outside—the distant roar of jet engines, the murmur of early risers moving around, the occasional bark of an officer drilling some poor bastard outside.

Another day.

I swung my legs over the side of the cot, rubbing my face before standing. Most of the guys were already up, getting dressed or lacing their boots. A few were sitting on their bunks, staring at nothing, minds still waking up.

“Morning, Fall-Guy,” Hiccup muttered, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes.

I nodded back and started getting dressed. Routine helped. Flight suit on, boots tight, gloves in my pocket. It was muscle memory now.

As I finished, Torch walked past, already halfway through tying his scarf around his neck.

“Briefing’s in an hour,” he reminded me.

I nodded again. Time to move.

0645 Hours – The Briefing Room
The room was already filling up when I got there. Indigo Squadron sat together, along with other pilots from different squadrons. The air smelled like stale coffee and jet fuel, a combination I was more than used to by now.

Colonel Marchand stood at the front, arms crossed as he waited for everyone to settle. As soon as the last pilot took their seat, he spoke.

“Alright, listen up. Tomorrow, we are conducting a strategic bombing operation. Twenty B-52 bombers will be hitting Raven positions across the frontline, and every squadron is responsible for ensuring those bombers make it to the target and back.”

A murmur ran through the room. Carpet bombing. We hadn’t done that since the Daidiue War.

“There is no room for error,” the colonel continued, voice sharp. “The Ravens know what we’re planning, and they’ll be waiting. Expect heavy resistance—enemy interceptors, SAM sites, maybe even AWACS support. But I don’t care what they throw at us. Our job is to make damn sure those bombers get through. Is that understood?”

A collective “Yes, sir!” filled the room.

Marchand nodded. “Good. Study the flight plan, get some rest, and be ready for tomorrow.”

With that, the briefing was over.

0715 Hours – Squadron Talk
We walked out of the briefing room together, already discussing what tomorrow’s mission meant.

“Carpet bombing,” Hiccup muttered, shaking his head. “Haven’t done that since Daidiue.”

“Yeah,” Bumper said. "The last time we did something this big, it went to hell"

I exhaled sharply and Said. “Means we gotta be even sharper tomorrow. You heard the colonel—no mistakes.”

We kept walking, but I could tell everyone was already running through the mission in their heads.

0800 Hours – The Letter
After grabbing a coffee from the mess, we found a quiet spot outside, away from the noise of the base. It was cold, but not freezing—just enough for our breath to show in the air.

Bumper sat down on a crate, pulling out a folded letter from his flight suit. “Got another one from home.”

I sipped my coffee. “Good news?”

He smiled. “Yeah. My kid finally took his first steps.”

The guys congratulated him, and Bumper chuckled, shaking his head. “Damn shame I wasn’t there to see it, though.”

I hesitated, feeling the weight of my own thoughts pressing down. The letter from Paige was still tucked in my flight suit.

Torch noticed. “You gonna open it, Fall-Guy?”

I hesitated again. I didn’t even know why. Maybe I already knew what it said. Maybe I was scared.

After a long pause, I exhaled and pulled it out. My hands felt heavier than usual as I unfolded the paper.

The words blurred for a moment before settling.

Paige is pregnant.

The squad erupted in cheers and claps on the back, but I barely registered it. My heart was hammering in my chest.

Then, before I could even think, the words slipped out.

“She was trying to let me know… but I wasn’t ready to hear it.”

The celebration died down instantly. The mood shifted.

No one said anything. No one needed to.

One by one, they left me alone.

I kept reading.

"I’m sorry I waited to tell you about the baby. I tried to the day you were heading to Cormorant Commonwealth, the day you took off."

I swallowed hard, staring at the words.

0830 Hours – A Talk with Bumper
I barely noticed when Bumper came back. He didn’t say anything at first, just sat down next to me, looking out at the runway.

After a moment, he spoke.

“I get it.”

I glanced at him.

He pulled out a photo from his flight suit, the same one he always carried. His wife. His kid.

“When I left for my first deployment, my wife was pregnant,” he said quietly. “I didn’t handle it well. I ignored it, pushed it away. Thought it was easier that way. Thought if I didn’t think about it, it wouldn’t be real.”

He looked at me then. “But it’s real, Fall-Guy. Whether you’re ready or not.”

I exhaled slowly, looking back at the letter in my hands.

Bumper clapped me on the shoulder. “You’re gonna be a father, man. And you’re gonna be a damn good one.”

Then, he stood up and walked away, leaving me alone with my thoughts.

April 14, 2023

0400 Hours – Albatross Air Reserve Base
I couldn't sleep.

Not after the briefing. Not after Bumper made that damn comment. “The last time we did something this big, it went to hell.” He was talking about the Daidieu War, about all those B-52s dropping from the sky in flames. Operation Linebacker II all over again.

And now we were about to do it again.

I sat on the edge of my bunk, staring at my boots. The barracks were silent except for the occasional rustling of someone shifting in their cot. I could hear my heartbeat in my ears. Twenty B-52s. Hundreds of escorts. And us.

Across from me, Bumper sat up and stretched, yawning. “Damn. You’re up too?”

I nodded.

He sighed, rubbing his face. "Got a bad feeling about this one."

I didn’t answer. Didn’t need to. He already knew.

“Hey, Fall-Guy,” he said after a moment. “Let’s make it out of this one, alright?”

I nodded again. But something in my gut twisted.

0500 Hours – Briefing Room
The briefing room was packed. Every squadron stationed at Albatross was crammed in—the tension was heavy, like a storm about to break.

The colonel stepped up. He didn’t need to call for silence; everyone was already dead quiet.

“All right, listen up.”

The room stiffened.

“This morning, we launch the biggest bombing raid of the war. Operation Babylon’s Fall. Twenty B-52 bombers will take off at 0600 hours. Every squadron is running escort.” He exhaled. “The Ravens know we’re coming. They’re going to throw everything they have at us—Rafales, Mirages, Drakens, Viggens, Tornados, Jaguars, Harriers, MQ-28 drones. Expect overwhelming resistance.”

Someone shifted in their seat.

“This is a high-risk mission,” the colonel continued. “The bombers must reach their target, no matter the cost.” He scanned the room.

“…I won’t lie. Some of you won’t be coming back.”

That sat heavy in my gut.

Then he nodded. “Get to your jets.”

0630 Hours – Outside the Barracks
Bumper leaned against the wall, rolling an unlit cigarette between his fingers. He never smoked—just carried one before big missions. Said it was a ritual.

The sun was starting to rise, casting long shadows across the tarmac.

He exhaled slowly. “I hate these big ops.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” He looked at me. “Too much room for things to go wrong.”

I didn’t say anything.

Then he smirked, nudging me. “Don’t jinx me, Fall-Guy.”

I forced a chuckle. “See you on the other side.”

“Yeah,” he said, looking at the horizon. “See you on the other side.”

I wish I had said more.

March 2016 – Operation Babylon’s Fall
It was supposed to be just another mission.

We launched with the rising sun, a wall of metal and firepower streaking across the sky. B-52s rumbled ahead, a fortress in the air. Indigo Squadron flanked them, our job clear—keep the bombers safe at all costs.

Then the Ravens came.

First, it was a few blips on radar. Then a dozen. Then two dozen.

"Here we go."

They hit us hard—Eurofighters screaming in, Rafales and Mirages dancing through the chaos. Missiles lit the sky. Indigo Squadron broke formation, engaging targets left and right. I locked onto a Tornado, squeezed the trigger—splash one.

Then I heard it.

"Bumper’s hit! Bumper’s hit!"

My blood ran cold.

I twisted my head, searching the sky. Smoke. A trail of fire.

"I’m losing it!" Bumper’s voice was strained, panicked.

“Eject!” I shouted.

Nothing.

Then—

Fireball.

No chute.

Silence on the radio.

I froze.

Everything else disappeared.

The war. The mission. The Ravens.

All I saw was the wreckage spiraling down.

"No. No, no, no."

Then something inside me snapped.

I throttled forward, eyes locked onto the nearest enemy jet—a Mirage banking hard to my right. I didn’t think. I just chased.

Missile lock—fired.

Missed.

I pushed harder, chasing him into the clouds. Another shot—missed.

My breathing was ragged, hands shaking. I wanted him dead. I needed him dead.

But I wasn’t thinking.

Alarms blared. Missile warning.

"FALL-GUY, BREAK! BREAK!"

I was too slow.

Explosion.

My jet rattled, warning lights screaming. I fought for control, barely stabilizing before impact.

I nearly died.

And for what?

Bumper was still gone.

And I had failed.

Aftermath – Full Retreat
"All units, this is Eagle Command!"

The voice crackled over the radio, urgent, strained. “Fall back! Fall back! Full retreat! The mission is compromised!”

I barely heard it.

"Fall-Guy! We’re getting out of here! Where the hell are you?!"

I wasn’t moving.

I was still staring at the smoke where Bumper had been.

"James! MOVE!"

Someone’s jet streaked past me, afterburners roaring. It snapped me out of it.

I pulled the stick hard, turning back toward the fleeing bombers. Some of them had already gone down, their burning husks littering the ground below.

We had lost.

I gritted my teeth and followed the others, my hands gripping the controls like a vise. The sky was littered with wreckage, with fire, with ghosts.

The Ravens didn’t chase us.

They didn’t have to.

We had already lost.

Albatross Air Reserve Base – Aftermath
We landed in silence.

No one spoke. No one looked at each other.

I climbed out of my jet, my legs heavy, my head pounding. I didn’t even remember taxiing back.

Someone was yelling. I ignored them.

The squad was gathered near the hangar. Bumper’s jet was missing from the lineup.

I walked past them. Past the officers. Past the mechanics.

Straight to the barracks.

I sat on my bunk, staring at my hands.

Bumper’s bunk was empty.

I pulled Paige’s letter from my pocket, staring at her words.

"When the war is over, we’ll get married."

