The heat was a physical thing on the flight line at Davis-Monthan Air Force Base, a thick, shimmering curtain you had to push through. It rolled off the vast expanse of concrete in waves, making the distant mountains ringing Tucson wobble and blur. The air smelled of baked asphalt, ozone, and the faint, sharp tang of jet fuel, a perfume that for Roger Bentley was more familiar than any cologne. At eighty-two, his world had grown quieter, the sharp edges of his memories sanded down by time, but here, standing in the shadow of the A-10 Thunderbolt II, the past had a way of getting loud again.

He had his hand laid flat against the massive front tire of the landing gear, the rubber cool and solid beneath his wrinkled palm. The plane sat squat and mean on the tarmac, not sleek or elegant like a fighter, but pugnacious, all muscle and teeth. It looked like what it was: a brawler. Its gray paint was faded, scarred by sun and service. Roger wore a leather jacket, the hide cracked and mapped with the geography of a long life, defying the sweltering Arizona sun. The jacket was a second skin, a repository of moments he couldn’t bear to hang in a closet.

It was the base’s annual Family Day, a carefully orchestrated affair of bouncy castles, hot dog stands, and static aircraft displays. Families drifted in loose, chattering constellations, their brightly colored clothes a stark contrast to the muted grays and greens of the machinery of war. A small group of young airmen, their blue uniforms crisp and new, had drifted over, their curiosity piqued by the old man who seemed to be in silent communion with the Warthog. They had been polite, asking about the faded, hand-stitched patch on his jacket. He had started to tell them, his voice a low, gravelly rasp, when the interruption came.

“Go on then. Start her up.”

The voice was a blade—sharp, slick, and coated in the casual poison of condescension. Captain Davis, all of twenty-eight and wearing his authority like a brand-new flight suit, swaggered over. He was a portrait of polished ambition: manicured hands, a jawline that looked engineered for a recruiting poster, and silver captain’s bars that glinted with self-importance. He gestured toward the A-10 with a flick of his wrist, a gesture of pure dismissal.

“Show us how it’s done, old-timer.”

Roger Bentley said nothing. He didn’t pull his hand from the tire. His gaze, the pale, washed-out blue of a high-altitude sky, remained fixed on the aircraft. He wasn’t looking at the whole plane, but at a specific spot just below the bubble canopy, where the paint was a shade more weathered, a ghost of a nameplate long since removed. He was looking at the seven-barreled maw of the GAU-8 Avenger cannon that gave the plane its soul, its very reason for being. He could almost feel the vibration, that bone-jarring, world-ending roar that wasn’t just a sound but a physical event. It was a memory that lived in the marrow of his bones.

The young airmen shifted uncomfortably. They were caught in the crossfire between ingrained military deference to a captain and the basic human decency that told them this was wrong. You don’t talk to an old man like that, especially not one who looks like he was carved from the same bedrock as the service itself.

Davis, basking in the attention, smirked. He was playing to an audience, asserting his dominance over his subordinates and this… this relic.

“Come on now,” he goaded, his voice dripping with false cheer. “You were just telling my guys here all about the ‘good old days.’ How you used to fly these things by the seat of your pants. Surely you remember how to flip a few switches.” He pointed a finger, the nail perfectly trimmed, toward the cockpit. Through the thick acrylic of the canopy, the complex array of screens and dials was visible. “Or is all that new-fangled glass a bit too much for you?”