Nathaniel Hawkins eased back into his ejection seat, rolling his shoulders to stave off the ache of a long flight. The FFR-31MR D Super Sylph hummed beneath him at high altitude, twin engines throttled to cruise setting as he cut a straight line across the horizon. Through the advanced variable canopy, the sky was a pale, endless blue, tinged by the thin air at over thirty thousand feet. Only a scattering of cirrus clouds broke the monotony—wispy streaks that did little to hide the sun's glare.
He'd taken off hours ago, departing Overwatch's main base and headquarters in Zurich to begin his rotation in Egypt. Ahead lay scorching desert, the ancient shadow of Giza, and the hush of a sleeping God Program. And if the chatter on the secure Overwatch channels was any indication, it would just be a simple milk run.
"Overwatch Dispatch, this is Overwatch Strike Zero-One," Hawkins transmitted, double-checking the encrypted frequency. "Flight level three-one-zero, steady heading two-nine-five. Fuel at bingo minus twenty minutes. Requesting confirmation on tanker rendezvous."
A beat later, a calm voice crackled in his helmet, an operator from Overwatch's centralized command node. "Overwatch Strike Zero-One, Overwatch Dispatch copies. Your next checkpoint is Foxtrot-Eight. USAF Kilo Charlie-Seven-Eight Phoenix awaits at flight level two-nine-zero, bearing zero-three-five from your present position. Transmitting vector now."
On his multi-function display, a new waypoint flashed into place. The United States Air Force KC-78 Phoenix, a near-future aerial refueling platform specially assigned to Overwatch support, was standing by. No matter how advanced the Super Sylph was, it couldn't handle an uninterrupted transcontinental flight without topping off.
Hawkins keyed the throttle forward slightly, adjusting his heading to match. Outside, the wings' control surfaces shifted with subtle mechanical whines, the aircraft's stealth-hardened frame responding to every input. Even after multiple test flights and his first real mission, the Super Sylph still felt half alive—like it had a mind of its own if he didn't stay vigilant.
The next ten minutes were routine: small corrections in altitude, scanning the instruments, cross-referencing Overwatch intel updates. Once or twice, he glimpsed faint contrails to the north, but they vanished before he could identify them. He exhaled slowly, hoping they were civilian jets and not something less benign.
Finally, the expected tanker slid into view on radar—a bright, pulsing icon about fifty miles ahead and slightly below. He made out the faint silhouette of a large fuselage with the distinctive boom assembly under the tail. Even with the tinted canopy, everything else was masked by the midday glare.
"USAF Kilo Charlie-Seven-Eight Phoenix, this is Overwatch Strike Zero-One on approach," Hawkins said, switching to the designated channel. "Request clearance for refueling."
"Copy, Overwatch Strike Zero-One. We see you on scope," came a friendly, slightly tinny voice. "Maintain angels two-nine, drop your speed to three-fifty knots indicated. I'll guide you in."
Hawkins dialed back his throttle and nosed down a fraction. The big tanker loomed in front of him: the KC-78 Phoenix, bristling with slight humps and bulges that hinted at advanced sensor arrays and next-gen fuel systems. It was far from the venerable (and ancient) KC-135 or KC-46 variants he and his forefathers once trained with, but the principle remained the same: hold formation, line up with the boom, and don't snap the line with a sloppy approach.
He toggled a switch, extending the refueling receptacle behind the cockpit. The fighter's autopilot took some of the load, but he kept his hands on the stick—this was too delicate to trust to an algorithm. One jerk or an unexpected gust and they'd be scraping midair.
"Looking good, Strike One," said the tanker's boom operator. "Close to ten meters…eight…five…"
The final approach was a careful ballet, the Super Sylph's nose tipping just enough to match the tanker's slipstream. Then a gentle thunk resonated through the airframe as the boom latched onto his receptacle. A moment later, fuel gushed through the line, the sudden weight shift registering on his displays.
"Flow's steady," the operator said. "You Overwatch folks going on another hush-hush mission?"
Hawkins allowed himself a slight grin. "Something like that. Anubis rotation."
"Heard the rumors." The operator's tone was almost conspiratorial. "God Program, right? I'll keep my head out of that. My job's just pumping gas."
"Works for me. How's the day treating you?"
"Oh, can't complain. You're my last customer for the shift."
The readout showed the Super Sylph's internal tanks filling steadily. Hawkins's shoulders relaxed a hair. Once fully topped up, he'd have enough juice to cross the final stretch of water and sand straight to the staging base. Not glamorous, but essential.
