Captain J. Davis
I folded the letter and placed it on my nightstand, next to the picture of Martha. Everyone deserves a second chance, even a fool.
The Final Flight
I died on a Tuesday morning, just as the sun was cresting over the Rincon Mountains. It was peaceful. I simply stopped fighting the gravity.
The funeral was not a small affair.
Colonel Mat had declared it a Wing event. The chapel was overflowing. They had to set up speakers outside for the overflow crowd.
My casket was draped in the flag. The Scorpion patch—the original, sweat-stained, blood-earned patch—was pinned to the fabric, right over my heart.
They carried me out to the hearse, passing through a cordon of honor guards. Salutes snapped up in a wave of blue steel.
But the real send-off happened at the cemetery.
As the chaplain finished the prayers, a low rumble began to build in the distance. It grew louder, a deep, guttural growl that vibrated in the chests of everyone present.
Heads turned toward the horizon.
Two A-10 Warthogs appeared, flying low and fast in tight formation. They were ugly, beautiful beasts, painted grey against the blue sky.
As they roared over the gravesite, the lead plane pulled up sharply, banking hard into the vertical. It climbed toward the heavens, its afterburners (metaphorically speaking, as A-10s don’t have them, but the engines roared) screaming a final salute.
The Missing Man formation.
The second plane flew on alone, leaving a gap in the sky where the leader used to be.
Down on the ground, Senior Airman Garcia stood at attention, tears streaming freely down his face. He watched the lead plane disappear into the clouds, carrying the spirit of Dead Eye Bentley to a place where the engines never stall and the sky is always clear.
Epilogue: The Legacy
Five years later.
Master Sergeant Garcia walked across the flight line at Davis-Monthan. He was older now, with a little more salt in his hair and a lot more stripes on his sleeve.
He stopped next to a group of new maintenance apprentices—young kids, fresh out of tech school, looking nervous and green.
They were standing next to an old A-10 on static display. Tail number 780618.
“Alright, listen up!” Garcia barked, but his voice wasn’t unkind. “You see this bird? She looks old. She looks beat up. But you treat her with respect. You treat her like she’s the Queen of England.”
One of the young airmen reached out to touch the tire.
“Careful,” Garcia warned.
“Why, Sergeant? Is it fragile?”
Garcia smiled. He touched the spot on the fuselage where a bronze plaque had been mounted. The plaque bore the image of a Scorpion and the name Major Roger ‘Dead Eye’ Bentley.
“No, son,” Garcia said. “She’s not fragile. She’s haunted.”
He looked at the plaque, then up at the empty blue sky.
“There’s a ghost in this machine,” Garcia said softly. “And if you listen closely, he’ll tell you what it really means to be a soldier.”
He patted the nose of the plane.
“Start her up,” Garcia ordered. “Let’s hear her roar.”
As the engines whined to life, Garcia could have sworn he saw a shimmer in the heat waves—a figure in a leather jacket, giving him a thumbs up.
The legend didn’t die. It just changed shifts.
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