Fiery liftoff

                Part 1 - "Shadows over the Tramgars"


Nestled in the throbbing heart of the southern nation, where dust-laden mountain winds tangle with the ceaseless roar of the metropolis, lies Tramgars Airport—the crown jewel of infrastructure, a voracious hub devouring millions of passengers in its daily churn. Spanning 5,106 acres of sun-baked plain just south of the capital, it boasts three terminals: the humble T1 for domestic hops, a 668,000-square-foot maze of concrete and glass where families dashed with luggage in tow; T2, a hulking relic for no-frills flights; and the grand T3, a cutting-edge masterpiece clocking in at 968,000 square feet, engineered to process up to 20 million passengers annually. T3 loomed like a crystalline fortress, split across two levels: the upper deck for departures, lined with 168 check-in desks and 95 immigration booths, linked to the arrivals below by sleek escalators and a whisper-quiet monorail.


Twin piers, each stretching 1.2 kilometers out to the apron, cradled 78 jet bridges primed for behemoths like the A380—those massive birds ready to swallow the sky. Runway 11/29 sliced southeast for a full 4,430 meters, hemmed in by a sprawling 1-million-square-foot hangar and 3,000 CCTV eyes sweeping every square inch. Just south of the tarmac, the Aruna Hills reared up—a rugged chain of modest rises blanketed in thorny scrub, topping out at 50 meters, with their fringes hugging no more than 5 kilometers from the runway's edge. These ancient sentinels hid shadows that slipped right past radar sweeps, their secrets rustling in the wind-swept bushes while the brutal sun baked the dust, cloaking any sneaky stir. Right there, in the no-man's-land between gleaming civ and raw wilderness, a menace coiled unseen—relentless as the thick air before a storm hits.


President Nerti stood at the porthole in the lavish cabin of Air One—the nation's emblem, a tricked-out Boeing 777 built for VIP runs, with its extended range and fortified shell—while the plane sat poised on the tarmac at Tramgars. Tall, with silver threading his temples and eyes etched with battle-worn grit, he brooded on the summit looming in the neighbor's turf. "This flight's a bid for peace," he whispered, eyes tracing the static sprawl of Tramgars' shimmering lights and the plain beyond, studded with terminal glows. "Or just another loop in the endless standoff?" His focus sharpened on the inky hill silhouettes in the distance, their outlines prickling his gut—like shadows slinking against the wind's pull. Up in the cockpit, Captain Lira Tessman scanned the dials. Her wingman, Lieutenant Kair Well, shot a quick nod: "All clear, ma'am. Takeoff's right on the clock." Back in the cabin, flight attendants Ela and Miri darted about, topping off coffee for the presidential crew. Facing Nerti was Premier Hasi Bun Randi, a stocky power player with a thick beard, thumbing through briefing files. "Security's ironclad," he said. "Versan's on high alert."



But deep in his gut, Nerti knew the score: in this land where rugged mountains and endless deserts nursed grudges from centuries past, peace was always a house of cards. The Aruna Hills, those unassuming watchmen, could cradle not just scenic views but deadly traps. Tramgars Airport, with its razor-sharp lines of concrete and steel, looked like a fortress—but shadows were already closing in overhead.



Colonel Versan, the escort commander, paced the apron at the base of Terminal T3, his desert-hued uniform blending with the sands, chest heavy with medals from campaigns past. He marshaled his 20 elite special ops guards—top-tier pros, in the best tradition of presidential protectors. His gaze raked the horizon, where the Aruna Hills stood as placid sentinels, yet his gut twisted with warning. "Perimeter secure. Patrol drones aloft, radars maxed out," he reported over the radio to security chief Reher, a gaunt vet scarred across the cheek, seated in the command chair at the control console in the bunker beneath Terminal T3. Reher, at the helm of the "D4" network—cutting-edge anti-drone setup with AI brains and laser bite—scowled at screens dotted with green patrol blips. "Aruna Hills are trouble. Boost the thermal scans. That brush is perfect cover for... anything they might throw at us." On the ground, staff buzzed: mechanic Jal Kirn, hands caked in oil, fueled the escort Su-30s in the hangar. Meanwhile, inside Terminal T1, one of the passengers, spice trader Torin, grumbled at the check-in counter amid the crowd about his flight delay, oblivious to the gathering storm.


