Page 72 of Viking

“Here, Master Sergeant.” Dalton’s voice is loud and clear, but I see his hands trembling slightly.

“Captain Carter!”

Silence.

The sergeant calls again.

“Captain Ryan Thomas Carter!”

If you’re reading this, it means I didn’t make it back.

The quiet is deafening, and I can feel the weight of every person’s breath in the room.

Then, the three-volley salute. We remain standing at attention.

Seven members of the honor guard stand in perfect formation, rifles at the ready. The first volley cracks through the still air, followed by the second and third. Each shot feels like an exclamation point on the grief we’re all carrying.

The bugler steps forward. We salute as the first notes of “Taps” pierce the quiet, each one pulling at the ache in my chest. I bow my head, my fists clenching.

Saluting once more, I tilt my head toward the sky.

Four F-22s streak across the blue expanse in a perfect diamond formation. At the last moment, one jet peels away, climbing sharply toward the heavens and leaving a hole in the formation. My throat tightens as I watch it disappear into the sky.

The Missing Man Flyover.

Take care of the flight, Logan.

The roar of the engines fades, swallowed by the sky, but the emptiness it leaves behind is deafening. I blink, and I’m not here anymore. I’m back there—nine years ago—standing in the suffocating heat at Reaper’s memorial. The sharp crack of the rifles still echoes, slicing through the air like the guilt I’ve carried ever since. I remember the flag trembling in his mother’s hands, the way her fingers gripped it like it could somehow bring him back. I should’ve saved him. I was his wingman.

And now Ryan. Another flag. Another name carved into stone because I wasn’t enough.

I thought losing Reaper had hollowed me out. But I was wrong. Grief isn’t a void, it’s a blade, and there’s always more of me left to cut.

I finally lower my right hand and blink, back to the present as Ryan’s mother inches forward. I stand rigid as the Honor Guard moves with practiced precision. One of them—a lieutenant colonel—steps forward, cradling the folded flag in his white-gloved hands. The crisp blue triangle, stars gleaming against the fabric, is a stark contrast to the grief radiating from the woman in front of him.

He kneels before her, lowering his head in reverence. “On behalf of the President of the United States, the United States Air Force, and a grateful nation—” his voice is steady carrying across the silent crowd— “please accept this flag as a symbol of our appreciation for your loved one’s honorable and faithful service.”

She stares at it for a long moment, like touching it will make this real. Like accepting it means saying goodbye. Her fingers shake as she reaches for the flag, pressing it to her chest the second it’s in her grasp. Her shoulders quake, but she doesn’t make a sound.

I swallow hard. He should be standing beside me, not reduced to a folded flag and memories that will never be enough.

The lieutenant colonel rises, stepping back.

Tyler stands in his service dress between his mom and dad, his face pale but resolute. He looks like Ryan. Same jawline, same fire in his eyes.

The ceremony nears its end. The folded flag rests in Ryan’s mother’s lap, her fingers trembling as she clutches the last piece of him she’ll ever have.

Townsend steps forward first, offering a quiet word to Ryan’s mom before turning sharply on his heel. One by one, the rest of us follow, each giving her a moment of respect. When it’s my turn, I force my legs to move, even though every part of me feels like stone.

She looks up at me, hazel eyes so much like Ryan’s, filled with pain so vast I swear I can feel it bleeding into me. I open my mouth, but nothing comes out. What the hell can I say? Sorry for your loss? Sorry I’m here and he isn’t?

So I don’t say anything. I just nod, sharp and reverent, hoping she sees what I can’t put into words.

Then I step back, rejoining my flight, standing shoulder to shoulder with the men who are still here. The silence stretches on before Townsend finally speaks.

“That concludes the ceremony.” His voice is steady, but even he can’t mask the weight behind it. “Dismissed.”

I look toward his smiling face and touch the brim of my hat once more, a silent salute. “See you on the other side, brother,” I whisper Ryan’s goodbye.