But the war wasn’t over.

And I had just lost my best friend.

I clenched the letter, my vision blurring.

Outside, the war machine kept moving.

But inside?

Inside, I was broken.

April 18, 2023
Albatross Air Reserve Base

A Few Days After Bumper Went Down
He was there. Then he wasn’t.

♥♥♥♥.

I can’t shake it. The feeling. The weight of it. One minute, he’s laughing about something stupid. The next, he’s gone.

He left his wife. His kid.

I should write her. Tell her something. Anything.

Later.

I step out of the barracks. The cold bites, but I barely feel it. My boots move on instinct, carrying me to the mess hall. The air is thick with the scent of burnt coffee and grease. The usual smell of the war machine grinding forward.

I pour a cup. Black. No sugar. No cream.

The squad is already at our table. Nobody talks.

Hiccup pokes at his food. He’s not eating. No appetite. Rerun stares at the table, eyes unfocused. Torch—he just sits there, silent.

Then he speaks. His voice is low.

"They knew."

We look at him.

"They were waiting for us before we even crossed into their airspace. That’s not just bad luck."

Rerun exhales sharply. "Coincidence."

Torch shakes his head. "Come on, man. The Ravens aren’t psychic. They were tipped off."

Hiccup shifts. "Command isn’t saying anything about it either."

We all know why.

Torch leans in. "Of course they’re not. They don’t want us asking questions. But tell me—doesn’t it feel off to you?"

I want to answer. Say something. But what the hell do I even say?

I mumble something. Half an answer.

It doesn’t matter.

Briefing’s about to start. We head there.

Briefing Room – 0900 Hours
The colonel stands at the front, hands clasped behind his back. His expression doesn’t change.

"You all know what happened yesterday," he says. "Losses were heavy. We’re still assessing the situation."

Still assessing.

Like they don’t already know.

"This war doesn’t stop. We’re rotating fresh pilots in to replace the losses. Missions will proceed as scheduled."

That’s it.

No mention of Bumper. No moment of silence. No acknowledgment of what we lost.

Torch doesn’t wait for dismissal. He’s already out the door.

I follow.

Barracks – 1030 Hours
Letter from Home
I found a new letter on my bunk. Paige’s handwriting.

My hands were steady as I opened it.

"James—"

"I miss you. I know things must be hard over there, but I wanted to tell you something happy for once. The baby kicked today. Just once, but I felt it. It’s real now. You’re going to be a father."

I exhaled.

"I hope you’re safe. I hope you’re eating. I hope you’re coming home."

"I love you."

I folded the letter carefully and placed it beside the first one.

Then I sat back, staring at the ceiling.

I didn’t deserve those words. Not after yesterday.

Not after I failed.

The room is quiet.

Too quiet.

I look at Bumper’s bunk. It’s still made. Neat. Untouched.

I stare at it, waiting. Maybe I’ll hear his voice. A joke. A laugh. Something.

Nothing. Just silence.

I open his locker. My fingers hesitate on the handle before I pull it open.

His flight suit still hangs inside. Helmet still on the shelf.

Between a few books, I see them—letters from home. Photos. One letter, unfinished.

I pull it out, carefully unfolding it.

"See you soon, kiddo."

I swallow hard. Fold the letter. Put it back.

I grab some paper. Start writing.

Letter to Bumper’s Wife
"Mrs. Fields,"

"Your husband, Captain Logan ‘Bumper’ Fields, was a good man. A great pilot. A best friend. A brother."

"You may not know me, but I flew with him. I miss him. We all do."

"I’m sending his things back home. His letters. His photos. His flight gear. I figured you’d want them."

"I don’t know what else to say, except… he talked about you and your kid all the time. You were his world. And I’m sorry. I really am."

"Regards, James Callahan."

I seal the letter.

I start packing Bumper’s things. Making sure nothing gets left behind.

Then I grab another piece of paper.

It’s time to write home.

Letter to My Family
"Hey Dad, Mom, Connor, Lily, Grandpa, Grandma,"

"I’m writing this from the barracks. Yeah, I know—shocking, right? James can actually write."

"I hope you’re all doing okay. I’m fine. The food’s awful, but I’m used to it."

"I miss home. I miss you all."

"Mom, your firstborn is hanging in there. Don’t worry. It’ll be okay."

"Connor & Lily, hope you two are doing alright. Connor, you’re getting older. Maybe time to find a girl, huh? (Kidding. Kind of.) Lily, be careful. There’s a lot of guys out there who aren’t worth your time. Connor, look out for her. I know you two don’t always get along, but do it for me. And Connor—if any guy feels off? Hit him. Hard."

"Grandpa, I miss working on the tractor with you. Grandma, I miss your cooking. This place is hell. Do me a favor—when I get back, make those cookies I’ve been craving."

"Dad, I miss you. I miss the time we had together. Am I making you proud? Please tell me I am."

"Also… I lost someone. A friend. And now I think I understand what you went through."

"I love you, Dad."

"Your son, James Callahan."

Letter to Paige
"Dear Paige,"

"I hope you’re okay. I hope you’re more than okay."

"I miss you. God, I miss you."

"When I think of you, I think of home. The flowers on the great plains. The way the wind moves through them. That feeling of peace. But the distance between us… it’s breaking me."

"Falling in love with you was the easiest thing I’ve ever done. It still is. Every day, I know that."

"I loved you the day I met you. I love you now. I’ll love you tomorrow. I’ll love you for the rest of my life."

"And I need you to know—I’m ready. I’m ready to be a dad. I want to meet our kid."

"I love you."

"More than anything."

"Yours truly, James Everett Callahan."

1300 Hours – The War Moves On
I found Torch sitting outside, legs stretched out, cigarette burning between his fingers.

"They’re already replacing him," he muttered.

I sat beside him.

He let out a dry chuckle. "New guy’s probably gonna take his callsign, too. Just like that, Bumper’s wiped out. Gone. Like he never existed."

I didn’t respond.

"They don’t care," he continued. "They don’t care that he had a wife, a kid. That he was the best damn wingman I ever had."

He crushed the cigarette under his boot.

I stared at the horizon. The war machine never stopped. New pilots, new missions, new casualties. It kept turning, grinding us down, spitting us out.

"See you on the other side," I murmured.

Torch looked at me.

I looked back at him.

"We make the Ravens pay," I said.

He didn’t answer.

But the look in his eyes told me he was already thinking the same thing.

April 20, 2023
0400 Hours – Albatross Air Reserve Base

I’ve never been a light sleeper, but something about the way Torch moved—too careful, too quiet—pulled me out of whatever restless dreams I was having. His boots stopped beside my cot. Then a rough shake.

“Torch,” I muttered, rubbing my eyes. “Whatever it is, it can wait until morning.”

“No, it can’t.”

That woke me up.

Torch was loud, reckless, a pain in the ass. But paranoid? Never. If he was whispering in the middle of the night, if he was dragging me out of bed, something was wrong.

I sat up. “Alright. Talk.”

“Not here.”

Great.

I pulled on my boots and followed him into the cold night. The base was silent, just the low hum of generators and the occasional sweep of headlights from perimeter patrols. He led me behind the supply shed, out of sight. His breath came shallow, his shoulders tight. I’d seen Torch nervous before—but not like this.

“There’s a traitor on base,” he finally said.

I let out a slow breath. “Torch—”

“It’s The Vet.”

I frowned. Laurent “The Vet” wasn’t the friendly type, but he wasn’t a troublemaker either. He kept his head down, did his job, didn’t pick fights. A traitor? That was a hell of an accusation.

“You got proof?” I asked.

Torch hesitated. “Not exactly.”

I exhaled hard. “Then what the hell are we doing here?”

“Just listen.” He took a step closer. “You remember Babylon Fall?”

My jaw tightened. Of course, I remembered. That was the op where Bumper got shot down.

Torch’s voice dropped lower. “I saw The Vet chasing him.”

I went still.

“Not covering his six—chasing,” Torch said. “Hunting. I watched him fire.” He swallowed hard. “Then Bumper was gone.”

A slow chill crawled up my spine.

I wasn’t sure what I hated more—that Torch was saying it, or that I could picture it too damn easily.

“You didn’t say anything before,” I muttered.

“I wasn’t sure what I saw.” Torch exhaled sharply. “But then I started watching him. James—he’s always on his phone.”

“So?”

“Not like us. Every. Damn. Minute. Like he’s waiting for something.”

Now that he mentioned it… yeah. The Vet was always checking his phone.

Torch pressed on. “So, I followed him last night. Out to the dead zone.”

That got my attention. The dead zone was a spot on base with no signal—no reason to be there unless you didn’t want to be found.

“What did you see?” I asked.

Torch hesitated. Then, like he didn’t want to say it out loud—“He was talking to someone.”

“Talking to who?”

“I don’t know. That’s the thing. No signal out there. No reception. But he was having a full conversation.”

I frowned. “Could’ve been a recording.”

“Maybe.” Torch clenched his jaw. “But James—he was speaking Latin.”

That stopped me cold.

“Latin?”

Torch nodded. “I don’t know what he said, but it wasn’t English, and it sure as hell wasn’t a language I’ve ever heard him speak.”

That made no sense. Why the hell would The Vet be speaking Latin?

Torch met my eyes. “I need you to get into his barracks. Find anything—maps, documents, something that proves I’m not crazy.”

I exhaled hard. Breaking into another pilot’s quarters? Career-ending. Court-martialed. Thrown-to-the-wolves bad.

But if Torch was right—

If The Vet really did fire on Bumper, if he really was up to something—

I ran a hand through my hair. “Fine. We’ll do it in the morning. Mess hall time.”

Torch nodded, but I could tell he wasn’t relieved.

Neither was I.

Because no matter how this played out, it wasn’t going to end well.

