Chapter Text
The woman sat in the chair opposite him, her back perfectly straight. She wore the standard blue service dress of the U.S. Air Force, with silver oak leaves on her epaulets and an "Air Force Investigation Board" badge above her breast pocket.
She opened a folder stamped "CLASSIFIED." Her hands — no rings, no watch, only short-trimmed nails — rested on the tabletop on either side of the file. The light from the desk lamp, pointed directly at Kay, glinted in her dark, impenetrable eyes.
"For the record," her voice was flat, technical, devoid of any hint of sympathy or condemnation. It sounded like the voice of a heartless system. "Lieutenant Samantha Reynolds, investigating officer for the Aircraft Accident Investigation Board. Case number 389-AF-21-087. We are investigating the loss of F-15E Strike Eagle, tail number 89-0487, callsign 'Sisyphus-1.'"
She shifted her gaze to the document, and her fingers, without changing position, turned a page.
"My task, Captain Amamiya, is to determine the technical and operational causes of the incident. Not to find who is at fault. To determine the cause. Understood?"
She wasn't waiting for an answer. Her keen eyes skimmed the text, and she began to read aloud in the lifeless voice of an automated answering machine.
"Operation 'Enduring Freedom.'
Mission: Evacuation cover. Suppression of enemy firing points.
Location: Airspace over Kabul, Afghanistan.
Date: 16 August 2021.
Unit: 389th Fighter Squadron 'Fighting Dragons,' U.S. Air Force.
Aircraft: F-15E Strike Eagle.
Callsign: Sisyphus-1.
Crew: Pilot – Captain Keisuke 'Icarus' Amamiya (Exchange Officer from Japan Air Self-Defense Force).
Weapon Systems Officer – Captain David 'Starman' Mitchell."
She glanced up at Kay for a second, as if cross-referencing the living man with the text in the dossier, and lowered her eyes to the page again.
"Situation: The final hours of the airport evacuation are underway. Enemy forces are dispersed throughout the sector. The threat of enemy MANPADS use is assessed as high."
With a dull thud, she closed the folder. The sound echoed in the nearly empty, grey interrogation room.
"Well then, Captain Amamiya," her lips curled into a faint, expressionless smile. "I hope you're ready to answer a few questions?"
Kay nodded silently. He sat on a hard chair, his hands resting on his knees. He was dressed in a worn American flight suit, but without any insignia, which had been stripped from him beforehand. Without them, he felt naked.
"For the record," the investigator picked up a voice recorder, turned it on, and placed it on the table between them. "Please state your name. And explain who you are and what you were doing in Afghanistan. In simple, clear language."
Kay took a deep breath. His voice was quiet but clear, honed by years of military discipline.
"I am Captain Keisuke Amamiya, an officer of the Japan Air Self-Defense Force. As part of a program to strengthen allied ties between Japan and the United States, I was assigned on an exchange tour to the U.S. Air Force, where I was attached to the 389th Fighter Squadron for tactical experience and advanced training."
He paused for a second, choosing the right words.
"Formally, I remain a JASDF officer, but for the duration of this tour, I wear an American uniform, report to American command, and perform missions as part of an American unit."
He fell silent, looking at the woman opposite him. Her face remained stony. To her, he wasn't a person, but a data point in a report, a variable in an equation she had to solve.
Then she asked the final question with icy directness:
"Tell me what happened on August 16th in the skies above Kabul airport."
Skies over Kabul, Afghanistan
16 August 2021, 14:47 Local Time
The air was thick with dust and smoke rising from the panic-stricken city, severely reducing visibility. From an altitude of eight thousand feet, Kabul resembled a kicked-over anthill. Plumes of black smoke rose from the airport, around which a terrified mass of humanity swarmed. From this height, the screams were inaudible, but the desperation seemed to permeate the very air.
The F-15E Strike Eagle, like a bird of prey, traced wide circles in the sky above the desert, its shadow gliding over dusty plains and clay-brick buildings. The gloved fingers of Captain Keisuke Amamiya rested on the control stick, habitually vibrating with the rumble of the fighter's powerful engines.
In the second seat of the two-seat cockpit, immersed in multifunctional displays and radars, was Weapon Systems Officer Captain David "Starman" Mitchell.
"No change, Icarus," Mitchell's calm voice came through the headset. "Patrolling sector Bravo-7. Complete panic down below, but at least the Taliban aren't firing on us."
That was the only silver lining for Kay, everything else was not so good. The chaos wasn't just on the ground but in the air as well — they didn't even have a wingman, that's how bad things were.
Kay's gaze briefly scanned the instruments.
Fuel — 40%. Armament — two AGM-65 air-to-ground missiles and a full load for the 20mm M61 cannon. All nominal. All except for the oppressive silence in his own head, contrasting with the roar of the engines.
Kay watched the chaos unfolding below — at the Kabul airport — and felt not like a protector, not a predator of the sky, but a mere bystander, locked in an armored tin can.
