The flight is long and quiet. We finally reach Darina International. It is storming pretty badly.
"The tempest has finally come, hasn't it," I say to myself.
It was 200 hours, but surprisingly there seemed to be some life around.
The ramp of the transport lowered. There was a small group of wet mechanics, busily working to try to get out of the rain as soon as possible.
I stepped out of the aircraft and looked around. A flash of lightening exposed the crashed jet. I was heartbroken. Did fate just hate me so much? I walked out onto the airfield, and approached the aircraft. It was torn and burned.
"Rory Jackson?" a man said.
I turned to him, "Yes,"
"Frank Estaloo," he said.
I looked back the the crashed Flatpack.
"Could I get you anything?" Estaloo asked.
"Can I see my brother?" I asked.
He nodded, and lead me to my brother's hanger. I saw the name of his plane, and the coat-of-arms he had talked about, leaning up against the back wall of the hanger. Someone had taken it, and cleaned them. In the middle, illuminated by a single light, was a casket. It was draped with the Cartelian flag. Two MPs stood guard. I dropped to my knees and cried.
