Damage

Kaihi

The sun’s sinking low just above the western hills when the warning comes through.

Enemy fighter.
High altitude. Tailing us.

My hands tighten on the stick, ready to break formation the second he dives.

But… he doesn’t.

He just follows.
Silent. Distant.
Out of sight - visible only as a faint dot on the radar, like the shadow of a thought.

Tension creeps into the cockpit like smoke.
There are only two reasons a fighter tails this directly:

First, to size up the target.
Second, to call in friends.

My pulse accelerates. Every second he follows, I wait for the hit.

But then, without warning, he breaks away.

Just… turns around.
No radio. No warning. No attempt to engage.

Why?

Fiya’s tone is casual, almost amused.

“Well, that was weird. I wonder what he was up to.”

So do I.

We’re about ninety minutes out from the carrier, making good time. I try to steady my breath, force back the fear clawing at my chest.

Panic leads to mistakes.

Breathe.

In and out. Simple. Controlled.

Feel the machine beneath me.
Hear her rhythm.
Listen to the sky.
Ask what it wants.
Know it will not answer.

Breathe.

My heart slows.

But I don’t get the chance to relax.

Fiya screams.

“Missile lock! Missile-”

A violent crack. The Sanan jolts hard.

Zyla lets out a sharp gasp.
The dashboard explodes in light, a frenzy of flickering red and amber warnings.

But I don’t look. I don’t dare.

We’re still flying. That’s what matters.
Which means more could be coming.

I jam the throttle forward - but something shudders deep in the frame, like metal tearing against itself.

A hiss. A rattle. A grinding vibration through the stick.

The controls are sluggish - dull and heavy - but still responsive.

I’m just starting to initiate evasive action when Fiya’s voice cuts through, sharp and urgent:

“There’s no more! Don’t roll! Bring the throttle back! We’ve taken damage!”

I trust her words - and do as she says.

Zyla’s voice comes through the intercom, small and uncertain.

“What just happened? Is everything all right?”

She gasps as Fiya patches into the channel.

“We've taken a hit to the middle fuselage. It was a proximity warhead - showered us with shrapnel rather than detonating on contact, thankfully. But the damage is bad. The left secondary engine chamber’s been destroyed. I’ve already shut it down, but we can’t push the right one too hard - it’s the only thing keeping us in the air.”

I rest my hand on the throttle, feeling the heat of her struggle through the metal.
She’s a wounded dragon. Holding herself together through sheer will and steel.

Fiya continues.

“The gyro’s gone - no autopilot functions. Several electrical systems are out, mostly related to the left chamber. Nothing critical. The left wing’s taken a beating. Control surfaces are in poor shape, but she’s still flyable. That said, if we encounter anything hostile…”

She trails off.

She doesn’t need to finish.

Zyla says nothing, but I feel her fear settle into the silence.

Then a thought claws its way to the surface.

“Fiya, where did that missile come from? And why was there so little warning?”

She answers instantly - she was expecting this.

“It was a stealth missile. Same model as the first one we encountered, but upgraded - minimal smoke, and invisible to radar. I only saw it once it got close. I’m sorry.”

I shake my head.

“No. It’s not your fault.”

But something presses on my chest like a stone.

If the enemy has missiles that can sneak up like that… What else do they have?
What other monsters are waiting in silence, locked behind radio silence and shadow?

Then the pieces fall into place.

“That aircraft that was tailing us - it left once it got within the missile battery’s range. It didn’t want to risk getting targeted by accident.”

Fiya is quiet for a moment.

“Possibly,” she says. “I’m not convinced. But possibly.”

Not exactly comforting.
But right now, I don’t have the strength to care. I just want to get down.

“Fiya, how much longer to the carrier?”

She calculates.

“Two and a half hours. At this speed.”

I grit my teeth.
The controls feel half-dead in my hands - limp and sluggish.
Every input takes more force than it should.
But she’s holding together.

She’s a mess. But she’s still flying.

For all her flaws, the Sanan is nothing if not loyal.

Then coughing rattles over the radio - sudden, violent. Zyla.

“Are you all right?” I ask quickly.

Her voice is hoarse, thready.

“Ye-yeah. I’m all right. I’ll be fine.”

I want to ask again, but I don’t.
We both know what “fine” means out here.

I settle in.
The engine hums, steady but strained.
The horizon stretches out ahead.

And we fly on.

The sky glows golden as the nav rings begin to climb again.

I follow them up, arms aching.

Then I spot it.

The carrier.

A vast structure suspended impossibly between the mountains, like something out of a dream. Or a threat. I still don’t understand why the Axis hasn’t attacked it yet - maybe the trade agreement has something to do with that. Maybe it’s something else entirely.

The Sanan rattles violently as we ascend. A soft metallic groan pulses through the cockpit.

Then - light.
Sparkling.
Wrong.

Tracer rounds.
Flashing past.
I jink hard to the right.

They’re shooting at us.

Why are they shooting at us?

And then - just as suddenly - it stops. No hits. Just silence.

The radio crackles.

A voice, breathless and deeply apologetic, bursts through the static.

“Callsign Arkar, may I offer you - on behalf of all personnel aboard the Trpimir - a heartfelt apology. You are cleared for landing on the flight deck. Emergency services are in position.”

I don’t reply.

I can’t.

I need every ounce of focus to guide her in.

I swing wide, gently lining up with the Trpimir. The Sanan wobbles. The controls still fight me. Fiya speaks calmly into my ear.

“Keep the speed up. We don’t know what’ll happen if she loses too much. Little to the right. Gear down.”

I flick the switch.

Nothing.

Again.

Still nothing.

My stomach turns.

No landing gear.

Fiya doesn’t panic.

“Okay. No landing gear. We’ll do a belly landing. Hook down. Keep going.”

I grip the stick tighter.

I should warn Zyla.

I should tell her to brace.

But I don’t.

The deck surges up to meet us.
Time slows.

I see sailors rushing up from the ship’s interior - some staring in disbelief, others already springing into action. Their faces twist in horror when they see the Sanan’s condition - scarred, limping, barely airborne.

The officers in the superstructure stand frozen, watching with grim tension as we descend - wheels retracted, fuselage fractured.

Even the gun crews - those same ones who nearly brought us down - are saluting now. Awkward. Ashamed. Bowing in apology.

Impact.

A screech of metal on metal.

A horrible tearing crash.

Something crunches - loud, violent.

Zyla gasps.

I push the stick forward, desperate to hold her down. To keep her from breaking.

A final jolt - and we slow.

She skids, lurches, and finally collapses into a heap of tangled strength and failing grace. Her engine gives one last cough, then dies.

Silence.

No fire.
No explosion.
Just the bitter clang of a broken machine settling into safety.

We made it.