At the Italian military airfield, ground crews silently inspected the fighter jets. Every so often, they glanced with admiration at the pilots standing in a row ahead of them. No one spoke. The airfield felt solemn.
Aonzo had not hidden the orders from above. He had written an open letter informing every pilot that volunteers were needed for a mission to Sicily to draw Typhon away. Everyone at the airfield knew these men were going to their deaths.
—In their eyes, the mission was a death sentence.
Yet despite their fear, they deeply admired the men who had stepped forward. They committed the pilots' faces to memory. Perhaps when they were old, they would look back on this moment and say with pride, "I once worked alongside Heroes!"
"When disaster strikes, someone must step forward and be a Heroes. President Mussolonia told me that. Now I pass those words on to you."
General Aonzo stood before the line of pilots, his voice heavy. "You are Heroes, without question. You stepped forward when it mattered most. I'm proud of you. You're number one."
He raised a thumb. "You're the finest pilots in the entire Italian Air Force. I have no instructions left to give you. Just one last thing..."
"I'll be right here, waiting for you to come home!"
The pilots put on their gear and climbed into their fighters, their faces so solemn that they looked less like men setting out on a mission than men going to their deaths.
For them, there was little difference.
The usual jokes and laughter over the radio were gone, replaced by a dreadful silence.
"I miss home."
A crisp young voice suddenly broke the silence over the radio. "I miss my grandma, my mom, my sister..."
His words broke the spell and