"Refuel complete," the operator announced a minute later. "Disconnect in three…two…one…"
A gentle bump and the Super Sylph was free. Hawkins eased away, mindful not to drift into the tanker's wake. He keyed his comm in thanks, then banked off, climbing to a higher corridor again. The tanker's silhouette dwindled behind him.
With the immediate demands of refueling done, Hawkins tapped a console to reset the autopilot for the next navigational leg. This one would take him near the southern Mediterranean coastline, then curve southward into Egyptian airspace. Overwatch Dispatch came over the line again with final confirmations, but he half-listened—his mind flicking back to the last time he'd left HQ for this current op.
He pictured Angela's face, the concern that softened her eyes whenever she insisted he stay safe. Her unwavering belief had carried him through some bleak nights recovering in the med bay—somehow, her voice had been the one constant in the chaos of his doubts. If only she could see him now, flying halfway around the world, feeling more alive than he had in years.
The thought made him smile faintly behind his full-face helmet. He snapped himself back to the present, verifying the stable heading and altitude. Fuel was green across the board, weather forecasts were stable, and Overwatch Dispatch confirmed no new threats on radar.
Everything looked clear.
Yet, as he stared into the deep blue sky, he knew better than to let his guard down. Egypt awaited, with its dormant Anubis AI—even with the promise that this current rotation was just routine. But for now, Hawkins had enough fuel, a direct route, and the memory of Angela's parting words spurring him forward toward the desert sands.
Hawkins' flight path carried him south over the Mediterranean, a cobalt mirror below and a nearly cloudless sky above. The Super Sylph handled the transit effortlessly, though the desert air ahead promised to be anything but calm. Every so often, Overwatch Dispatch relayed quiet updates—minor weather shifts, confirmations of no known hostiles, and glimpses of routine Egyptian military flights around Giza.
"Overwatch Strike Zero-One, Overwatch Dispatch. Approaching Egyptian FIR." The operator's voice was low and measured. "Handoff to local tower in three minutes. Acknowledge?"
Hawkins switched frequencies and keyed his mic. "Copy, Dispatch. Will contact local tower." He double-checked the approach plates on his multifunction display, pulling up standard arrival procedures for the base that Overwatch used as a staging ground. The dryness and heat would demand longer runway usage, plus a watchful eye for any swirling sand.
Far in the distance, the coastline came into view—an uneven hazy strip of land that glimmered in the midday sun. The water gave way to browns and tans of the Egyptian shoreline. He could practically feel the temperature spike just looking at it.
His helmet's HUD flashed as Overwatch Dispatch's final data packet arrived: a recommended approach corridor for the base. The comm chimed.
"Overwatch Strike Zero-One, Overwatch Dispatch.You are cleared direct, flight level one-zero until further instructed. Contact Tower on frequency one-two-six-point-four-five."
"Roger, Dispatch. Switching now." Hawkins dialed in the local tower's channel. His console beeped, connecting him to a crisp, lightly accented English. "This is Overwatch Strike Zero-One, inbound."
A moment's crackle, then: "Overwatch Strike Zero-One, this is Giza-Forward Tower. We have you on radar at fifteen nautical miles. Descend and maintain five thousand feet. Expect runway two-one. Winds one-eight-zero at fourteen knots, gusting twenty. Report when established on final."
"Understood, Tower. Descending now." Hawkins eased his throttle back, letting the Super Sylph's nose dip toward the desert below. The altimeter unwound steadily. Though not an extreme approach, he braced himself for swirling crosswinds—desert conditions often gave illusions of calm right up until final descent.
Sure enough, at around six thousand feet, the plane began to bounce gently, buffeted by a wave of heated air rolling off the sands. He adjusted the thrust and pitch trim in small increments, focusing on stable flight. His cockpit temperature gauge jumped even with the sophisticated climate systems. The outside air was scorching, and down on the runway, it'd be hotter still.
He toggled the flight computer to load runway two-one's approach data: a standard ILS (Instrument Landing System) approach overlay. He wasn't expecting zero visibility, but in case dust or haze kicked up, he'd have a backup.
"Tower, Overwatch Strike Zero-One at five thousand, reducing speed to two-hundred seventy knots."
"Copy, Overwatch Strike One. Turn right heading two-one-zero to intercept final. Cleared ILS runway two-one. Wind one-eight-zero at fourteen, gust two-zero. Altimeter two-nine point eight-seven."
Hawkins read back the instructions, steadying his heart rate. Even after countless landings, each new runway—especially in a foreign environment—carried its own quirks. The plane responded smoothly as he banked right, the desert floor filling his peripheral vision. Sun-baked terrain shimmered in the distance.