But in the Aruna Hills, atop two symmetrical 50-meter peaks, darkness lay in wait. Terrorists—five fanatics from the "Desert Shadows," driven by the zeal to topple "tyrants"—had stashed drones in rocky and shrubby hideouts. Leader Kvel Tarr, face shrouded under a hood, checked the control panels tucked in his backpack. Five "Lanzets" per hill: fiber-optic threads, thin as spider silk, snaked down the slopes to controllers in the valley below. Each drone packed a thermobaric payload—equivalent to 50 kg of TNT, primed to unleash a 50-meter fireball, shredding steel and flesh alike. "On liftoff—launch," Kvel whispered into his radio, eyes alight with fanatic fire. Nearby, in the covers, eight fighters gripped FN-6 MANPADS—Chinese "needles" whose IR seekers hungered for jet engine heat. Operators Zir and Fel synced the timers, fingers trembling with anticipation. Wind carried dust to cloak them, while Tramgars radars stared blindly past—the fiber optics rendered the drones ghosts.


Versan halted, ear cocked to the turbine hum. "All set," he thought, but the shadow of doubt clung fast. The Aruna Hills, those silent wardens, guarded secrets that could upend everything. Tramgars Airport, with its rigid symmetry and tech fortress vibe, seemed impregnable—but shadows overhead were thickening, coiling for the strike. Nerti, peering from the porthole, felt a chill crawl up his spine—as if the sky over the plain had darkened. "Peace or another cycle of confrontation?" echoed in his mind. Time ticked on, liftoff drawing near.

               
                Part 2: Whispers in the Cabin


The cabin of Air One, lined with cream leather and inlaid with panels of rare wood, seemed like an oasis of calm amid the airport chaos. The Boeing 777, specially refitted for the president, featured three sections: the forward one for the entourage—with plush seats, a bar, and a conference table; the middle for staff; and the rear for security. In the forward compartment, where the air was infused with the aroma of freshly brewed coffee, President Nerti leaned back in his chair, staring at the softly lit ceiling. His thoughts swirled around the summit—negotiations on trade and borders with the neighboring country, where tension hung in the air like dust over the desert. "Hasi, are you sure this isn't a trap?" he asked quietly, turning to the premier. Hasi Bun Randi, with his thick beard and eyes full of calculation, looked up from his tablet. "The probability is low, but we've accounted for everything. Escort at altitude, radars clear. Versan is the best of the best." He smiled, but a shadow of doubt flickered in his eyes—years in politics had taught him not to trust silence.


Captain Lira Tessman in the cockpit was running the final checks. Her hands, accustomed to the yoke, glided over the panel: takeoff altitude 35,000 feet, course 112 degrees southeast, fuel for 12 hours of flight. "Kair, check the weather over the hills," she said to her partner, Lieutenant Kair Well, a young pilot with a sharp gaze. Kair nodded, entering the data: "Light wind from the south, excellent visibility. But these hills... they always seem suspicious." Lira smirked: "Your paranoia is our insurance. All green." In the cabin, flight attendants Ela and Miri were serving drinks. Ela, a slender brunette with a warm smile, topped off Nerti's coffee: "Your Excellency, relax. The flight will be smooth." Miri, her partner with short hair, nodded to the premier: "Something bothering you?" Hasi shook his head, but inside, unease stirred—rumors of the "Desert Shadows" had reached even the government offices.


Meanwhile, on the apron, Versan watched the preparations. His 20 fighters, in body armor and with rifles, surrounded the plane in a perimeter. "Check the gangways," he commanded over the radio. Reher from the bunker replied: "Scanners clean. But the hills... ramping up the drones." In the distance, at terminal T1, Torin, the spice trader with a bag full of saffron pouches, cursed the delay: "These VIPs again! My flight south will be late." Nearby, a family—father Kell, mother Sira, and two children—waited in line, unaware of the impending nightmare. In the cabin, Nerti closed his eyes, but the whisper of the wind outside the window seemed ominous—as if the Aruna Hills were murmuring a warning. "Takeoff time," Lira's voice came over the intercom. The engines hummed, and Air One began taxiing onto Runway 11/29. The whisper in the cabin fell silent, giving way to the roar of the turbines, but the shadows didn't leave—they followed the plane.