0700 Hours – The Mess Hall
Morning came with the same dull routine—tray in hand, half-awake, sliding into our usual spot. The smell of burnt coffee and powdered eggs lingered in the air. Rerun was already into his second helping, chewing with his mouth open while Hiccup rattled off some story about a girl back home. Torch sat across from me, stirring his oatmeal like it wasn’t even there.

I wasn’t really there either.

Because last night, Torch told me something I couldn’t ignore.

There’s a traitor on base.

The Vet was late. No sign of him in the mess hall. No one else seemed to notice.

Torch caught my eye. A small glance. This was our window.

I pushed my tray aside and stood up. “Hitting the head.”

“Don’t fall in,” Rerun muttered.

Torch followed a minute later.

0930 Hours – The Barracks
Getting into The Vet’s room was easy. No one questioned us—just two guys walking the halls like we belonged. The hard part was getting inside.

Torch handled that. “Borrowed” a spare key card from supply. No questions asked.

The lock beeped. We stepped in.

His room was squared away. Too neat, even for him. No loose papers. No out-of-place gear. But on the desk—his phone.

Torch picked it up. “Locked.”

Of course, it was.

“Can we crack it?” I asked.

Torch smirked. “I know a guy.”

1100 Hours – Cracking the Phone
Rerun could break into damn near anything. Planes. Radios. Phones. Give him five minutes and a reason, and he’d find a way.

He glanced at the device in Torch’s hand. “Should I ask where you got that?”

Torch tossed it to him. “Just do your thing.”

Rerun sighed but pulled out his laptop. “Might take a minute.”

We waited. Torch paced. My pulse ticked in my ears.

Then—

“Got it.”

The screen lit up. Unlocked.

I leaned in. “What are we looking for?”

1110 Hours – The First Clue
Torch started scrolling. Messages. Emails.

Nothing. Nothing.

Then—something.

One email. Encrypted.

Torch shot a look at Rerun. “Can you read this?”

Rerun’s fingers flew over the keyboard. Then he stiffened.

I stepped forward. “What?”

Rerun turned the screen toward me.

A message log. Sent at 0400 hours.

A single line, translated from Latin:

“The pieces are in place. Awaiting final orders.”

A cold weight settled in my chest.

Torch muttered, “What the hell does that mean?”

Then—coordinates.

I felt my stomach drop.

One set of numbers. Familiar.

Right on top of our base.

1130 Hours – A Dangerous Choice
Torch exhaled hard. “We take this to command, right? We have to.”

I didn’t answer.

If The Vet was compromised, who else was?

If we handed this over to the wrong person, we wouldn’t just be ignored—we’d be dead.

Torch saw my hesitation. “James—”

I met his eyes. “We find out what’s coming.”

A beat of silence.

Then he nodded.

No turning back now.

April 21, 2023, Albatross Air Reserve Base

1200 Hours – Briefing Room
I’ve sat through more debriefs than I can count. Some good, most bad. But this wasn’t like any of those.

This was different.

Torch and I stood in front of the briefing table like we were waiting for a verdict. Across from us, Colonel Devereux flipped through the files—messages, coordinates, orders written in Latin, all pulled from The Vet’s phone. He didn’t look at us. Just read. His expression never changed.

Major Halverson, the XO, wasn’t as composed. His fingers tapped against the desk, glasses sliding down his nose as he squinted at the pages like they didn’t make sense.

I tried to keep my breathing steady, but my hands were clenched into fists. This was it. Either they believed us, or we were done.

Devereux finally set the papers down. He leaned back, exhaled slow.

“This is serious.”

No kidding.

I forced myself to speak. “Sir, we believe Flight Officer Laurent has been leaking intel. We have messages, encrypted logs, a list of coordinates—”

Devereux raised a hand. I shut up.

“I don’t need convincing, Lieutenant.”

That threw me. Command never listened this fast.

He turned to Halverson. “Get Military Intelligence on this. I want him in custody before he wipes anything.”

The XO nodded and reached for the phone. Torch shot me a look, like he couldn’t believe it either.

Devereux stood. “McAdams.”

A lieutenant snapped to attention. “Sir.”

“Take your men to Flight Officer Laurent’s barracks. Arrest him under military law for espionage and treason.”

That was it. No debates, no red tape. Just like that, The Vet was done.

1230 Hours – Barracks, The Vet’s Room
The MPs hit his room like a sledgehammer. Boots pounding, voices sharp.

“Flight Officer Laurent! Hands where we can see them!”

I expected him to fight. Run. Do something.

He didn’t.

He just sat there on his cot, staring at the wall. Like he’d been waiting.

They forced him to his feet, yanked his arms behind his back, and slapped the cuffs on. He barely reacted. Didn’t ask what was happening. Didn’t argue.

Just stood there, head tilted slightly, like he was listening to something only he could hear.

Torch and I watched from the hallway. I should’ve felt relieved. But I didn’t.

Then The Vet turned his head. His eyes locked onto mine.

And he smiled.

Not nervous. Not afraid.

Like he knew something we didn’t.

The MP sergeant read him his rights. “Flight Officer Laurent, you are hereby detained under Article 104 of the Military Code. You are being investigated for treason against the Eagle Federation. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a military tribunal.”

Nothing. No reaction.

As they led him past, I saw it again—that smirk.

And for the first time since this started, I felt like we hadn’t won anything at all.

1300 Hours – The Mess Hall
Everything should’ve felt normal again. We caught him. Stopped whatever the hell he was planning.

But it didn’t feel like a win.

Torch sat across from me, pushing food around his tray. Rerun and Hiccup were off somewhere, probably still trying to piece together what happened.

I just stared at my coffee. It had gone cold, but I didn’t care.

Torch exhaled hard. “Why was he so calm?” His voice was quiet, like he didn’t want anyone else to hear. “Like he wanted us to catch him?”

I didn’t have an answer.

Because deep down, I had the same thought.

This wasn’t over. Not even close.

1700 Hours – Outside the Hangar
I was on my way back to the barracks when I nearly walked straight into Colonel Devereux.

He stopped, glanced at me, then nodded like he’d been meaning to find me anyway.

“Lieutenant Callahan.”

“Sir.”

He studied me for a second, then said, “Military Intelligence just confirmed something.” He exhaled, shaking his head. “Laurent wasn’t just a traitor.”

Something cold settled in my gut. “What was he?”

Devereux looked me dead in the eye.

“A Raven sleeper agent.”

I swallowed hard.

Ravens. The enemy’s best infiltrators. Trained to blend in, gather intel, sabotage from the inside.

And one of them had been sleeping right next to us this whole time.

1800 Hours – Barracks, My Cot
I sat on my cot, staring at the ceiling, running it all back in my head. The signs we missed. The things that didn’t add up. How long had he been here? How much had he fed them? How close had we really come to losing everything?

The thought made my stomach turn.

Torch sat on the bunk across from me, arms resting on his knees. “So what now?”

I didn’t answer right away. I wasn’t sure. We stopped The Vet—Laurent, or whatever the hell his real name was. But that smile he gave me, that damn smirk—he wasn’t afraid. He wasn’t caught off guard.

Because this wasn’t the end.

Just the beginning.

I exhaled slowly. “We stay ready.”

Torch nodded, but his jaw was tight. He felt it too.

We got lucky this time.

Next time, we might not.

April 24, 2023
0600 Hours

Few days since Laurent’s arrest. His face still lingers in my head. The way he looked at me—like he knew this was coming. Like he wasn’t surprised. And that damn smile.

I tell myself we did the right thing. That he was dangerous, that he was feeding intel to the enemy. That this will keep us safe.

But what if we were wrong?

I don’t know. I don’t know anything anymore.

I just know I’m still here. I’m still breathing. And at this point, survival is the only thing I can hold onto.

Briefing
0630 Hours

The Colonel didn’t waste time. He never does.

"Today, we’re relocating. Pack your gear, eat, be ready to take off. That’s all you need to know. Dismissed."

A few guys muttered under their breath, some nodding like they’d been waiting for this. Others barely reacted. Just another day, another order.

Me? I didn’t care. A new base doesn’t change anything. The war still follows us. The war still owns us.

Torch checked his watch, looking bored, like he was counting down the seconds. Rerun had his head in his hands, still half-asleep. Poor bastard probably rolled out of bed five minutes before the briefing.

And Hiccup? Out cold.

I thought about slapping him awake, but I wasn’t in the mood for getting decked first thing in the morning.

We’re all running on fumes.

Final Glance at the Old Base
0745 Hours

Before heading to the hangars, I took a walk. One last look at the place.

The cracked tarmac, the rusting hangars, the sandbags stacked against old buildings that had seen better days. The fading squadron insignias painted on the walls.

This place had been home. For better or worse.

I found myself near one of the older hangars, the kind no one really used anymore. And inside, covered in dust and forgotten by time, was a plane. An old fighter, maybe from the 60s or 70s.

I ran a hand along the fuselage, feeling the cold metal beneath my fingertips. There was something about it—something that made me stop and stare. This jet had seen wars long before mine. It had been flown, fought in, probably survived things that should’ve killed it.

And now it just sat here, forgotten.

I pulled out my phone, took a picture.

Didn’t know why. Maybe because, in some way, I felt the same.

Mess Hall
0815 Hours

Breakfast was the usual disappointment—rubbery eggs, stale toast, coffee that tasted like motor oil.

We sat together, like always. Me, Torch, Rerun, Hiccup.

Torch pushed his eggs around his plate, lost in thought. Rerun yawned between bites, still waking up. Hiccup? Somehow, even while eating, looked like he was ready to pass out again.

We started talking about the new base.

"Think the food’ll be better?" Rerun asked.

"Can’t be worse," Torch muttered.

"Maybe the showers actually work," I said.

"Or maybe they actually have phone signal," Rerun added.

That got my attention.

If the base had a signal, I could call home. I could hear Paige’s voice.

That’s all I wanted.

Takeoff from Albatross Air Reserve Base
0930 Hours

The cockpit hummed beneath me, alive with the steady whine of the engines. My hands moved on instinct, running through the preflight checklist.

