Captain Franz Hartmann gripped the control stick, sweat slicking his palms despite the air-conditioned cockpit. Below him, the churning grey expanse of the North Sea mirrored the turmoil in his gut. This wasn't supposed to be his mission. He was a pilot, an ace they called him back in '72, but now he was a glorified babysitter, tasked with ferrying a temperamental beast across the Atlantic.

The beast in question was the F-104 Starfighter, a sleek, powerful plane plagued by a reputation for deadliness. It was the Luftwaffe's new toy, and Franz, along with countless others, had voiced concerns about its suitability for naval operations. Then came the headlines: "Bundestagspräsident's Son Lost in F-104 Crash." Politics intervened, and whispers of the A-7 Corsair II, a Vietnam War hero, began circulating.

Franz had trained on the A-7 in the States. It wasn't a fighter jet, but a workhorse, a bomb-laden bulldog with the teeth to snarl back. He yearned for the day they'd replace these Starfighters. Until then, he was stuck with this Atlantic crossing, a constant dance with the gremlins that lurked within the F-104's systems.

Suddenly, a blaring alarm shattered the tense silence. Warning lights strobed, and the plane lurched violently. Franz fought for control, his heart hammering against his ribs. This was it. This was how he became another statistic. But Franz wasn't ready to meet his end babysitting a lemon.

With a surge of adrenaline, he remembered the emergency procedures, a desperate gamble against the failing machine. Sweat stung his eyes as he flipped switches, barked commands into the radio, praying for a miracle. The plane shuddered, protesting his efforts, but slowly, agonizingly, it responded.

He nursed the crippled bird towards the nearest airbase in Norway, a harrowing display of skill and sheer will. As the wheels kissed the tarmac, Franz slumped over the control stick, utterly drained. He'd cheated death, but the victory felt hollow.

News of his near-disaster spread like wildfire. The pressure mounted, and finally, the decision came: The Luftwaffe would be getting A-7s. Franz watched from the sidelines as the Corsairs roared into their new home, a bittersweet pang in his chest. He might not have been the one to fly them into combat, but in a way, he'd played his part. He'd taken a gamble, not just with his life, but with the future of the Luftwaffe's attack force. And he'd won.