Logan
Langley AFB
The memorial is set just outside the hangar, on the airfield itself.
Rows of chairs face a simple stage draped in black, with Ryan’s picture front and center.
Behind the stage, the towering open doors of the hangar frame the scene, and beyond that, the runway stretches into the horizon.
The sky above is a clear, vivid blue, a stark contrast to the heaviness in my chest.
You don’t carry that weight—you hear me?
Ryan’s letter reverberates in my mind on a loop.
His picture sits on an easel. He’s smiling in it, his flight helmet tucked under his arm, his other hand resting on the fuselage of his Raptor.
It’s how I want to remember him.
Confident. Untouchable.
Alive.
But the boots, rifle, and helmet arranged solemnly beneath the photo scream otherwise.
Live for both of us, Logan.
The flags ripple in the breeze, the sound of them snapping faint but constant.
It’s fitting. Ryan loved the open sky, and now the same sky will carry him one last time.
I sit in the front row with Dalton on one side and Townsend on the other. My uniform feels stiff and suffocating, like it’s holding me together, but just barely. I don’t trust myself to speak. Not yet. The ache in my chest feels like a crater, raw and unfillable.
And if I know you, you’re probably blaming yourself.
The hum of whispered conversations fades as the ceremony begins, replaced by an oppressive silence that wraps around us like a storm cloud.
Lila is here. We drove together, though I barely remember the ride—just flashes of the lingering warmth of her arms around me when I fell apart on her front porch like the broken excuse for a man I’ve become.
I didn’t deserve her comfort then, and I sure as hell don’t deserve it now.
She’s sitting with the rest of the civilians from the demo team, not with me, because I never asked her to.
I thought it’d hurt less this way, keeping her at arm’s length.
But it doesn’t. I know she’s trying to respect my space but all I really want is her next to me.
It’s fucked up since I don’t deserve her.
Still, I can feel the weight of her absence like another wound layered on the one burning in my shoulder.
Five days since the attack, and the pain is still sharp, radiating beneath the stiff fabric of my service coat.
The bandages make the sleeve tighter, the sling an ever-present reminder of what I survived. What Ryan didn’t.
Townsend steps up to the podium, his posture rigid, his face a mask of composure. But I know him too well. His jaw is clenched, his hands grip the edges of the podium like it’s the only thing keeping him upright. He clears his throat, and his voice cuts through the silence, thick with emotion.
“Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for being here today as we honor Captain Ryan Carter, call sign Spartan. He was a son, a brother, and to us, he was family.” Townsend pauses, his gaze sweeping over the crowd before landing on Ryan’s parents and younger brother, Tyler.
His voice softens. “To Mr. and Mrs. Carter, Tyler, thank you for sharing him with us. Ryan was one of the best. A damn good pilot, and an even better man.”
The wind brushes past, carrying with it the faint scent of jet fuel and the distant roar of engines from the flight line.
Townsend takes a shaky breath and looks down at the Bible in his hands.
He flips to a marked page, his voice even as he reads.
“John 15:13 says, ‘Greater love has no one than this, than to lay down one’s life for his friends.’” He looks up, his voice thick with emotion.
“Carter embodied this. He gave his all—for his country, his team, his brothers.”
In the air, on the ground—you were my brother. You still are.
I grip my knee with my right hand, my knuckles white, trying to keep the tidal wave of grief at bay.
Don’t let this break you.
Townsend shares stories of Ryan—how he always had everyone laughing with his Texas charm, how he never backed down from a challenge. His voice cracks when he talks about Ryan’s courage in the air, the loyalty that defined him.
“I’ll miss him,” Townsend says, his composure finally slipping. “We all will.” He steps back from the podium, and for a second, he allows the grief he’s been holding back to flash across his face. He glances skyward. “Thank you.”
I don’t think I can do this, but Dalton nudges me.
It’s my turn. My feet feel like lead as I walk to the podium.
I attempt to roll my shoulders back, to force the tension from my body, but it sends white-hot pain up my shoulder and down my arm.
I grit through it, gripping the edge of the podium with my good arm and force myself to look out at the crowd.
You’ve had my back through the good, the bad, and the absolutely insane.
“When I first met Carter,” I start, my voice shaky, “he told me I needed to loosen up. Said he’d never met a Viking who was so damn serious, then proceeded to put a beer in my hand.
” A few quiet chuckles ripple through the crowd, but my voice thickens with emotion.
“He was my wingman in every way. On the ground, in the air…and now. Always.”
Those memories, they’re what I want you to hold on to.
I pause, swallowing hard. “Ryan taught me how to laugh when things were hard, how to push harder when I thought I’d hit my limit. He wasn’t just fearless, he made the rest of us braver, too.”