"Control, Viper Two-One. Radio check."

A brief pause. Then—"Loud and clear, Viper Two-One."

Across the tarmac, my squadron sat in formation. Rerun. Hiccup. Torch. All of us strapped in, visors down, hands ready on the throttle. The morning sky stretched above us, dark blue fading into gold.

One by one, our taxi lights flicked on.

"Viper Squadron, cleared for takeoff."

I took one last look at the base. The place we’d called home for months.

Then I pushed the throttle forward.

The jet lurched, rolling down the runway. The speed built—100 knots, 150, 180—until the desert floor blurred beneath me.

Then I pulled back.

The wheels lifted.

The ground fell away.

Mid-Flight Over Albatross
1015 Hours

Altitude: 30,000 feet.

Below us, Albatross stretched for miles—rolling green fields, rivers twisting through valleys, little villages that looked frozen in time. It wasn’t like the last place. No desert, no dust choking the air.

It almost looked peaceful.

"Check that out," Rerun’s voice crackled over the radio. "That’s Saint-Dizier, right there."

I looked down. The new base. Our new home.

Whatever that meant.

First Impressions of Mont-de-Marsan AFB - 1045 Hours

Landing was smooth.

The moment I stepped off the jet, I could feel the difference. The air smelled cleaner. The runways were newer. The barracks actually looked livable.

And the mess hall?

I could smell real food from across the tarmac.

We walked toward the hangars, taking it all in. It was an upgrade, sure. But war doesn’t care about nice bases. War follows you.

War doesn’t stop just because the accommodations improve.

A Letter from Home
1200 Hours

After unloading, I went looking for a phone. The base had signal.

A good one.

One new message.

Paige.

I opened it. Read it. Read it again.

I exhaled.

She was okay. That’s all I needed to know.

A New Mission Looming
1300 Hours

Didn’t even get a full day to settle in before the next briefing.

The hangar was full, pilots sitting on folding chairs, the higher-ups waiting at the front. Mission folders stacked on the table.

Another mission. Another fight.

New base. Same war.

I sat down, pen in hand, waiting for the next orders.

No rest for the living.

April 25, 2023
I woke up at 0430. Still tired. Still feel like ♥♥♥♥.

Rolled out of the bunk, feet hitting the cold floor. My body ached—leftover strain from the last mission, or maybe just everything catching up. I don’t know. I just sat there for a second, rubbing my face, trying to remember the last time I actually felt rested. Couldn’t.

0630 – Mess Hall
The usual place, but today? They stepped it up. Eggs, bacon, and toast? Sure. But there were fresh croissants, some kind of cheesy quiche, even a damn fruit salad. Not to mention hash browns with just the right amount of crispy edges. I could’ve sworn I smelled fresh coffee, too—not the usual burnt sludge they give us.

Torch, sitting across from me, glanced up. He'd already picked at his eggs, but he was eyeing the croissants with an almost hungry look. "Guess they’re making an effort this morning," he said, grabbing one.

Hiccup looked half-dead as usual, but when he saw the quiche, he gave a little grunt of approval. Rerun was busy arguing with himself about whether he wanted the fruit salad or the waffles, like it was some kind of life-or-death decision.

The chatter was lighter than usual—everyone seemed too tired to do much more than chew and look at the food like it was a foreign concept. But damn, I wasn’t complaining. Just wish I could’ve enjoyed it more.

0730. Briefing room.

Briefing Room – Mont-de-Marsan AFB
Colonel Devereux stood at the front, arms behind his back, giving that usual, unreadable look. The satellite feed flickered on the projector—SAM sites, radar installations, some reinforced bunkers hidden away in enemy territory.

"This is a precision strike," he said, tone as steady as always. "Viper and Strider squadrons, you will push deep into contested airspace and eliminate these targets. Quick in-and-out. Expect resistance."

Viper Squadron—us—was tasked with the bombing. Strider Squadron would handle the cover. I looked over at them. Their lead pilot, callsign Trigger, was at the end of the row. Word was he had over a hundred kills. All I saw was a F-22 with three slashes painted on the tail. No ego, no unnecessary flair. Just business.

He caught me looking. Just a nod. That was it.

"Final checks in twenty," Devereux finished. "Wheels up at 0900."

0900 – Takeoff from Mont-de-Marsan AFB
Engines roared to life. The cockpit vibrated beneath me as I ran through the preflight checks, my fingers moving automatically. The morning sky stretched out ahead—clear, almost like it was daring us to take it on.

"Control, Viper Two-One. Radio check."

"Loud and clear, Viper Two-One."

I glanced at the runway. Strider Squadron was taxiing, their jets lined up, each one in perfect sync. A quiet professionalism about them. Trigger was in the lead, eyes scanning the horizon as if everything were already calculated.

"Viper Squadron, Strider Squadron, cleared for takeoff."

Throttle forward. The jet surged beneath me, the world blurring by as I picked up speed—100 knots, 150, 180—until the ground fell away. Then, with a controlled pull, the wheels left the earth. The jet climbed.

Mid-Flight Over Albatross
The comms were quiet. Just the sound of engines, steady and constant. Strider Squadron was just above us, their formations sharp. No wasted energy. No unnecessary chatter.

"Viper Two-One, Strider-One. Possible enemy patrol near the AO," Trigger's voice crackled through.

I checked the radar. Four blips. Nothing I hadn’t seen before.

"Copy, Strider-One. Proceed as planned."

The clock was ticking. No time to waste.

The Strike – Enemy Territory
SAM sites in sight, nestled in a valley. Radar signatures flared up. I switched to weapon systems.

"Viper Two-One, weapons hot."

One by one, we all confirmed. I targeted a cluster of sites, locked on.

"Fox Three."

Missiles away.

Seconds later, the valley erupted in fire and smoke. Sites wiped out. Mission complete.

The Skirmish
Then came the alarms.

"Four bandits inbound."

Mirage Squadron was already on it, their missiles cutting through the air. The dogfight was on, but everything was swift and clean.

I found my target—a lone enemy jet. My radar locked on.

Missile launched. The enemy tried to break, but it was too late. A fiery explosion as it went down.

Trigger? He took out two. Like it was nothing.

The Devil in the Sky
Never thought I’d see the devil. But I did today.

He took out two aircraft at once—clean, effortless. No radio call, no wasted movement. Just gone. It wasn’t luck. It wasn’t desperation. It was skill, honed into something lethal.

I turned my head just in time to see him—Strider One. The three strikes on his fuselage, bold against the gray sky. He wasn’t celebrating. He wasn’t even looking at the wreckage. Just another job done.

And then, for the briefest moment, he looked at me. Just a second. A glance through the canopy, past the blur of motion and fire. No words, no bravado. Just understanding.

I gave a small nod.

He did the same.

Then he banked right, disappearing into the clouds.

And just like that, the devil was gone.

The Escape
"AO is clear. Time to go."

The afterburners kicked in. We turned for home, Strider Squadron flanking us. The radio stayed silent, but we didn’t need words.

We were all still alive. And I had a feeling—so was Trigger.

Journal Entry – April 27, 2023
Mont-de-Marsan AFB

After that mission, command said no missions for a few days.

I should’ve felt relieved. Should’ve been grateful for the break. Instead, I just felt… off. Like my body hadn’t gotten the memo. I still woke up at 0430. Still felt the need to check my gear, go over pre-flight routines in my head. My hands still twitched, like they were waiting to grip the stick, ready to pull back, to maneuver.

But there was no mission.

Just silence.

Just the weight in my chest that I couldn’t shake.

The Call to Paige
The rec room was half-empty when I picked up the receiver.

I don’t even remember deciding to call her. My body just moved, like muscle memory, like instinct. Maybe I just wanted to hear her voice. Maybe I just needed something—anything—to remind me that life existed outside of this base.

The dial tone rang once. Twice.

Then—

“James?”

Her voice.

I closed my eyes, gripping the phone tighter. It had only been a few days, but it felt like months. Like years.

I exhaled. “Hey.”

She let out a breath—relieved, but cautious. “I was getting worried.”

I hesitated. I didn’t know what to say to that. So I lied.

“I’m fine.”

The pause wasn’t long. But it was long enough.

“Don’t do that,” she said softly.

I swallowed hard. “Do what?”

“Pretend.”

My throat tightened. I glanced around the room, trying to find something to ground me.

Hiccup was on the couch, a magazine draped over his face. Rerun was flipping a poker chip between his fingers, eyes trained on his cards. Torch was off somewhere, probably scribbling in that damn notebook of his.

Everything felt… normal. But I wasn’t.

“I miss you, James,” Paige said, voice cracking.

And just like that, my whole body locked up.

My breath caught, my vision blurred, and suddenly, I was gripping the phone like it was the only thing keeping me from coming apart at the seams.

“I miss you too,” I murmured.

Then I heard it—the quiet hitch in her breath. The sharp inhale. The sound of her trying to hold it together.

And then—

She broke.

A shaky sob, barely muffled. Then another.

Something in my chest collapsed.

“Paige…” My voice cracked.

“I hate this,” she whispered.

“I know.”

“I hate that you’re out there. I hate that I don’t know if you’re okay. I hate waking up alone. I hate—” She cut herself off with a sharp breath. “I hate that I don’t know if you’ll come back.”

I shut my eyes, pressing the heel of my hand against them.

“I’m sorry,” I rasped. “I’m so ♥♥♥♥♥♥♥ sorry, Paige.”

She sniffled, but she didn’t speak. Neither did I.

For a long time, we just breathed together, holding onto the silence, onto the fact that, for now, we were both still here.

Then, softer—

“He kicks, you know.”

My breath stopped.

I didn’t move. Didn’t blink.

Paige let out a shaky laugh, but it wasn’t happy. Just tired. Just broken.

“He started kicking last week,” she whispered. “And you weren’t here.”

The words shattered something inside me.

