Story cover for The Last Flight by RustedNirvana
The Last Flight
  • WpView
    Reads 6
  • WpVote
    Votes 0
  • WpPart
    Parts 2
  • WpHistory
    Time 7m
  • WpView
    Reads 6
  • WpVote
    Votes 0
  • WpPart
    Parts 2
  • WpHistory
    Time 7m
Ongoing, First published Nov 16
Mature
2 new parts
Naval aviation. It's been around for over a hundred years. Naval aviation has exceptional aircraft and beloved maintainers. 

Logan Bozzelli, a smart-mouthed kid from the Bronx had always dreamed of working for the Navy. Working and maintaining aircraft just like his dear old dad. But something felt off. It's hard work, sure. It's the military, is it not? Maybe he's just overthinking it.

Aircraft 781 is squadron 98's workhorse. She took on long grueling flights, flew through the worst of weather, and still made it back; full and intact.  Until an unfortunate accident was bestowed upon both the command and the bird herself.

Phineas Redd was a beloved Aviation Machinists Mate. He made working actually fun and took his job seriously when needed. It was just a normal, routine engine wash, when he was sucked into the intake of 781's engines. Causing the engine to break down, and after that, 781 took on no more flights.

They didn't decommission her, just used her every once in a while, to make sure she still flew. The crew reported strange things on the aircraft that didn't use to happen before. Screaming and gurgling through the radios, blood on the engine with no sign of a bird or any other animal that could have caused it. Lights flickering and gear being thrown off of shelves.

Maintainers reported similar incidents of missing or broken tools, the sound of engines starting up across the line, footsteps and more. Bozzelli was up for a lot more than he bargained for, and now, 781 was his job to fix.
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مقدّمة ________ في هذا الكتاب، لا أقدّم قصصًا تُروى، بل ظلالًا تُرى... كل كلمة هنا هي صدى لروحٍ لم تجد طريقها إلى النور، وكل سطرٍ هو همسٌ من أعماقٍ لا يصلها الضوء. كتبتُ هذه الصفحات لا لأُعبّر، بل لأُنزف. لأدع الأصوات التي خنقتها العتمة تتحدث أخيرًا، ولو بصوتٍ مرتجفٍ بين أنفاس الليل. هنا، يسكن الصمت أكثر من الضجيج، وتتنفّس الكلمات ببطء كأنها تخشى أن توقظ شيئًا نائمًا منذ زمنٍ بعيد. كل حرفٍ هو خطوة داخل متاهة من الأفكار الغامضة، من الذكريات التي لم تمُت تمامًا، ومن الخيالات التي تختبئ خلف الجفون المغلقة. في "بين الظلام والهمس" لن تجد الحقيقة واضحة، ولن تعرف إن كنت تقرأ أم تُقرأ. فالكتاب لا يُحكى، بل يُسمع... في أعماقك، حين يخفت كل شيء من حولك، وتبقى أنت وهمسك الداخلي فقط. أغلق النور، وافتح الصفحات... دع الظلام يُكمل حديثه، ودع الهمس يعلو حتى يصير صوتك. فربما، في نهاية هذا الطريق المظلم، لن تجد الإجابات، لكنك ستتعلم كيف تصغي لما لم يجرؤ أحدٌ على قوله من قبل.
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