Air One slowly taxied onto Runway 11/29, its wheels squeaking on the concrete as the engines built power. In the cabin, tension mounted: Nerti fastened his seatbelt, glancing at Hasi. "If something goes wrong..." he began, but the premier cut him off: "It won't. We're prepared." Yet a shadow flickered in Hasi's eyes—he recalled reports on the "Desert Shadows," fanatics who had sown chaos in the mountains for years. Lira in the cockpit advanced the throttles: the roar of the turbines echoed off the Aruna Hills, which now seemed closer, their silhouettes darkening against the setting sun. "Speed 150 knots," she announced to Kair. "Liftoff in 30 seconds." Kair monitored the radar: "Clear. But the wind from the hills is picking up." Flight attendants Ela and Miri took their seats, their faces paling—years of service had taught them to recognize hidden threats in the routine.


On the ground, Versan stood at the edge of the apron, his heart pounding in sync with the roar. "Escort, in position," he commanded his fighters, who followed the plane in Su-30s. Two fighters soared into the air first, their wings gleaming crimson in the sun's rays. Reher in the bunker under Terminal T3 peered at the D4 screens: AI scanned the sky, lasers at the ready, but the hills remained a blind spot—the scrub absorbed the signals. "Boost thermal on Aruna," he barked at the operator. In Terminal T1, Torin the trader finally passed security and sat by the window, watching Air One gain speed. "VIPs always get priority," he muttered, unaware that his flight was about to be canceled. Nearby, Kell and Sira's family with their children froze: little boy Lirnn pressed against the glass, whispering: "Look, it sparkles like a rocket!" Mother Sira squeezed her husband's hand: "Hush, son. It's not a good sign."


The plane accelerated to 280 km/h, its wheels lifting off the runway at the 3,000-meter mark. "Liftoff!" Lira shouted, and Air One soared, leaving behind the concrete and lights of Tramgars. Nerti felt the familiar ascent—the freedom of the sky—but the whisper in his mind wouldn't fade: "The hills are watching." Hasi gripped the armrests, scrolling through the latest news on his tablet. A silence hung in the cabin, broken only by the hum. Outside the window, the Aruna Hills shrank, but their shadows seemed to stretch after it, like fingers of fate. Versan on the tower exhaled: "Flight clear." But deep in the hills, Kvel Tarr pressed the button—fiber optics came alive, the drones stirred in their hides. The whisper in the cabin turned to anticipation: the takeoff was fiery, but the shadows didn't lag behind.

                Part 3 - Perimeter Guardians

Colonel Versan stood on the Tramgars control tower, his silhouette etched against the setting sun like a guardian of ancient fortresses. Runway 11/29, freshly cleared of Air One, still vibrated from the roar of its engines, while the escort Su-30s gained altitude, shadowing the presidential flight. Versan, with his broad shoulders and face scarred from past operations, peered into the perimeter monitors. "Status?" he barked into his radio to his deputy, Captain Felor, who coordinated the ground patrols. "Perimeter clean, sir. 20 units in the air, 50 on the ground. Drones scanning out to 10 kilometers." But Versan didn't relax—his instincts, honed by decades of service, sensed a trap. The Aruna Hills, those 50-meter sentinels to the south just 5 kilometers from the runway's edge, seemed too quiet. The scrub and rocks swallowed radar signals, and the 3,000 CCTV cameras dotting the 1-million-square-foot hangar couldn't pierce every crevice.


In the bunker beneath Terminal T3, security chief Reher sweated over the "D4" console—a cutting-edge system where AI analyzed billions of data points per second. Gaunt, with a scar across his cheek from a past explosion, he chewed on a cigar, staring at the holographic display. "Amp up the focus on Aruna," he ordered his tech, a young woman named Zarin. The screens flickered: green zones of drone patrols, red for the hills' blind spots. "Sir, thermals are picking up anomalies—could be animals," Zarin reported. Reher snorted: "Animals don't hide panels. Check the fiber optics—these 'Shadows' bastards are sly." The "D4" network included lasers capable of downing a drone at 18 kilometers and radars integrated with the 78 jet bridges of Terminal T3, but the hills remained a vulnerability—a natural barrier masking threats as innocence.