I clenched my jaw, trying to swallow the lump in my throat.

“I should be there,” I forced out. “I should be with you.”

She let out a slow, trembling breath. “Yeah. You should.”

Another silence.

I could hear her breathing, could picture her sitting on our bed, one hand resting over her stomach. Could see the tears running down her face.

I should’ve said something. Anything.

But all I could do was press my fingers against my eyes and try to breathe.

A voice called my name across the room.

Reality snapped back.

“I should go,” I said.

A pause. Then, softer—“Okay.”

“Stay safe, James.”

I wanted to promise. Wanted to tell her I’d come home. That I’d be okay.

But we both knew I couldn’t.

So instead, I just said, “I’ll call you soon.”

And then, I hung up.

Someone Calls His Name
I didn’t move.

Just stood there, staring at the dead receiver in my hand. My breath was still shaky, my fingers still tight around the plastic.

“Hey, Fall-Guy.”

I turned.

Rerun was watching me from his seat, poker chip still flipping between his fingers. His expression was unreadable.

“You good, man?”

The words felt heavy. Too heavy to say.

So I swallowed, forced a nod. “Yeah.”

He studied me for a second. Then, with a small shrug, he went back to his cards.

The rec room was loud again. But I wasn’t there anymore.

Stepping Outside for a Smoke
The cold hit me the second I stepped out.

I pulled out a cigarette, lighting it with shaky hands. The ember glowed in the dark as I took a drag, the smoke curling into the night air.

I exhaled slow, watching the smoke drift.

My mind wandered—Paige, home, our baby.

Was she still crying?

Did she hate me for leaving?

I rubbed a hand down my face, sighing.

Somewhere in the distance, I could hear the hum of jets in the hangar. The war wasn’t over. Not even close.

Returning to the Rec Room
When I stepped back inside, it felt… different.

The warmth hit me first, the low hum of voices, the shuffle of poker chips.

Hiccup was still half-asleep, the magazine slipping off his face. Rerun was still flipping his chip. Torch was still hunched over his notebook, scribbling away.

Like nothing had changed.

Like I hadn’t just broken down over the phone with the woman I loved.

I stood there for a long time, watching them.

Then, without a word, I turned and headed for my bunk.

I needed sleep.

Even if I knew it wouldn’t come.

December 20, 2025
Mont-de-Marsan AFB

Journal Entry

Few months later. Same airbase. Same war. Same ♥♥♥♥.

Bombing runs. Air superiority. Close air support. Rinse and repeat. Got fifteenth kills to my name now—not that it means much. The numbers blur together. The missions do too. One day bleeds into the next. Wake up, brief, fly, fight, land, sleep. Do it all over again.

I can’t wait to go home.

I miss home. I miss my family. And I miss Paige. More than anything.

Some nights, I dream I’m back home. Paige is there, the baby too. I can almost hear her laugh, feel the warmth of her hand in mine. Then I wake up, and all I hear is the hum of the barracks, the distant roar of jet engines. The cold air, the fluorescent lights, the smell of fuel and steel—it reminds me where I really am.

I tell myself it’s almost over. Just a little longer. One last mission, maybe two. Then I’ll be home. But I don’t know if I believe it anymore.

A knock on the metal frame of my bunk snaps me out of it.

“Hey, briefing’s about to start,” Hiccup says.

I blink, shaking off the haze. He’s standing at the edge of my bunk, arms crossed, waiting.

“Yeah,” I mutter. “I’m coming.”

He nods and walks off, but I don’t move right away.

I glance down at my locker, at the photo tucked inside. Paige. She’s smiling, sunlight in her hair, holding the baby in her arms.

I run a thumb over the edge of the picture.

Just a little longer. One last mission. Then I’ll be home.

I tuck it back in place, take a deep breath, and stand.

Time to go.

Briefing Room – December 4, 2016

The room is packed. Pilots, flight leads, squadron commanders—all crammed into the dimly lit briefing hall. The air is thick with exhaustion and stale coffee.

I find a seat near the back, arms crossed, waiting. Torch is beside me, silent. Rerun’s rubbing his temples, like he already has a headache. Hiccup’s half-awake, tapping his fingers on the table. Just another day. Just another mission.

Then the Colonel walks in. The room goes quiet.

“Alright, listen up,” he says, voice sharp. “Take a seat and shut up.”

A click. The projector hums to life, casting maps and satellite images onto the wall. Targets. Airfields. Infrastructure.

“We’re hitting them where it hurts,” the Colonel continues. “Raven’s own home. Every major air base in their network.”

The room shifts. No one speaks, but we all know what this means.

“This is how we turn the tide,” he says. “But make no mistake—this isn’t just another mission. We’re going deep. We’re going fast. And we’re gonna lose people.”

Another click. A new image fills the screen—bombers, dozens of them.

“We’ve got a strike package coming in. 100 B-52s. 100 B-1 Lancers. 50 B-2 Spirits.” The Colonel scans the room. “Our job? Get them there and get them back.”

I exhale slowly. That many bombers? We’re throwing everything we’ve got at this.

He clicks again. More names appear on the screen—squadrons, callsigns, unit insignias. Not just us.

“This is bigger than Mont-de-Marsan,” he says. “We’re linking up with squadrons from Istres, Avord, and Saint-Dizier. They’ll be flying support, reinforcing us en route.”

A few pilots exchange glances. It’s rare to see this many units working together like this. That alone tells us how high the stakes are.

The Colonel’s voice stays steady. “They’ll have every damn fighter they’ve got scrambling to stop us. We need to hold the line. We fail, and those bombers don’t make it home.”

He looks at us, eyes hard. “We pull this off, it changes everything.”

A pause. Then—“Get ready. We leave at 0400.”

The briefing ends. The room stays silent.

No one moves.

December 21, 2016 – 0400 Hours
Mont-de-Marsan AFB

The cold bites deep. The kind that seeps through flight suits, through skin, through everything. The kind that reminds you where you are.

I roll my shoulders, trying to shake the stiffness from another sleepless night. The tarmac stretches before me, slick with frost, the glow of runway lights cutting through the pre-dawn dark. Engines hum all around. A low, steady growl of power waiting to be unleashed.

Torch walks beside me, silent. Rerun exhales sharply, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. Hiccup lags a step behind, helmet tucked under his arm. No one says much. There’s nothing to say.

We know what today is.

I grip the ladder and haul myself into the cockpit, settling into the familiar embrace of the ejection seat. The canopy hisses shut. The world outside becomes distant, muted.

“Control, Indigo-One. Radio check.”

A crackle, then—“Loud and clear, Indigo-One.”

I scan the flight line. A hundred bombers, lined up in formation—B-52s, B-1 Lancers, B-2 Spirits. Giants of the sky, waiting for us to clear a path. Beyond them, other squadrons are spooling up. Mirage Squadron is already taxiing ahead of us. I spot their lead jet—the one with three strikes. The ace.

I shake the thought off. Focus.

“Indigo Squadron, cleared for takeoff.”

Taxi lights flicker on, one by one. I tighten my grip on the throttle, take one last look at the base, at the hangars, at the place I’ve called home for months.

Then I push the throttle forward.

The jet shudders, then surges. Speed climbs—100 knots, 150, 180. The world blurs, frost-covered ground streaking past beneath me.

Then I pull back.

The wheels leave the runway. The weight of the world stays behind.

We climb into the dark, the roar of engines drowning out everything else

0430 Hours – Over the Atlantic

The sky is dark, only the faintest sliver of dawn creeping over the horizon. Below, the ocean stretches out in an endless black void, calm and empty. Above, the formation moves—giant shadows against the clouds.

B-52s, B-1 Lancers, B-2 Spirits. A hundred bombers, maybe more. Their engines hum in unison, a low, steady growl that vibrates through my cockpit.

Escorting them is an armada. Fighters from every corner of the war—F-15s, F-16s, Rafales, Super Hornets from the Navy. Callsigns flood the comms, squadrons from Mont-de-Marsan, Avord, Saint-Dizier, even carriers stationed in the Atlantic.

I glance left—Indigo Squadron flying tight. I glance right—Mirage Squadron, calm and composed. Somewhere ahead, past the bombers, the first wave of electronic warfare aircraft is already jamming enemy radar.

We’re bringing everything.

"Indigo-One, this is Mirage-One. We have visual on the formation."

The ace. His voice is steady, sharp. A man who’s done this too many times.

"Copy, Mirage-One," I reply. "Stay sharp."

Torch exhales over comms. "Anyone else feel like we just signed up for hell?"

Rerun chuckles, but there’s no humor in it. "Long as we make it out."

Hiccup stays quiet. He always does when he’s thinking.

Through my canopy, I watch the bombers push forward, their silhouettes stark against the early morning sky. They’re heading straight into enemy territory. Into the storm.

I tighten my grip on the throttle.

This is it.

"Stay sharp," I say. "This is gonna be a long flight."

0700 Hours – Over Raven Territory
The sky erupts.

Missiles streak past. Radios crackle with shouting, lock warnings, and AA fire. Bombers scatter, chaff and flares bursting around them.

"Fox Three!" I fire—enemy jet down. More take its place.

"Indigo-One, break left!" Torch yells.

I yank the stick. A missile misses by inches. Another lock.

Warning alarms blare.

"♥♥♥♥—"

I pull hard, flares out. Too late.

Impact.

The jet lurches, smoke pouring from the wing. Controls dead. No saving it.

"I'm hit! I'm hit!"

I yank the ejection handle.

The canopy blows. Wind roars. I’m out.

Below, my jet erupts in flames.

Suspended in the sky, I watch the war rage on without me.

Then—I start falling.

Now, I’m in deep enemy territory.

December 20, 2025
Somewhere in Raven Territory

Falling From the Sky
I hit the ground hard.

Branches whip against my face, the wind tearing at my flight suit as I plummet through the treetops. The parachute barely slows me down before the impact knocks the air from my lungs. My body tumbles, rolling through mud, dead leaves, and broken twigs until I finally come to a stop.

