"Miller! Get that Wildcat prepped!" the deck chief roared over the drone of warming engines.
Through his sights, he saw the massive silhouette of an enemy carrier. He wasn't just a pilot; he was the thin line between a peaceful home and a horizon of smoke. With a steady hand, Jack dove.
The heavy fog over the Pacific didn't just hide the Japanese fleet; it hid the fear in Ensign Jack Miller’s chest. Standing on the deck of the USS Lexington , the air tasted of salt and aviation fuel. It was 1942, and the world was held together by rivets and sheer will.
Jack climbed into the cockpit, the familiar scent of oil and worn leather grounding him. As he throttled up, the deck vanished beneath him. To his left, the sea was a churning slate gray; to his right, a wall of anti-aircraft fire began to stitch the sky.