Wings of Destiny

Greater Cincinnati, Ohio, August 13

The hangar was filled with relics of forgotten wars, and Erich Winter couldn't stay away from one of them. The object of his transgression sat before him. The jagged, sinister Junkers Ju-87 Stuka. His fingers, mere inches from the cold riveted skin of the fuselage, itched to touch it.

“I catch you even thinking about taking that plane out…”

The voice, a low growl laced with contempt, echoed in the vast space. Erich flinched and snatched his hand back as if burned. He turned to face his father.

Ryker Winter was a man carved from spite. He stood silhouetted in the hangar doorway, not as a father but as a warden.

“Wertloser Mistkerl,” his father spat.

The old German insult, meant to demean, only solidified Erich’s resolve. “Worthless bastard? I’m neither,” Erich said, his voice tighter than he wanted.

His father took a step forward, his work boots scraping on the concrete. “I don’t know why your mother had to be the one who died. All you’ve ever been is a curse. Twenty years since you took my Frau. Twenty years you’ve cursed my house.”

The words, delivered with practiced cruelty, landed like a hammer blow to Erich’s chest. He swallowed the familiar acid taste of rejection. Baron, his older brother, was the golden heir. Erich was the mistake that cost their mother her life.

“If I’m so terrible,” Erich shot back, anger finally overriding his caution, “maybe take a look in the mirror.”

A muscle twitched in his father’s jaw. “You’re the Devil’s own curse. I see it every time I look at you.”

“Because you say so?”

“Because it’s the only thing that makes sense!” Ryker’s voice rose, bouncing off the aluminum wings of vintage biplanes. “You skulk around here with that…obsession. Do you have any idea what your interest in that Nazi filth would do to my business if you opened your mouth?”

“There’s a difference between history and glorification,” Erich countered, though his heart wasn’t in the argument.

“Your great-grandfather wasn’t a hero. He was garbage. If he was so great, he wouldn’t have been shot down.”

“He died trying to save his men!” Erich’s voice cracked with a passion he never felt for anything else. Ulrich Winter meant more to him than the man breathing fire in front of him.

“He was Nazi filth. And you want to be just like him.” Ryker’s glare was a physical thing, pressing Erich back. “You’re an embarrassment. A freak. You can’t even talk to a girl without stammering. Your brother—”

“I don’t care about Baron,” Erich exploded, the words tearing out of him. “I don’t care about his friends or his girls. I just want to fly. I earn my keep. I do everything you ask and more. What the hell do you pay me for if I’m so worthless?”

“I pay you because the state requires it. I feed you and house you because your mother’s ghost would haunt me if I didn’t. And as far as working for me, it’s the least you can do after killing her.”

The air left Erich’s lungs. It was the unspoken truth, the foundational crack in their world, finally spoken aloud.

Something in Erich snapped. The years of slights, the backhanded compliments for Baron, the cold shoulders, the constant, grinding disdain. “You know what?” he said, his voice dropping to a deadly calm. “Nothing would make me happier than getting away from you. You blame me for something I had no control over. I didn’t ask to be born. I didn’t ask for a piece of shit for a father.”

The change in Ryker was instantaneous and terrifying. The cold anger evaporated into what looked like pure, unadulterated rage. He moved with a speed that belied his size.

His fist connected with Erich’s cheekbone with a sickening crunch. Stars exploded behind his eyes. The world tilted, his balance gone. He stumbled back, arms flailing for a support that wasn’t there.

He went down hard, and his head struck the concrete floor with a nauseating thud.

White-hot pain detonated in his skull. Everything swam, sounds faded into a high-pitched whine. He rolled onto his side, a metallic taste flooded his mouth. His fingers, trembling, touched the hot, wet agony at the back of his head. They came away slick and dark with blood. His legs stiffened, then went limp.

His vision blurred. And he didn’t know how he’d ended up on the floor.

Through a gray, narrowing tunnel, he saw his father’s face lean over him. Not with concern, but with cold, final hatred.

“I hope you die right here on this floor,” Ryker said, the words dripping into Erich’s soul. “I’d finish the job, but you’re not worth the prison time.”

Enough understanding crept back in for him to know his father had hurt him. It wasn't the first time.

Then, the boots turned. The footsteps echoed, fading away, leaving him alone in the silent hangar with the smell of oil, dust, and his own blood.

He tried to push himself up but couldn’t manage it. Everything tilted, and nausea gripped him. He lay there in stunned confusion, head spinning with dizziness.

Darkness crept in from the edges of his vision, pulling him down. The last thing he saw was the menacing silhouette of the Stuka, waiting.