Silence.

For a moment, I just lie there, staring up at the dark canopy above. My parachute is tangled in the branches, swaying in the wind like a ghost caught in a noose. The night sky beyond is black as ink, the storm clouds swallowing any trace of the moon.

Then the pain sets in.

A dull, aching throb in my ribs. My fingers are stiff from the cold. The taste of blood lingers on my tongue. But I’m alive. That’s something.

I groan, rolling onto my back. "Hell, no wonder they call me Fall-Guy."

No one laughs. Not that I expected them to. I’m alone.

The rain hisses through the trees, falling in cold sheets, soaking through my clothes. I need to move.

The Road and the Light
I don’t know how long I’ve been walking. The forest stretches endlessly in every direction, each step sinking into wet earth. My boots are caked in mud. My breath comes out in ragged gasps, visible in the freezing air.

Then, through the trees, I see it.

A narrow dirt road, cutting through the woods like a scar. And beyond it—a house.

Small. Wooden. Old. The kind that’s been standing for decades, long before the war. Smoke drifts from the chimney, curling into the night. A single light glows behind the curtains.

I crouch low, watching from a distance. Could be a civilian. Could be a trap. Could be someone waiting inside, rifle aimed at the door.

But the wind is picking up, biting through my soaked clothes. My fingers are numb. My vision swims from exhaustion. I don’t have a choice.

I approach carefully, pistol in hand. The rain masks my footsteps, but the moment I step onto the porch—

Creak.

I freeze. Then, slowly, I knock once. Twice.

The door opens.

And the barrel of a shotgun stares me in the face.

A Stranger’s Mercy
The man behind the gun is old. Thin. A gray beard, unkempt, framing a lined face. His eyes are sharp despite his age, dark and watchful. He takes me in—my uniform, my soaked flight suit, the sidearm in my grip.

I raise my hands.

“Not Raven,” I say quickly. “I just need—”

The shotgun doesn’t lower.

♥♥♥♥.

I don’t move. I know how this works. If he was going to pull the trigger, he would’ve already. But he doesn’t. He just studies me, his grip firm, his expression unreadable.

Then, finally, he exhales through his nose. Lowers the gun. And mutters something in his language before stepping aside.

I don’t know why, but I trust him.

And I step inside.

The Warmth of the Fire
The house is small. Warm. The scent of burning wood and something faintly familiar—stew, maybe—fills the air. A single chair by the fire. A wooden table. An old radio in the corner, untouched and coated in dust.

He moves without speaking, stirring the pot on the stove. After a moment, he sets a bowl in front of me.

I don’t ask questions. I just eat.

The heat spreads through me, thawing the cold from my bones. My body is still tense, but for the first time since the crash, I don’t feel like I’m dying.

I glance around the room. My eyes settle on a photograph on the wall.

A younger version of the old man stands beside a woman—no, a daughter. She looks happy, smiling softly at the camera.

I don’t say anything. But he notices me looking.

“Her name was Emilia,” he says, his voice rough, his English broken.

Was.

I don’t ask what happened. I already know. War happened.

“I’m sorry,” I say quietly.

The old man nods once, his gaze distant. “Me too.”

The Gift of a Journal
Later, after the fire has burned low, he places something beside me.

A book. Leather-bound. Worn at the edges.

I frown. “What is this?”

The old man taps the cover. “Write.”

I blink. “Why?”

His expression doesn’t change. “If you die, someone must know you were here.”

The words hit harder than I expect. I stare down at the book, feeling its weight in my hands. The pages are blank. Untouched. Waiting.

After a long pause, I open it.

And I start to write.

The journal you’re holding now—the one you’re reading—this is where it started.

At first, it’s just my name. My rank. The date.

Then more.

I write about the crash. The cold. The way the wind howled through the trees. I don’t know why I do it. Maybe to stay sane. Maybe because, for the first time since I fell from the sky, I feel real again.

I spend the next few hours writing.

The Storm Passes
That night, I don’t sleep.

I sit by the window, watching the empty road beyond the trees. Listening to the wind howl outside.

Tomorrow, I’ll have to leave. I know it. And so does the old man.

As I set the journal down, he speaks again, his voice quieter this time.

“Storm is passing.”

I glance at him. “Yeah?”

He nods, slow. “You leave tomorrow.”

I exhale, my breath shaking.

I know.

December 22, 2025 – 0600 Hours
Somewhere in Raven Territory

Morning Farewell
I woke before the sun. The fire had burned down to embers, the room cold enough that my breath came out in faint clouds. My body ached—bruises, stiffness, the lingering exhaustion of the past few days. But I was alive. That counted for something.

The old man was already up, standing by the stove, boiling water. He wasn’t surprised to see me awake.

“You go today,” he said, voice rough with age and a thick accent. Not a question.

I nodded. “Yeah.”

He handed me a cup of tea—bitter, earthy, but warm. We sat in silence, the only sound the wind rattling the wooden walls.

“You have plan?” he asked after a moment.

“I head south. Turin,” I said. “Eagle forces are pushing there.”

The old man nodded. He turned, rummaged through an old chest by the stove, and pulled out a faded green jacket—worn, heavy, built for hard winters.

“Take,” he said.

I hesitated, but he gave me a look that left no room for argument.

“Better. You blend.”

I took it, running my fingers over the fabric. The weight of it felt like something more than just cloth.

“Anything to take before I burn?” he asked, nodding toward my things.

Most of it was useless now. But I grabbed three things: my journal, a letter, and a photo of Paige holding our baby.

I stuffed them into my jacket.

The old man handed me a small wad of cash. “For train. Or food.”

I didn’t know what to say. Instead, I folded it into my pocket.

When I finally spoke, all I could say was, “Thank you.”

The old man just waved a hand. “Luck.”

And that was it.

By 0630 hours, I was gone.

On the Move
The air was cold, the kind that burned your lungs with every breath. Snow dusted the roads, melting in patches where old tire tracks cut through. I walked with my head down, hands shoved deep into my pockets. The jacket helped. I looked like any other displaced man, another face in the ruins of this war.

By 0900 hours, I found the train tracks.

I followed them south, waiting.

Eventually, a freight train rumbled past, slow enough for me to grab hold. I pulled myself into an empty cargo car, huddling in the corner, breath fogging in the freezing air.

I pressed a hand to my ribs. Still bruised. Still sore from the crash.

I pulled out the journal. The one the old man gave me.

The same one you’re holding now.

And for the next few hours, I wrote.

A World at War
By 1200 hours, the train neared a station. I slipped off, blending into the crowds. I needed a real train. Something faster.

Inside the station, I kept my head down, listening. Newspapers were scattered on benches—headlines screaming of battles, shifting front lines, air raids. Soldiers stood in clusters, voices low.

Eagle forces were pushing deeper into Italy.

I found a passenger train heading to Turin. The problem? No ticket.

I approached a man near the boarding gate—he looked desperate enough to take a bribe.

“Need a seat,” I said, flashing a few bills.

He hesitated, then took the money and handed me a spare ticket. I didn’t ask where he got it.

The doors opened. I stepped inside.

Never Thought I'd Say This
The train cut through the countryside, weaving past rolling hills and quiet villages.

I rested my head against the window, watching the landscape blur past. And for a brief moment, I forgot I was in enemy territory.

Never thought I’d say this, but the Raven Union? It looked… nice.

Europe was beautiful—the old-world architecture, the cobblestone streets, the vineyards stretching across the horizon. Even with the war, life still clung on here. Farmers in their fields. Couples walking along riverbanks. It almost made me forget.

Then, of course—

Hell from above.

Hell from Above
At 1430 hours, the first explosion hit.

The train jolted violently, metal screeching, glass shattering.

The second blast came seconds later. The world spun—seats ripped from the floor, people thrown like ragdolls.

Then came the worst sound of all:

Jet engines.

I braced myself as the train derailed, flipping sideways in a storm of fire and debris.

When the chaos settled, I forced myself up, blood dripping from a gash on my temple. The train was wrecked, cars torn apart, bodies motionless in the snow.

And then I saw them.

Not Raven jets.

Eagle jets.

I knew those markings. My squadron.

They were here. And they had no idea I was down here.

I stumbled through the wreckage, ears ringing. People screamed, some too injured to move.

I had two choices: keep running, or help.

A Promise to Keep
I found her pinned under part of the train. A woman, maybe mid-thirties, bleeding, barely conscious.

She was gasping in Latin. “Hospitalis.”

Hospital.

I grabbed the wreckage, ignoring the pain in my ribs, and heaved.

The metal groaned, shifted. I pulled her free.

She clung to my arm, eyes wide with fear. “Gratias tibi ago.”

I didn’t answer. We had to move.

Raven soldiers were coming.

I half-carried, half-dragged her toward the nearest town, snow crunching beneath our feet. Smoke billowed behind us, the wreckage still burning.

We reached the hospital, where nurses rushed to take her.

One of them stopped me. “You’re hurt.”

“I’m fine,” I muttered.

She didn’t believe me, but she didn’t stop me either.

I turned down a hallway and spotted a coat rack.

Without hesitation, I grabbed a new jacket, pulled it on, and walked out the door.

Onward to Turin
The air was sharp with cold, sirens wailing behind me as I disappeared into the city.

I was alive.

Still running. Still fighting.

And still heading for Turin.

December 25, 2025
Time: 18:42
Location: Somewhere Near Turin, Raven Union Territory

A Church in the Snow
The streets were quiet when I arrived. No patrols. No gunfire. Just the occasional hum of a distant aircraft, too high to see. Snow fell in slow, drifting veils, covering everything—rooftops, roads, the statues of kings who had ruled centuries before any of us were born. Somewhere, far off, I heard the slow toll of bells. A church.

I don’t know what made me stop. Maybe the cold. Maybe exhaustion. Maybe something else.