Down to three thousand feet. The runway materialized, a flat stretch of dusty gray surrounded by earthen berms and scattered hangars. He recognized Overwatch-labeled equipment glinting near a taxiway. Activity looked minimal at this hour, though a handful of VTOLs and ground vehicles were visible.
At fifteen hundred feet, the crosswinds jostled him again, pockets of turbulence rippling across the wings. He checked his gear handle—green lights. Flaps extended in stages, adjusting the Super Sylph's approach speed. His HUD projected the runway centerline, aligning the flight path marker with the threshold.
"Tower, Overwatch Strike Zero-One on final approach for runway two-one."
"Overwatch Strike One, winds now one-eight-zero at sixteen. Cleared to land."
He dipped the nose slightly, verifying speed around one-hundred sixty knots. The thermal eddies made the controls heavier; he had to correct every drift with a careful nudge of the stick. The advanced flight computer helped stabilize, but Hawkins kept a firm hand on the throttle, ready for any sudden gust.
The altimeter ticked down—two hundred feet, one hundred fifty, one hundred. He aligned the reticle on the runway's aimpoint markers. The ground detail sharpened: grains of sand swirling across the tarmac, faint heat mirages shimmering near the edges. At fifty feet, he pulled back gently.
The tires chirped against asphalt, the plane settling with a subdued thump. Hawkins eased the throttle to idle, reverse thrusters kicking up a brief plume of dust behind him. The runway lighting flickered past in quick succession. He braked steadily, careful not to let the nose dip or swerve.
The desert heat slammed him like a wall once he slowed to taxi speed, temperature differentials swirling across the wings. He retracted flaps and toggled his after-landing checks. Everything read normal—engine temps good, no red flags from the flight control surfaces.
He keyed his mic. "Tower, Overwatch Strike Zero-One, clear of runway. Request taxi instructions to Overwatch apron."
"Overwatch Strike Zero-One, taxi via Bravo and hold short of taxiway Delta. Overwatch ground crew will meet you."
He acknowledged, rolling onto the indicated taxiway. Sand and dust skittered along the edges of the pavement. In the distance, a cluster of Overwatch vehicles and Egyptian Army trucks formed a small staging area. He glimpsed a tall perimeter fence, guard towers, and at least one anti-air battery scanning the horizons.
Slowing to a crawl, Hawkins navigated the final turn, spotting a ground marshaller in Overwatch fatigues waving signal batons. He guided the Super Sylph onto a designated spot near a temporary hangar structure. The battered sun-bleached apron was strewn with crates, tool carts, and half a dozen staff.
Finally, the aircraft came to a halt. Hawkins extended the brakes and initiated engine shutdown, verifying each step on his cockpit display. The mechanical hum of the turbofans wound down, replaced by the muffled swirl of the desert wind outside. All the while, a tingle of relief coursed through him—he'd arrived, safe and sound, on a runway thousands of miles from where he'd started.
Pulling off his helmet, he took a second to steady his breathing. The overhead canopy gave him a full view of the base in its midday glare: Overwatch and allied craft dotting the far corners, Egyptian Army armor stacked in neat lines, and a swirl of personnel hurrying about. Dust. Heat. A new mission, beginning now.
He flipped a switch, cutting the main power. The cockpit lights dimmed, leaving only the swirling hush of after-cooling systems. Letting out a measured breath, Hawkins murmured to himself, "Welcome to Egypt…" then clicked off the radio, ready for whatever awaited him once he popped the canopy.
The engine whine of the Super Sylph died down in a slow, metallic hum as he finally flipped the final power switch. One by one, the cockpit indicators blinked from green to dark, leaving only the steady whirr of cooling fans in the desert air. Sweat clung to his neck beneath his flight suit's collar, and though the aircraft's climate controls and his own advanced flight suit had done their best, no system could fully fend off nine hours of flight plus a scorching sun overhead.
He popped the canopy release, momentarily bracing for the blast of midday Egyptian heat. It crashed over him like a tidal wave—dry, relentless, and dotted with fine grains of sand swirling in the wind. For a beat, he just breathed, letting the open air chase away the cockpit's lingering stuffiness.
A voice pierced the haze. "Took you long enough, kid!"
Hawkins glanced down to see Chief Master Sergeant Mendez standing on the sunbaked tarmac, hands on his hips, a wide grin showing beneath salt-and-pepper stubble. Despite being nominally retired, Mendez wore an Overwatch jumpsuit like a second skin. Nearby stood Ramos, half-shielded by the Super Sylph's shadow, already unspooling cables from a portable diagnostic kit.
Hawkins smirked. "Hey, Chief. You must've missed me."
He unbuckled, mindful of how stiff his knees felt after so many hours in the cockpit.