On the ground, Versan's patrols prowled the perimeter: jeeps with fighters in body armor combed the 3-meter-high fences studded with sensors. One soldier, Private Tarm, drove past T2—the outdated terminal for budget flights, where crowds of passengers awaited departures. "Nothing, sir," he reported. But at that moment in Terminal T3, the glass palace with its monorail, a random passenger—a businessman named Krel with a tablet in hand—stood by the window, watching the escort. They take off beautifully, he thought, unaware that the perimeter guardians were about to clash with true darkness. Mechanic Jal Kirn in the hangar wiped sweat from his brow, fueling reserve Su-30s: "These VIPs always get on my nerves." The family in Terminal T1—Kell, Sira, and the kids—finally boarded their plane, but the flight delay loomed like a storm cloud.

Versan descended from the tower, clutching his radio. "Reher, give me the full picture. Air One at 500 feet." The response came: "Clear, but the hills... they're stirring." The perimeter guardians tensed—the silence of Aruna was deceptive, and the time for the strike was drawing near.


In the Aruna Hills, the shadows thickened. Kvel Tarr, leader of the "Desert Shadows," crouched in cover atop the peak, his hood blending with the scrub. Five fanatics around him—bearded, eyes burning with vengeance—checked their gear. Five "Lanzets" per hill on each of the two peaks: rocket drones, 1,5 m long, with fiber-optic threads stretching 5 kilometers down to controllers in the valley. These threads made the connection invisible to radars—no electromagnetic interference, no detection. Each "Lanzet" carried 50 kg of thermobaric mix: on detonation, a 50-meter fireball capable of ripping a Boeing apart. "Sync with liftoff," Kvel whispered, his voice trembling with excitement. Nearby, eight fighters with FN-6 MANPADS—portable "needles" with IR seekers hungering for engine heat—waited. Operators Zir and Fel, tablets in hand, calibrated the timers: "60 seconds after takeoff." The wind carried dust, masking them—Versan's patrols passed 2 kilometers away, but the hills' blind spots saved them.


Versan, descending from the tower, gathered his council in the mobile command center at the runway's edge. "Reher, report," he said, eyeing the holographic map. Reher responded from the bunker over a secure channel: "Anomalies on thermals—three spots on Aruna. Could be smugglers, but... ramping up the 'D4' lasers. AI's got 80% coverage, but the scrub jams 20%." The "D4" system—pride of the nation—included 50 laser installations around the perimeter, capable of downing a drone at 18 km, and AI analyzing trajectories in real time. But fiber optics were a blind spot: "Need ground patrols closer to the hills," suggested Felor, Versan's deputy. "Too risky—the runway's open," the colonel snapped. His 20 special ops fighters, in light armor with scout drones, surrounded the hangar: mechanic Jal Kirn, fueling the Su-30s, reported: "Escort's airborne, sir. Two fighters flanking Air One."

In Terminal T3, passengers froze. Businessman Krel by the T3 window watched the Su-30s soar: Military might, he thought, updating stocks on his tablet. In Terminal T1, Kell and Sira's family boarded their flight: "Dad, does the president fly high?" Lirn asked. Kell smiled: "Higher than the clouds, son." But the flight delay loomed—due to the VIP flight. Torin, the trader in T2's waiting area, munched a sandwich: "These guardians everywhere, and for what?" Airport staff—from cleaners to dispatchers—continued their routine, oblivious to the brewing storm. Reher activated extra scanners: "Picking up movement—small, like rodents." But Zarin, the tech, frowned: "Sir, that's not animals. Too symmetrical."