I hadn’t stepped inside a church in years—not since I was a kid. And yet, tonight, Christmas Eve in enemy territory, I found myself pushing open the heavy wooden doors and slipping inside.

Echoes of the Past
Warm candlelight. The scent of old wood, melting wax, burning incense. The hush of voices singing in Latin, their melody rising to the vaulted ceilings.

I stayed near the back, my hands buried deep in the pockets of the old green jacket the man in the village had given me. I could feel the weight of my dog tags beneath the fabric, pressing cold against my chest.

They didn’t know who I was. If they did, would they be afraid? Would they turn me in? Or would they just keep singing, pretending for one night that the war didn’t exist?

I sank into a pew near the last row and kept my head down.

The choir’s voices carried through the stone walls, stirring something deep in my memory.

Home.

I could almost hear Paige humming along to Christmas songs in our apartment, taste the coffee she always made too strong. I saw my mother, bent over the kitchen counter, dusting flour from her hands as she baked. I remembered the scent of pine, the warm clutter of wrapping paper on the floor, the way my father would lean back in his chair after dinner, sighing, "Another year gone."

Last Christmas, I was drinking cheap whiskey in the barracks with Torch, Rerun, and Hiccup. We were laughing, talking about all the things we’d do once the war was over. Not all of us made it to this one.

And now, here I was—alone, in the wrong country, behind enemy lines—praying for a miracle.

A Soldier’s Prayer
I don’t know what made me do it, but I bowed my head and closed my eyes.

"Father, I am tired. I have seen things no man should see, and I have done things I cannot take back. If it is Your will, bring me home. But if it is not, then give me the strength to face whatever comes next."

"Watch over Paige. Watch over my family. Watch over my brothers-in-arms. Let them find their way home, even if I cannot."

"And if I must fall… let it mean something."

The choir’s voices rose, their words stretching through the silence between each breath.

"Amen."

I opened my eyes and sat back.

I stayed for the entire service.

Slipping Through the Snow
I left just as the bells tolled midnight.

The streets were still empty. It was like walking through a painting—snow falling in thick sheets, covering the footprints I left behind. The war felt distant. Unreal.

But I knew better.

I pulled my jacket tighter and kept walking.

For hours, I moved through the dark, keeping to back roads and alleys, avoiding the main streets where I knew patrols would be watching. My boots crushed through fresh snow, leaving faint imprints that the wind erased within minutes.

Then I saw it.

A checkpoint.

Floodlights sweeping through the trees. A line of vehicles. Soldiers, armed and alert.

Turin was close. But not close enough.

I would have to go around.

The Encounter
I stuck to the trees, moving slow, careful. The wind carried voices from the checkpoint—orders barked, laughter, the static of a radio. I was almost past them. Almost safe.

Then I heard it.

"Claudicatis!"

I stopped.

Slowly, I turned.

A soldier. Raven.

Older than me, late twenties, maybe early thirties. Special forces, from the look of him—gear too clean, stance too controlled. His rifle was raised, steady. An HK416, I realized. Looked a hell of a lot like our M4A1, but different. Raven design.

His breath curled in the freezing air. His trigger finger hovered just outside the guard. Ready, but not eager.

I could see the hesitation in his eyes.

I didn’t move.

Is this it?

I thought about making a break for it, but I knew better. He had the drop on me.

For a long moment, neither of us spoke.

Then—

He lowered his rifle.

A slight tilt of his head. A silent command.

Go.

I hesitated. I didn’t know if this was a trick. A trap.

But something about the way he looked at me—something about the way his fingers trembled slightly on the grip of his gun—told me it wasn’t.

He was letting me go.

Not because he had to. Because he wanted to.

Because, for whatever reason, he had looked at me and seen something human.

For a long moment, we just stood there. Two soldiers. Two enemies. On Christmas.

Finally, I raised my hand in a small, tired salute. A silent thank you.

He nodded.

And I turned and walked away.

Not running. Not rushing. Just walking.

Reflections in the Dark
As I moved through the trees, I kept thinking about that moment.

Why hadn’t he shot me? Why hadn’t he called for backup?

Maybe he had a wife waiting for him. Maybe he had a son who thought he was a hero. Maybe, in another life, we could’ve been friends.

War turns men into enemies. But tonight, just for a moment, we weren’t.

I tightened my grip on Paige’s photo in my pocket and kept walking.

I was still alive.

But for how much longer?

December 30, 2025
Somewhere in the Countryside, Raven Territory

I Was Almost Home
I spent a few days walking. Writing. Trying to remind myself I was still a person. Not just a fugitive. Not just a dead man waiting for his turn.

And for the first time in a long time—I let myself believe I’d make it.

I could see it.

Home.

Paige standing in the doorway, arms folded, trying to look mad but failing. The baby in her arms, tiny fingers curled into her sweater.

The porch light humming in the cold. The smell of coffee drifting from the kitchen. A radio playing something soft in the background. Maybe an old song we danced to once.

I could hear her voice.

"Took you long enough."

I almost smiled. I almost let myself reach for the door—

Then the gunshot cracked through the trees.

The Shot – A Sudden, Crippling Pain
I didn’t even hear them coming. One second, I was moving through the trees. The next—

Crack.

The bullet slammed into my hip.

It felt like I’d been hit with a sledgehammer. One second, I was on my feet. The next, I was down.

I hit the ground hard, my body twisting in the snow. My vision blurred. My ears rang. Fire spread through my side, burning deep, too deep.

Blood. My blood. Spilling hot into the snow.

The illusion shattered.

Home was gone. Paige was gone.

♥♥♥♥. This is bad.

I tried to move. My leg wouldn’t listen. The pain was so sharp, so sudden, it nearly knocked me out.

Then I heard them.

Boots crunching. Voices barking in Latin. They were coming.

Move, James. MOVE.

Crawling for Survival
I forced myself up. Agony ripped through me.

I couldn’t run. Could barely stand. My right leg buckled the second I tried to put weight on it.

Not like this. Not here.

I pressed my hand against the wound—hot, wet. Bleeding bad.

They were close. Too close. I had to go.

So I gritted my teeth and crawled.

Through the snow. Over the frozen ground. Dragging my body forward inch by inch.

Gunfire snapped behind me. Missed by inches. Bark exploded from a tree near my head. They weren’t missing by much.

The Fall – Gravity Takes Over
I reached the edge of a slope. Too steep. Too high.

I didn’t care.

I let go.

The ground disappeared beneath me. I slid down the icy embankment, tumbling through branches, crashing into the snow below.

Pain. Blinding pain.

I choked back a scream and lay still.

Above me—voices. Boots stopping at the edge.

I held my breath. Blood soaked into my jacket. I couldn’t fight. Couldn’t run.

This was it.

Then—

A single set of boots crunched closer.

Mercy – The Soldier’s Decision
A Raven soldier. Just one.

He stepped forward, rifle raised. He saw me.

I saw him.

We locked eyes. His hands tightened on his weapon.

He could have shot me.

Should have.

But he didn’t.

He hesitated.

His breathing was slow. Controlled. Not afraid—just…tired.

Tired of war. Tired of killing.

And then—he turned his head.

Looked away.

Let me go.

Crawling Away – A Promise to Keep
I didn’t move until I heard his boots crunching away. Until I knew he was gone.

Then—I dragged myself up.

The wound burned. Every movement was agony. My leg was useless. I had to crawl.

One inch at a time. One breath at a time.

I still had a promise to keep.

The pain would come later. The exhaustion, the blood loss. The questions.

Why did he let me go?

I didn’t know.

But I kept moving.

Because I had to.

Turin
I don’t know how I kept moving.

One step. Then another. Limp. Drag. Bleed. Repeat.

The pain was eating me alive. Every breath felt like a knife to the ribs. My vision blurred, darkness creeping in at the edges. My hands shook, fingers numb from the cold.

But then—I saw it.

Turin.

Or what was left of it.

The city was burning. Smoke curled into the night sky, flashes of gunfire and explosions lighting up the streets. Eagle and Raven were tearing each other apart. Fighter jets roared overhead, distant tracers flickered like dying stars. I could hear the echoes of war—shouting, gunfire, the deep, hollow thud of artillery.

I made it. But the war was already here.

I had to keep my head down. I was in no shape to fight, no shape to run. Every muscle in my body screamed, my head swam, the world tilting beneath my feet. I needed cover. Somewhere to stop. Just for a while.

That’s when I found it—a bunker.

Old. Abandoned. Concrete walls, cracked and crumbling, but it was shelter.

Empty.

Nothing inside but dust and echoes.

But it would do.

I slumped against the wall, breath ragged, hand pressed to my side. My blood had stopped flowing so fast. That was either good… or really, really bad.

Didn’t matter.

For now, I just needed to rest.

December 2025 – Abandoned Bunker, Turin

"I’m Not Making It Home."
I knew it the second I sat down.

I could barely feel my legs. The fever was in my bones now, shaking me like I was nothing. Every breath burned. Every movement sent fire through my hip.

I wasn’t making it out of here.

For a second, I closed my eyes. Just to rest. Just to let the pain fade for a moment.

Then I forced them open.

Not yet.

Not until I write this.

I pulled out my journal. Hands shaking. Blood on my fingers. Didn’t matter.

If nothing else, I’d leave my words behind.

And maybe, just maybe, they’d make it home.

I turned to a blank page and began.

"For Paige."
Paige…

I’m so sorry.

God, I don’t even know where to start. How do you say goodbye like this? How do you fit a whole lifetime into a page?

I should be home. I should be holding you, kissing you, running my hands through your hair, telling you how much I love you. Instead, I’m here, dying in some bunker, alone, with nothing but this journal and the weight of everything I’ll never have.

I promised you I’d come home. I swore it. And I lied to you.

I should’ve been there when you found out you were pregnant. I should’ve been there when you were scared, when you needed me, when you wanted me to say, “It’s okay, I’m here.” I should’ve been there to see the first ultrasound, to feel the first kick, to see the look on your face when you held our baby for the first time.