We signed up for this, Logan.
I look at his family. “To the Carters, thank you for giving us Ryan. I promise you, we’ll carry his legacy with us. We’ll honor him every time we step into that cockpit.”
My voice breaks as I look at Ryan’s smile. “I’ll miss you, Spartan.”
I step back, and the tears come. Dalton grips my good shoulder, steadying me as we walk back to our seats.
The roll call begins. A master sergeant steps forward, his voice booming in the quiet. We stand.
“Major Townsend!”
“Here, Master Sergeant.” Townsend straightens his posture and visibly swallows.
“Captain James!”
“Here, Master Sergeant.” My reply falters as I’m hollowed out from the inside.
“Lieutenant Everett!”
“Here, Master Sergeant.” Dalton’s voice is loud and clear, but I see his hands trembling slightly.
“Captain Carter!”
Silence.
The sergeant calls again.
“Captain Ryan Thomas Carter!”
If you’re reading this, it means I didn’t make it back.
The quiet is deafening, and I can feel the weight of every person’s breath in the room.
Then, the three-volley salute. We remain standing at attention.
Seven members of the honor guard stand in perfect formation, rifles at the ready. The first volley cracks through the still air, followed by the second and third. Each shot feels like an exclamation point on the grief we’re all carrying.
The bugler steps forward. We salute as the first notes of “Taps” pierce the quiet, each one pulling at the ache in my chest. I bow my head, my fists clenching.
Saluting once more, I tilt my head toward the sky.
Four F-22s streak across the blue expanse in a perfect diamond formation. At the last moment, one jet peels away, climbing sharply toward the heavens and leaving a hole in the formation. My throat tightens as I watch it disappear into the sky.
The Missing Man Flyover.
Take care of the flight, Logan.
The roar of the engines fades, swallowed by the sky, but the emptiness it leaves behind is deafening.
I blink, and I’m not here anymore. I’m back there—nine years ago—standing in the suffocating heat at Reaper’s memorial.
The sharp crack of the rifles still echoes, slicing through the air like the guilt I’ve carried ever since.
I remember the flag trembling in his mother’s hands, the way her fingers gripped it like it could somehow bring him back.
I should’ve saved him. I was his wingman.
And now Ryan. Another flag. Another name carved into stone because I wasn’t enough.
I thought losing Reaper had hollowed me out. But I was wrong. Grief isn’t a void, it’s a blade, and there’s always more of me left to cut.
I finally lower my right hand and blink, back to the present as Ryan’s mother inches forward.
I stand rigid as the Honor Guard moves with practiced precision.
One of them—a lieutenant colonel—steps forward, cradling the folded flag in his white-gloved hands.
The crisp blue triangle, stars gleaming against the fabric, is a stark contrast to the grief radiating from the woman in front of him.
He kneels before her, lowering his head in reverence.
“On behalf of the President of the United States, the United States Air Force, and a grateful nation—” his voice is steady carrying across the silent crowd— “please accept this flag as a symbol of our appreciation for your loved one’s honorable and faithful service. ”
She stares at it for a long moment, like touching it will make this real. Like accepting it means saying goodbye. Her fingers shake as she reaches for the flag, pressing it to her chest the second it’s in her grasp. Her shoulders quake, but she doesn’t make a sound.
I swallow hard. He should be standing beside me, not reduced to a folded flag and memories that will never be enough.
The lieutenant colonel rises, stepping back.
Tyler stands in his service dress between his mom and dad, his face pale but resolute. He looks like Ryan. Same jawline, same fire in his eyes.
The ceremony nears its end. The folded flag rests in Ryan’s mother’s lap, her fingers trembling as she clutches the last piece of him she’ll ever have.
Townsend steps forward first, offering a quiet word to Ryan’s mom before turning sharply on his heel. One by one, the rest of us follow, each giving her a moment of respect. When it’s my turn, I force my legs to move, even though every part of me feels like stone.
She looks up at me, hazel eyes so much like Ryan’s, filled with pain so vast I swear I can feel it bleeding into me. I open my mouth, but nothing comes out. What the hell can I say? Sorry for your loss? Sorry I’m here and he isn’t?
So I don’t say anything. I just nod, sharp and reverent, hoping she sees what I can’t put into words.
Then I step back, rejoining my flight, standing shoulder to shoulder with the men who are still here. The silence stretches on before Townsend finally speaks.
“That concludes the ceremony.” His voice is steady, but even he can’t mask the weight behind it. “Dismissed.”
I look toward his smiling face and touch the brim of my hat once more, a silent salute. “See you on the other side, brother,” I whisper Ryan’s goodbye.
Don’t let my ghost hang around.