Versan stepped to the perimeter fence—3 meters high, topped with barbed wire and sensors, per FAP standards: a continuous barrier with buttresses every 100 meters and a cleared 3-meter strip. "Patrol to Aruna!" he commanded. The jeeps surged forward, but it was too late: in the hills, Kvel smiled—the "Lanzets" came alive. Air One reached 1,000 feet, escort on the flanks. The perimeter guardians tensed, but the shadows had already broken free. Reher shouted: "Threat! Drones!" The "D4" lasers slashed the air, but the fiber optics deceived—impact was inevitable.

                Part 4 - Latent Fire

In the skies over Tramgars, Air One gained altitude, its silhouette shrinking into a point against the orange sunset. President Nerti, buckled into his seat, gazed out the porthole: the Aruna Hills, those modest guardians, now seemed harmless mounds, but the chill in his chest lingered. "Hasi, what do they say about the 'Shadows'?" he asked the premier, tearing himself from the view. Hasi Bun Randi, scanning a report on his tablet, frowned: "Mountain fanatics. Last strike—a border blast a year ago. But here in Tramgars, it's quiet." Yet uncertainty laced his voice—intel had warned of dormant cells sleeping in the deserts. Captain Lira Tessman in the cockpit held course 112 degrees, speed 500 km/h, altitude 5,000 feet. "Kair, radars?" she asked. Lieutenant Kair Well, monitoring the screens, replied: "Clear, ma'am. Escort on the flanks—Su-30s 2 miles out." But beyond the window, 5 kilometers below, the hills stirred—the latent fire awaited its hour.


On the ground, in the command center by the runway, Versan paced the room, his boots thudding on the concrete. "Reher, D4 status!" he barked into the radio. From the bunker under Terminal T3 came the security chief's voice: "AI's picking up movement—10 objects, small, from the hills. Lasers locking on." The "D4" system, per ICAO and FAP standards, blanketed the perimeter: 50 laser turrets, radars with 10 km range, sensors on the fence—a continuous 3-meter barrier with a cleared strip and buttresses. But the Shadows' fiber optics slipped through: threads thinner than hair carried signals without emissions. Reher, scar on his cheek, activated the protocol: "Anti-drone mode—fire on trajectories." Zarin, the tech, input commands: "Tracking ascent—drones, 1,5 m class." In the air, the escort Su-30s, piloted by Major Selk and Captain Tor, circled: "Versan, sky's clear. Return to base?" Selk asked. "Hold position," the colonel snapped.


In the Aruna Hills, the fire lay latent but came alive. Kvel Tarr, in cover on the peak, pressed the button on his controller: "Lanzets, launch!" Five drones per hill broke free—silent, with fiber-optic tails, racing at 200 km/h toward the runway. Each carried 50 kg of thermobarics: on detonation, a 50 m radius fireball at 2000°C, shockwave ripping steel. "MANPADS on target," Kvel commanded. Eight fighters with FN-6—Chinese missiles, IR seekers locked on engine heat—aimed at the sky where the escort trailed contrails. Zir and Fel synchronized: "60 seconds to zone." The wind carried dust, masking the takeoff—Versan's patrols, jeeps along the perimeter, sped past 1 km away, but blind spots saved the terrorists.


In Terminal T3, passengers spotted the flashes: Krel, the businessman, looked up from his tablet: "What fireworks are those?" Staff froze, while in Terminal T1, the Kell family was boarding: "Mom, are the planes shooting?" Lirn asked. Sira squeezed his hand: "Just a game, son." Torin in Terminal T2 cursed: "More drills!" Mechanic Jal in the hangar heard the siren: "Threat!" Reher shouted: "Lasers—fire!" Beams of light slashed the air, downing the first "Lanzet" at 2 km—the explosion lit up the hills, but the rest broke through. Versan grabbed the mic: "Evacuate terminals! Air One, threat!" The latent fire broke free—chaos erupted, and Tramgar's blazed.