I should’ve been there. But I’m not. And I never will be.

Paige, I love you. I love you more than anything in this world. More than I ever thought I could love anything.

I remember the first time I saw you. I remember the way you smiled, the way you laughed, the way you looked at me like I was worth something.

I remember dancing in the kitchen with you, barefoot, at 2 AM. I remember road trips with no destination, just us and the open road. I remember you falling asleep on my shoulder, the way you fit against me like you were made to be there.

I remember everything. And I would give anything to go back. Just for one more moment with you.

I don’t regret loving you. I only regret leaving.

This war took everything from me. But it never took you. It never took what we had.

If you’re reading this, it means someone found this journal. Maybe an Eagle soldier. Maybe a stranger. Maybe even a Raven. But whoever it is, I hope they send it to you.

Because if they do, you’ll know.

You’ll know that my last thoughts weren’t about the war. Or the pain. Or the end.

They were about you.

And that I’m coming home, in the only way I can.

I let the ink dry. The page blurred in my vision.

I wiped my eyes.

One more.

"For Torch, Hiccup, and Rerun."
Hey, ♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥.

Guess I didn’t make it. But don’t start crying just yet—I’ll be fine. Bumper’s here, and we’re cracking open some cheap beers on the other side.

I just wanted to say… thank you.

For every stupid joke. Every bad decision. Every time you had my back when I should’ve been dead.

I wouldn’t have made it this far without you.

I remember the long nights. The dogfights. The way we sat on the flight line, staring at the sky, dreaming about something bigger.

I remember you all like my own brothers. Because that’s what you were. That’s what you are.

I miss the old days. Before the war. Before we were soldiers. Before we lost so ♥♥♥♥♥♥♥ much.

I don’t miss the cardboard eggs, the ♥♥♥♥♥♥ coffee, or the ass-kicking from the brass. But I’m gonna miss you ♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥.

Live. For me. For Bumper. For everyone we lost.

And if you ever forget me, I swear to God, I’ll haunt your asses until the day you die.

This is me, signing off.

My hands barely worked now. My fingers were freezing.

One more. Just one more.

"For My Family."
Mom, Dad, Connor, Lily, Grandma, Grandpa…

I miss you.

I miss home. I miss the smell of Mom’s cooking, the way Dad laughed at his own bad jokes. I miss sneaking cookies from the kitchen, falling asleep on the couch while Grandma read me stories.

I miss Christmas mornings. I miss summer afternoons. I miss all the little things I never thought I’d lose.

Mom—your hugs were the safest place in the world. I wish I could feel them one more time.

Dad—I just wanted to make you proud. I hope I did.

Connor, Lily—I wanted to be there. To watch you grow up. To see the people you’d become. I hope you know how much I love you.

Please don’t cry for me. Please don’t be sad. Just know that I love you. And that I’ll see you again someday.

I’m coming home.

The ink smudged from my shaking hands.

That was it. I had nothing left to write.

I leaned back.

Then—movement outside.

"Not Alone."
I gripped my pistol. This was it.

I gripped my pistol. This was it.

Footsteps. A shadow against the bunker entrance.

A Raven Special Forces soldier.

Not a grunt. Not some fresh recruit. A professional. One of their best.

I tightened my grip. This guy wouldn’t hesitate. He wouldn’t let me walk away like last time.

Then I saw his arm—bandaged, bloodied.

I knew him.

The operative from before. The one who had me at gunpoint days ago. The one who let me go.

Now, he was just like me—wounded, barely standing, stuck in a war that neither of us wanted.

He saw me. We locked eyes. Neither of us raised our weapons.

What was the point?

He let out a slow breath. Without a word, he slid down against the opposite wall, gripping his arm. I exhaled, my own breath shaky.

I pulled my journal back out. One last entry.

"The Last Entry."
I should be dead already. Maybe I will be by the time this is found.

But I’m not alone.

The Raven Special Forces operative from before—he’s here too. He could’ve ended me in the woods. He didn’t. And now we’re both sitting here, too broken to fight.

We talked. His name is—

I looked up at him. “Name?”

He hesitated, then answered. I wrote it down.

We shared a smoke. Listened to the distant gunfire. Just two dying men, watching the world keep spinning without us.

I closed my journal.

Then—

BOOM.

"The End"
The bunker exploded. Light. Sound. Then—darkness.

“I don’t know if he made it. If he crawled out of this hole, if he survived the night, if he’s even still breathing out there. I don’t know.”

“But I hope he did.”

“I hope he has my journal.”

“I hope he does me one last favor.”

“And sends it home.”

“Paige… if you’re reading this…”

“That means he kept his word.”

January, 2026

The Raven Special Forces Operative – A Debt Repaid
The package was small. Worn. Weathered by war. It sat on the desk of an Eagle Federation logistics officer, unremarkable except for the weight it carried.

The package was small. Worn. Weathered by war. It sat on the desk of an Eagle Federation logistics officer, unremarkable except for the weight it carried.

Inside, wrapped in old cloth, was a journal.

There was no formal report, no military stamps or documentation. Just a single sheet of paper, written in careful, uneven English.

“My husband found this in Turin. It belonged to him. You know what to do.”

The signature was missing. But the bloodstains on the paper were clear.

No one knew who sent it.

No one asked.

The journal was passed up the chain, from one pair of careful hands to another, until it landed where it belonged—where James had belonged.

With his squadmates.

The Squad – A Brother’s Goodbye
The barracks felt empty.

Torch sat on his bunk, the journal heavy in his hands. He hadn’t opened it yet. He couldn’t.

Rerun stood by the window, staring out at the airstrip. A place James should’ve been. Hiccup sat on the floor, arms on his knees, eyes unfocused. None of them had spoken since the package arrived.

No one had to.

Finally, Rerun broke the silence. His voice was hoarse.

“He really wrote all this?”

Torch nodded, his fingers tightening around the leather cover.

“Every word.”

They didn’t talk about it, but they all thought the same thing.

They should’ve been there.

They should’ve saved him.

Hiccup exhaled sharply, running a hand over his face.

“It’s not fair.”

Torch opened the journal. The pages were worn, smudged with dirt, with blood, with time.

And at the very end, in writing that wavered but never stopped, James had written to them.

They read his words in silence.

And it broke them.

Torch wiped his eyes and grabbed a pen. He hesitated only a moment before writing in the back of the journal, beneath James’ final words.

“James Callahan was our brother.
He flew with us. Fought with us. Laughed with us.
We lived together. We bled together.
And now we grieve together.”

This doesn’t end here.

“To his family—this belongs to you.”

They wrapped the journal back up.

Hiccup carried it to the mailroom, his hands shaking the whole way.

They weren’t ready to say goodbye.

But it wasn’t their turn to keep him anymore.

The Callahan Family – A Home Left Empty
The knock at the door came late.

James’ mother opened it slowly, cautiously. When she saw the uniformed officer, her breath hitched.

No.

Not again.

She barely heard his words. Something about his squadmates. Something about a package. About James.

She took it in trembling hands, closing the door before she could break in front of a stranger.

The whole family gathered in the kitchen. No one spoke.

Her husband stood behind her, silent. Connor sat at the table, his knuckles white against the wood. Lily curled up in Grandma’s arms, not old enough to understand, but old enough to know something was wrong.

She unfolded the cloth.

And there it was.

James’ handwriting.

She choked on a breath, pressing a hand to her mouth.

Her son’s voice was in these pages.

She ran her fingers over the ink, tracing the letters, the smudges, the places where the pen had pressed harder—where he had hesitated.

And then she found the note.

“To his family—this belongs to you.”

She read his last words to them. And she wept.

The rest of the family read in silence, grief carving them hollow.

At the bottom of the note, her hands shaking, she picked up a pen.

She stared at the blank space for a long time before writing.

“Paige…

We don’t know how to write this. We don’t know how to send him to you like this. It’s not fair. It will never be fair.

James was our son. Our brother. And he was yours, too. He belonged to you in a way no one else could ever understand. We see it now, in these pages, in the way he wrote about you. He never stopped loving you. He never stopped trying to get home to you.

We wish we were handing him to you in the airport, safe and whole. We wish he was here, complaining about the long flight, hugging you too tight, talking about your baby with that stupid smile of his. But we can’t. This is all we have left to give.

His words. His love. Everything he was.

We’re sending him home to you, Paige. We’re sending him home.”

She folded the letter carefully and placed it in the package.

And then, with grief pressing down on all of them, she sent her son away again.

Paige – The Breaking Point
The package arrived without warning.

No return address.

Just her name—Paige Callahan—written in familiar handwriting.

James’ mother’s.

Her hands shook as she picked it up.

She sat at the kitchen table for a long time before she opened it.

Her breath caught the moment she saw it.

The leather cover. The worn edges. The smudges of dirt and blood.

His name on the first page.

James Everett Callahan.

Her vision blurred.

She flipped through the pages, her heart pounding. His words were there. His voice. His handwriting.

And then, the last entry.

"Paige, I’m so sorry. I can’t come home to you."

She let out a choked breath, pressing a hand to her mouth.

She kept reading.

His regrets. His love. His dreams of what could have been.

He had written to her like he was still trying to reach her.

Like if he just put it all down, it would somehow bring him back.

She pressed the journal to her chest.

Held it so tight it hurt.

But it wasn’t enough.

It would never be enough.

And for the first time since she heard the news, Paige broke.

She sobbed until her body shook, until she couldn’t breathe, until the weight of his absence crushed her completely.

The house was silent, except for her crying.

No radio playing softly in the background.

No footsteps coming down the hall.

No voice calling her name.

Just an empty chair across from hers.

Just the cold space beside her.

Just the words he left behind.

And Paige, alone, holding what was left of him.

Holding him.

Holding home.

Final Fade to Black.
James Callahan never made it home.

But his words did.

And in them, he lived.