Although they'd parted ways only a few hours ago at Zurich, the usual crew dynamic instantly came back full force.
"We do all this fancy engineering," Mendez said, gesturing at the Super Sylph's sleek, angular frame, "and you still somehow take the scenic route."
He extended an arm as Hawkins climbed down the ladder. The pilot took it gratefully, lowering himself onto the tarmac. His legs wobbled momentarily, pins and needles dancing along his calves. But Mendez's grip was sturdy as an anchor.
Ramos offered a quick salute, a grin brightening his youthful face. "Lieutenant, how was your mid-air refuel?" he asked, reeling in a line that fed from the aircraft's underside. "Heard you ran into some turbulence near the coast."
"Wasn't too bad," Hawkins replied, rolling his shoulders. "The tanker operator had a steady hand on the boom. We parted ways on good terms, and they only gave me a little bit of shit about Overwatch's secret squirrel missions."
He let his gaze travel across the flight line, noticing crates and half-unpacked containers bristling with Overwatch logos. An occasional gust whipped dust into small cyclones. Tents and awnings stretched across improvised metal frames, offering respite from the unrelenting sun.
Mendez peeled off his gloves and thumped Hawkins lightly on the shoulder. "You still owe me a flight data report from that test run a few days ago, remember?" The Chief's eyes glinted with playful accusation. "Don't think I've forgotten."
Hawkins managed a short laugh. They'd had an ongoing debate about adjusting the Super Sylph's autopilot parameters. Mendez insisted that a three-percent tweak in the nozzle vectoring might reduce engine stress at certain RPMs. Hawkins had promised data logs to prove or disprove the theory. "Chief, if I hadn't been cooped up nine hours, I'd open my laptop right now."
"I'll hold you to it," Mendez said. He turned to Ramos, jerked a thumb at the Super Sylph's fuselage. "Start hooking up the external cooling unit. Let's keep her from frying in this heat."
Ramos gave a snappy nod. "On it, Chief." He maneuvered the portable rig around the aircraft's nose, boots crunching on stray pebbles.
Hawkins shifted his weight, feeling the dryness prick at his throat. The overhead sun glared off the asphalt with an intensity that made it almost shimmer. Even so, something else nagged at him, more urgent than thirst. He felt the creeping realization in his lower gut.
"Uh, Chief…" he started, exhaling in mild embarrassment. "I know we usually do a quick once-over, but I—"
Mendez raised his eyebrows knowingly. "Lemme guess. Didn't exactly have time for a bathroom break up there, huh?" He clapped Hawkins's shoulder again, this time in understanding. "Go. If your eyes water any more, you'll pass out. I'll keep an eye on your plane."
Hawkins chuckled, relief already flooding his face. "Thanks, Chief. I'll be back to finish the post-flight, I promise."
He took off at a brisk walk, weaving between pallets stacked with munitions crates and rows of drab cargo trucks. It felt like a temporary base thrown together in a hurry—Egyptian Army vehicles parked near Overwatch's distinctive blue and white, all in the swirl of desert dust. After nearly stumbling over an errant hose, he followed a makeshift sign that pointed to the latrines. The short building ahead had an AC unit rattling in the window; hopefully it wasn't just for show.
Moments later, the battered door closed behind him, and he finally allowed himself a sigh of gratitude for indoor plumbing. Nine hours in the cockpit had taken its toll—physically and mentally. This moment of privacy was a small luxury.
He splashed cool water on his face at a sink that groaned with rust and sediment. A battered mirror reflected a tired version of himself: advanced flight suit damp with sweat, hair flattened by the helmet. "Welcome to day one," he muttered to his reflection. "Bet tomorrow's gonna be fun."
Refreshed, or at least less desperate, Hawkins emerged into the scorching daylight once more. He retraced his path toward the cluster of tents he'd spotted earlier, where a cluster of Overwatch personnel bustled around tables stacked with comm gear. Beyond that, half a dozen Egyptian soldiers patrolled with rifles slung at the ready, scanning the surroundings with practiced vigilance.
He spotted a large open-sided canopy that looked like an operations hub: overhead fans spinning lazily, cables snaking under the canvas to an array of monitors and ruggedized computers. Sure enough, Captain Vivian "Sojourn" Chase stood at the center, conferring with two staffers. Her distinctive platinum hair and cybernetic limbs marked her out instantly among the crowd of more conventional uniforms.
Approaching, Hawkins paused at the canopy's edge. When Sojourn noticed him, she waved him forward. Her stance radiated calm authority.
"Lieutenant Hawkins," she greeted, voice carrying easily over the low rumble of a nearby generator. "Long flight, I take it?"
