The helicopter knifed through the Sahara's haze, twin rotors beating the air into a swirling wall of dust. Inside the cabin, six men sat in silence, one at the controls, the rest bent over instruments, eyes sweeping the dunes below for a trace of movement.
Colonel James "Rhodey" Rhodes leaned toward the cockpit, voice clipped.
"Still no trace?"
Jack, the technician hunched over the portable scanner, gave a single shake of his head. "No, sir. Not yet."
Rhodey's gaze returned to the window. The desert stretched outward without end, sterile, merciless. Somewhere out there was his target. His friend. Whether alive or dead, Rhodes would find him.
The cabin's mood was taut, the hum of the rotors the only constant, until something shifted.
At first it was barely audible, a thread of sound threading through the mechanical roar. Then it took shape: music. Soft, unhurried, impossibly pure. Each note landed with precision, unnervingly at odds with the harsh world beyond the glass.
Rhodey's head lifted. "Tell me I'm not hearing that."
No one answered. The men were listening, their tension thawing in the strange calm that filled the space. The melody carried a familiarity that defied logic, different for each of them, yet personal. For Rhodes, it stirred the echo of a quiet evening before deployment, when the air was warm and laughter was unguarded.
The pilot veered without orders, tracking the sound. No one protested. The music had become their bearing.
The helicopter skimmed the dunes, its passengers almost unconsciously leaning forward, drawn toward something unseen. Faces softened. The pressure in the air lifted.
And then, it stopped.
The silence was abrupt, leaving the absence of it almost tactile.
Rhodey spoke first. "Direction?"
Jack shook his head once. No lock. Then the scanner emitted a sharp chirp, a contacted ping. Close.
"I've got movement," Jack said, steady but urgent.
They clustered around the display. The signal was tight, less than half a klick out.
Rhodey swept the desert with his eyes. At first, only sand, heat‑warped and shifting. Then he saw him.
A single figure stood alone amid the vastness, arm raised in signal. Distance masked the details, but the stance, the presence.
Rhodey's jaw set. 'No doubt at all'
Rhodey leaned toward the window, eyes scanning the dunes.
"I see him."
A lone figure was fighting his way through the sand, one arm raised in signal. Even through the haze, Rhodey knew the face.
"Tony."
There was no landing, the rotors would have torn up the loose ground, but the sighting was enough. Rhodey was already on the comms, transmitting coordinates.
Minutes later, two tan Humvees cut across the desert, tires spitting dust. Soldiers dismounted, moving quickly to meet the man. Tony Stark stood waiting, clothes torn, skin burned by the sun, worn down to the bone, but alive.
"About time," he rasped, the line lacking its usual bite.
Rhodey stepped from the lead vehicle, relief showing despite himself.
"You look like hell."
"Yeah," Tony said, climbing into the Humvee. "Hell had better drinks."
The convoy turned back, its engines carrying them toward the forward operating base.
At the base, medics went through the checklist, hydration, vitals, concussion screening. Tony waved most of it off, but the fatigue in his eyes betrayed him. When they finished, Rhodey saw him aboard the waiting military transport, a grey jet bound for the U.S.
The steady drone of the engines lulled him into a half‑sleep. Somewhere in the quiet, he thought he caught that melody again. He opened his eyes. Only the turbines answered.
The sun was near the horizon when the plane touched down on a small military airstrip stateside. The heat of the desert was gone, replaced by cool evening air.
A black sedan waited on the tarmac.
Tony stepped down the ramp, finding his balance after hours in the air. The car door opened, and Pepper Potts emerged.
Her gaze swept over him once, sharp and thorough. Relief softened her expression, even as her voice stayed measured.
"Tony."