"Sisyphus-1, this is Wolver-23!" suddenly the radio exploded with a tense, strained voice. "We are under heavy fire! RPGs and heavy machine gun fire! We are pinned down! Require immediate air support!"
Kay's heart skipped a beat. He glanced at Mitchell. He was already entering the coordinates into the system.
"Copy, Wolver-23," Mitchell replied, his voice even. "Processing your request. Icarus, setting up attack run," he snapped irritably at Kay. "What the hell? Did the Taliban forget we have a ceasefire?"
"Might not be the Taliban," Kay said curtly, putting the plane into a gentle turn to approach from the south. "My money's on ISIS-K, but what's the difference now, right, Starman?"
The plane roared into a dive, gaining speed. The G-force pressed them into their seats. The ground rushed up, transforming from an abstract map into a patchwork of dusty fields, mud-brick walls, and broken roads.
"Visual on target," Mitchell reported. "Three-story building, to the right of the destroyed mosque. Wolver-23, confirm: target is the building with the flat roof, at the north-eastern corner?"
"Confirm, Sisyphus-1! That's the one! ISIS bastards are in there! They're shooting everyone!"
Kay squinted, trying to make out details. The building. Simple, grey, unremarkable. On the roof, he noticed several dark figures. The thermal display in his cockpit showed several bright white spots — heat signatures.
"Starman, zoom in," Kay ordered. "I need confirmation there are no civilians inside."
"Icarus, the marines are under heavy fire!" For the first time, impatience crept into Mitchell's voice. "Thermal clearly shows multiple targets on the top floor and roof. They're hostiles."
"Zoom," Kay repeated, and his own voice sounded overly harsh.
Mitchell, frowning, complied. The image jumped, the numbers magnified. Now, blurry but recognizable silhouettes of people with weapons were visible. But Kay wasn't looking at them. His gaze was fixed on one of the windows on the first floor. There, in the depths, another spot flickered. Smaller.
"You see?" Kay asked quietly. "First floor. Left window."
"I see some movement," Mitchell admitted reluctantly. "A dog? A cat? Hell, Icarus, it could be anything! We don't have time for this! Wolver-23 is in a firefight!"
In the headphones, distant but distinct sounds of gunfire could be heard, interrupted by the voice of the marine commander:
"Sisyphus-1, awaiting your impact! We can't raise our heads!"
Kay felt sweat trickling down his back. His palms were damp. He saw two worlds before him: one on the screen, where "heat signatures" demanded destruction. The other in his head, where that smaller spot could be a child. Trapped, just like him, in the snare of a mad war.
In that moment, he wondered what Ren would have done. What plan would Joker and his Phantom Thieves have concocted in his place? What advice would Queen have given him when she realized that the only chance to save their comrades meant risking the lives of the innocent?
Kay knew he wasn't born to make decisions like this. He didn't even want to think about how he ended up here in the first place. He, a captain of the Japan Air Self-Defense Force, was covering the retreat of American military forces fleeing Afghanistan.
He, for whom Article 9* of the Japanese Constitution was not just words in a textbook, but a compass that had guided him through life's hardships.
Kay had always been a staunch pacifist. To the core. The military, weapons, the whole war machine — it all repulsed him on a physical level. Back at the academy, he had shirked mandatory firearms training by any means necessary, preferring any extra duty or reprimand instead.
So what was he doing here then? Of course, Kay knew the answer to that question. But knowing it didn't make him feel any better.
"One more pass," he said, feeling his stomach clench. "For confirmation."
"Icarus, goddammit!" Mitchell exploded. "They're shooting at our guys!"
At that very moment, the Radar Warning Receiver in the cockpit emitted a soft click, then escalated into a piercing, soul-chilling shriek.
"LAUNCH! LAUNCH! LAUNCH!" the electronic voice screamed.
"Missile! Low right!" Mitchell barked, his fingers already flying over the console, releasing clouds of chaff and flares.
Kay yanked the control stick back and to the right, putting the plane into a 7-G turn. The world outside the canopy swam. His body was crushed into the seat, blood drained from his head, his vision narrowed to a long tunnel. He saw a thin white trail of smoke — a MANPADS missile, probably a Soviet Strela-2 — streak past, just tens of meters away.
He had almost managed to evade it. Almost.
The missile, deceived by the flares at the last moment, passed close to the left engine. The warhead didn't detonate on a direct hit, but shrapnel and the shockwave slammed into the tail assembly and left air intake.
A deafening blow resounded, like a giant sledgehammer hitting the fuselage. The plane shuddered and pitched forward. Bright red warnings lit up across the instrument panel.
"LEFT ENGINE FIRE! HYDRAULIC SYSTEM FAILURE!" the siren wailed.
"Left engine failure! Fire! We're going down!" Mitchell's voice was collected, but with an edge of steel. "Eject! Eject! Eject!"