The sky was a still canvas of deep indigo when the rotors of Demon 393 began to spin. The crew had been up since 0400, prepping for a reconnaissance sweep to an area near Cung Son. The air was cool and damp, the kind that clung to your skin and whispered of the coming heat. Inside the cockpit, the red Demon emblem glowed faintly in the dim light, a silent sentinel of the missions past. As 393 lifted off, the dawn began to break. The horizon blushed with streaks of orange and pink, casting long shadows across the mist-covered valleys below. 393 banked west, its silhouette slicing through the morning haze. Below, the jungle stirred-birds took flight, and the distant hum of life resumed. The crew flew low, hugging the contours of the hills. The sun crept higher, illuminating the ridges and revealing the winding river that marked their route. The radio crackled with updates from other birds in the air, but 393 flew silent, eyes scanning the tree line for movement. Suddenly, a flash of light from the ridge. The pilot instinctively veered left, dropping altitude. co-pilot called out coordinates while the gunner swung his weapon toward the glint. Fortunately it was nothing, just the sun catching a piece of metal, maybe an old shell casing or a forgotten canteen. The tension eased, but the adrenaline lingered. They completed their sweep and turned back toward Tuy Hoa, the sun now fully risen and casting golden light across the landscape. As they approached the South China Sea, the familiar shape of the runway came into view. 393 descended smoothly, skids kissing the concrete with practiced ease. The crew disembarked, their faces lit by the late afternoon sun and the quiet satisfaction of another mission flown. 393 stood ready for the next call, its blades still, its body warmed by the sun.