He nodded, posture straightening despite the fatigue. "Yes, ma'am. Nine hours in the seat, plus a refuel. The approach was a bit dicey with desert crosswinds, but we're here in one piece."
She flicked her gaze to a holographic map on the table—grainy overhead imagery of the base perimeter and the route to the Anubis facility. "Mendez and Ramos got your plane squared away?"
"Yes, ma'am. Solid crew—some good-natured hassling, as usual," Hawkins said with a faint grin. "But I'll get them the final flight data after I settle in."
Sojourn gestured for him to step closer. A digital readout scrolled lines of text: flight rosters, shift schedules, and local coordination notes. "We're a bit understaffed. The Egyptian Army provides the bulk of ground forces, and Overwatch has a small air contingent. Your Super Sylph is the only advanced recon edge we rely on, so stay mission-ready."
Hawkins scanned the data, picking out references to daily patrol times, armament checks, and possible cross-training sessions. A row of images displayed Egyptian Army officers, each assigned to a sector. One face looked particularly intense—a young commander wearing mirrored aviators.
As if on cue, Sojourn tilted her head toward a figure striding up—a striking woman in tan BDUs, posture taut with military precision. A distinctive falcon-shaped tattoo curved around her right eye. "Lieutenant, meet Captain Fareeha Amari, one of the Egyptian officers commanding a local infantry company."
Hawkins turned, offering a polite nod. The woman halted at the table's edge, returning the nod with equal formality. Her dark hair was pinned back, and a faint sheen of sweat on her brow testified to the midday heat. "Lieutenant," she said in a clear, resonant voice. "You'll be coordinating your air coverage with our perimeter duties. We appreciate Overwatch's assistance—and your own."
She extended a hand. He shook it, noting the firm grip. But something else snagged his attention: the name Amari. A half-buried memory nudged him. He'd seen mention of an "Ana Amari" in old Overwatch mission logs. The older name carried legendary status—a sniper, if he recalled correctly. Did Fareeha share more than just the name?
He hesitated, glancing at her noticeably attractive features. There was indeed a subtle echo of that storied figure in the shape of her eyes, the set of her jaw. Yet he wasn't sure how to breach the subject without sounding intrusive or naive. Instead, he cleared his throat.
"It's a pleasure, Captain." He forced the question aside for now. "I can provide limited air-to-air and close air support, or quick recon any time. Just give me a heads-up, and I'll gear up."
Sojourn looked pleased with the directness. "Good. We'll formalize the schedule at eighteen-hundred. For now, both of you catch your bearings." She tapped a few holographic icons, sharing a digital copy of tomorrow's plan. "We'll do a walk-through of the sector layout and potential infiltration points. Captain Amari's teams run a tight ship—just don't let your guard down. Anubis might be dormant, but we treat God Programs with absolute caution."
"Understood," Hawkins said. He shifted his weight, still feeling the lingering soreness from the flight. Meeting Amari's gaze again, he caught a flicker of curiosity on her side too, as though she'd picked up his momentary pause.
"We have drills scheduled around sunrise," Fareeha noted. "It's cooler then, and you'll get a sense of how my company operates. If you're up for it, we can do a quick brief tonight on how you'll coordinate from the air."
He mustered a friendly grin despite the heat. "Count me in, Captain."
Sojourn nodded in approval. "That's settled, then." She turned away, already fielding another subordinate's question about supply caches. The ops canopy bustled with conversation, data feeds, the faint thrumming of electronics.
Fareeha gave Hawkins a final assessing look. "Get some rest, Lieutenant. Desert nights are short, and morning missions come fast."
"Yes, ma'am." He offered her a respectful nod. As she moved off, he found himself studying her retreating form, mind still swirling with questions about that name—Amari. There was no denying the ring of familiarity. He decided he'd quietly ask around later. For now, rest beckoned: a chance to shake off the flight's aches and mentally prepare for the days ahead.
He left the canopy area, weaving past more crates and ground vehicles, the air vibrating with heat mirages. The day's dryness clung to every breath. Mendez and Ramos would be finishing up the post-flight checks, freeing him to snag a bunk in whichever dusty prefab building Overwatch had assigned.
Despite the exhaustion, he felt a flicker of anticipation in his chest. The journey might've been routine in the cockpit, but the tasks ahead were anything but. Between a dormant God Program, the new synergy with local forces, and the uncanny sense that Fareeha Amari's presence signaled deeper Overwatch ties, Hawkins sensed a shift on the horizon. In the swirl of desert dust and sun, the next chapter of his Overwatch service was about to unfold—and he intended to meet it head-on.