Explosions shattered the silence of Tramgars like thunder in the desert. The first "Lanzet" penetrated the "D4" lasers—its fiber-optic tail carried it silently until the thermobaric mixture detonated at the edge of runway 11/29. A 50-meter diameter fireball flared in the air, the 2000°C heat scorching concrete, tearing asphalt, and igniting fuel in the nearby jet bridge. The shockwave rippled through the terminals: glass trembled in Terminal T3, passengers in the departure hall screamed, dropping to the floor. Krel, the businessman by the window, saw the flash: "Bomb!" and dove under the counter, his tablet flying out of his hands. In Terminal T1, the Kell family froze: Lirn, the boy, clung to his mother Sira, while Mr. Kell pulled them toward the exit. "Run!" he shouted as sirens wailed. Torin in Terminal T2, a spice trader, knocked over his bag: "Terror attack! Everyone down!" Mechanic Jal Kirn in the hangar, surrounded by 1 million square feet of steel, dove under a Su-30 as shrapnel whistled past.


Versan in the command center staggered from the shockwave: "Reher, how many broke through?!" From the T3 terminal bunker, where lights flickered, Reher, clutching the radio, coughed through smoke: "Four! Lasers are downing them, but... MANPADS in the air!" His scar burned with sweat, Zarin the tech input commands: "AI on intercept—70% success." "D4" roared to life: lasers slashed the sky, nailing the second "Lanzet" at 1 km—the blast lit the Aruna hills like hell's fireworks. But the rest raced to the apron: the third struck the hangar, igniting fuel, flames leaping 30 meters and devouring patrol jeeps. Felor, Versan's deputy, in a jeep at the perimeter, saw the fireball: "Minefield! Evacuate!" His 20 elite troops opened fire with automatics, but the drones were too fast—200 km/h invisibles.


At 8,000 feet, Air One's Lira Tessman heard the alert: "Threat! MANPADS!" Kair Well in the cockpit activated ECM—jamming infrared seekers: "Escort, maneuver!" Major Selk and Captain Tor’s Su-30s dove, releasing flares to trick the FN-6. The first "needle" missile from Aruna Hill, launched by Zir, hit a decoy and exploded mid-air. The second, fired by Fel, struck Tor’s Su-30, which caught fire and fell toward the hills; the pilot ejected, his parachute blossoming in smoke. Nerti in the cabin felt the shake: "What was that?!" Hasi Bun Randi grabbed the phone: "Versan, report!" Flight attendants Ela and Miri screamed, putting on oxygen masks. "Terrorists! Hold course!" the premier replied, going pale. Kvel Tarr on the peak, watching chaos, laughed: "For freedom!" His five fanatics launched the last "Lanzets"—the fire was fully unleashed.


Chaos engulfed the airport: in Terminal T3, the monorail stopped, passengers surged toward escalators, sirens wailed—evacuation. The wounded screamed, shards wounded dozens; smoke filled the halls, 3000 CCTV cameras recorded hell. Versan burst onto the apron, firing into the sky: "Suppress the hills!" Patrols rushed to Aruna, but the 5 km distance was a chasm. Reher activated the final barrier: "Missiles on sources!" Explosions on the hills—D4 lasers reached shelters, roasting two terrorists. But Kvel survived, sending the signal: "Air One—target!" In the cabin Nerti prayed: "Don't let us fall." The latent fire raged, Tramgars burned, and the "Desert Shadows" celebrated victory—or the start of war.

Part 6: Ashes of Hope

Air One stood on runway 11/29, smoke wafting from holes in the wing where fuel still dripped, mixing with firefighters' foam—the landing was successful, but Tramgars breathed heavily, as if after a blow. President Nerti descended the steps, supported by Hasi Bun Randi, legs weak from adrenaline: "How many casualties?" Medics were already pulling out Lira Tessman and Kair Well—the captain with cuts and burns, the lieutenant with a shoulder wound, both in shock but alive. Versan, the colonel, face smeared with soot, saluted: "Your Excellency, you are safe. Major Selk died a hero—he shielded you from the 'Lanzet'." The major’s Su-30 burned beyond the runway, debris scattered for miles, firefighters bustled around the burning cockpit. Nerti nodded, throat tightening: "I owe him. We all do... What about the second pilot? I saw him eject—what's the situation on the ground?" Colonel Versan smiled: "Captain Tor is fine. The ground situation is under control. You need to move to shelter, Your Excellency."


In the command center, where lamps flickered under overload, Reher, with a burn on his hand, pointed at the screens: "12 dead on the ground—Lanzet explosions in T3 and the hangar, including Jal Kirn. 62 wounded, seriously injured in helicopters. Damage: Runway slippery from spillage, repairs will take hours; hangar partially burned, 1 million square feet of steel on fire." The airport is closed: perimeter reinforced, 3000 CCTV cameras analyzing, AI 'D4' scanning the Aruna hills for 10 km. Zarin, a technician, entered data: "Fuel on the runway—risk of rekindling, firefighters pouring foam." Hasi added: "Summit canceled. Borders closed, 'Desert Shadows' are terrorist number one. Compensation for victims is being prepared."


In Terminal T3, a glassy inferno with shattered windows, medics triaged the wounded: Krel, the businessman, lay on a stretcher with a leg gash, whispering: "A miracle..." The Kell family, evacuated to Terminal T1, huddled in shelter—Lirnn, the boy, tearful: "Dad, did the president's plane crash?" Kell embraced him: "No, it landed. The fighter saved it." Sira nodded: "Everyone's alive thanks to the guardians." Torin, the spice trader, helped distribute food: "My flight's in ashes, but life comes first." Firefighters doused the last hotspots, the monorail stood idle, flights canceled. Nerti on the tower gazed at the hills: "Have the terrorists escaped? Can you find them?" Versan: "Patrols are combing the desert, but chances are slim."


Ash settled on faces, Tramgars groaned, but a spark of hope glowed: everyone on Air One was saved, the pilots would survive. However, the "Desert Shadows" awaited, lost in the sands and rocky screes of the foothills.


Night fell over Tramgars like a heavy shroud, the airport lights flickering as cleanup neared completion. Asphalt pavers rolled over the runway. Air One was towed to a remote stand, securely sheltered in the hangar. President Nerti stood in the command center, weary but resolute: "Versan, full assessment." The colonel pulled up his tablet: "13 dead—including the fighter pilot. 65 wounded, including pilots Lira and Kair in hospital; they'll pull through, but a month in recovery." Full evacuation: flights canceled for 24 hours, passengers in hotels with compensation, perimeter lockdown—D4 drones on guard, 3000 cameras capturing every rustle. Hasi Bun Randi, the prime minister, with a bruise, added: "Damage—50 million: hangar, fuel, Su-30. Summit postponed, military on high alert, police patrols reinforced. No incidents reported. The public remains calm. No one has claimed responsibility yet, but we suspect the 'Shadows.' They've been designated terrorists for years, and now a hunt is on across the entire desert."


Night had fallen over Tramgars like a heavy blanket, airport lights flickering as cleanup neared completion. Asphalt rollers smoothed the runway. Air One was towed to a distant stand, safely sheltered in a hangar. President Nerti stood in the command center, tired but determined: "Versan, status report." The colonel swiped his tablet: "13 dead—including the fighter pilot. 65 wounded, including pilots Lira and Kair in hospital; they'll survive but face a month of recovery." Full evacuation underway: flights canceled for 24 hours, passengers housed in hotels with compensation, perimeter lockdown—D4 drones on patrol, 3,000 cameras monitoring every movement. Prime Minister Hasi Bun Randi, bruised, added: "Damage totals 50 million: hangar, fuel, Su-30. Summit postponed, army on high alert, police patrols increased. No incidents reported. The public remains calm. No group has claimed responsibility yet, but we suspect the 'Shadows.' They have long been designated terrorists, and a desert-wide manhunt is underway."


Nerti descended to the Su-30 wreckage, where medics had gathered the pilot's remains and placed them in an anatomical bag. Soldiers saluted Selk. Addressing the prime minister, the president said: "We must honor the hero—posthumous highest award, see to his family personally." Hasi whispered: "I'll do everything necessary. This is war, Mr. President. The 'Shadows' are fanatics, but we'll respond." Nerti nodded: "With force and negotiations—not all desert tribes are our enemies." Ashes of hope swirled in the wind, but dawn broke through: families embraced, patrols marched. Kvel Tarr lay hidden: "Failure, but the seed is sown." Versan clenched his fist: "We'll find you." Tramgars groaned from its wounds, but hope smoldered—we weren't broken, but forged stronger. The guardians didn't sleep, the desert awaited the storm, and hope burned brighter than ashes.