Twenty minutes later, he was roaring out of the Ferris Aircraft parking lot on his motorcycle, the powerful engine echoing his need for speed even on the ground. The California sunset painted the sky in shades of orange and red that reminded him too much of fire, so he kept his eyes on the road ahead.
He pulled over at a scenic turnout overlooking the Pacific, the coastline of Coast City stretching north in a glittering arc of development against the darkening water. Hal cut the engine, listening to the waves crash against the cliffs below. He'd been avoiding his phone all day, but Thomas's mention of his family had triggered a sense of obligation he couldn't quite ignore.
With reluctance, he pulled his cell from his jacket pocket. Three missed calls from his mother, two from Jim, and a text from Jack that simply read: "We're thinking of you today. Call when you can."
Hal stared at the ocean for another long moment before dialing his mother's number. She answered on the second ring.
"Harold?" Jessica Jordan's voice carried the particular mixture of relief and tension that seemed reserved for conversations with her middle son. "I've been trying to reach you all day."
"Sorry, Mom. Been flying." He kept his tone deliberately casual. "New prototype."
There was a pause, filled with two decades of unspoken concern. "How did it go?" she finally asked, the question laced with meanings beyond the professional inquiry.
"Smoothly. Took her up to Mach 3.2. Handling was exceptional."
"That fast?" His mother's attempt to sound impressed rather than terrified was valiant but unsuccessful. "Well, I'm glad you're safe."
The weight of what remained unsaid hung between them—the anniversary neither would directly acknowledge but which defined every aspect of their conversation.
"Jim called this morning," she continued. "He's bringing the kids out for a visit next month."
"That's great, Mom. The boys will love the beach." Hal shifted on his motorcycle seat, watching a cargo ship on the distant horizon. "How's Jack doing?"
"Busy with that new downtown project. The developer doubled the budget after seeing his initial designs." Pride warmed her voice. "He's been working sixteen-hour days."
"Always the responsible one," Hal said with a small smile.
"You're all responsible in your own ways," his mother responded, a diplomat to the end. "Just... different ways."
The ensuing silence carried the ghost of Martin Jordan, the man who had bound them together and whose absence had irrevocably altered each of their lives.
"Carol called yesterday," Jessica said finally. "She mentioned that today might be... difficult."
Hal suppressed a flare of irritation. "Carol should focus on running her company, not giving you progress reports on my mental state."
"She cares about you, Harold." His mother's use of his full name signaled disapproval. "As do I. As does everyone who knows what today represents."
"I'm fine, Mom." The words came automatically, worn smooth from decades of repetition. "It was a long time ago."
"Twenty-two years isn't so long," she countered softly. "Not when it changes everything."
Hal closed his eyes, momentarily transported back to the aftermath of his father's death—his mother's hollow-eyed grief, Jim's sudden assumption of responsibility at only nine years old, baby Jack crying for a father he would never remember. And himself, frozen in disbelief, refusing to accept what everyone else could plainly see was true.
"I still have those dreams," Jessica admitted when Hal remained silent. "The ones where he comes home late from a test flight, apologizing for worrying us. In the dreams, I'm always so relieved... and then so angry that he made me worry. And then I wake up and remember."
Hal recognized the confession for what it was—an invitation to share his own grief, to acknowledge the day's significance. He couldn't bring himself to accept it.
"I should go, Mom. I've got some things to take care of." He infused his voice with warmth he didn't quite feel. "Give my love to Susan when she calls." His stepfather had been part of their lives for twelve years now, a kind man who had never tried to replace Martin but who had brought stability back to Jessica's life.
"I will." The disappointment in her voice was faint but detectable. "Call your brothers, Harold. It would mean a lot to them."
"I'll try. Love you, Mom."
"I love you too, son. Always."
Hal ended the call, slipping the phone back into his pocket as he stared out at the darkening ocean. A familiar heaviness settled in his chest—the weight of being the son who most resembled Martin Jordan in appearance and temperament, yet who could never quite live up to what he imagined his father would have wanted.
After a few more minutes of ocean meditation, Hal started his motorcycle and pulled back onto the coastal highway. His next call would be harder in some ways, easier in others. He found another pullout a few miles down the road and dialed his older brother.
James Jordan answered with military precision. "This is Major Jordan."
"At ease, Major. It's your screw-up brother."
"Hal." Jim's voice immediately relaxed. "I was starting to think you were avoiding us today."
"Me? Avoid emotional family conversations? Never." The joke fell flat, even to his own ears.
Jim sighed audibly. "How'd the test flight go? Thomas texted that you were pushing the envelope again."
"Thomas needs to mind his own business," Hal muttered. "The flight was textbook. Well, maybe not the textbook Carol was using, but it was successful. How's the JAG Corps treating you?"
"Can't complain. Got a commendation last month for the Henderson case. Apparently proving that a three-star general violated procurement protocols makes you popular with some people and very unpopular with others."
"Sounds about right," Hal said with genuine admiration. Jim had always possessed a rigid moral compass, an unshakeable sense of right and wrong that had only intensified after their father's death. "How're Jen and the kids?"
"Good. Tim made the baseball team. Susan's still obsessed with horses. Jen's putting up with all of us somehow." A pause. "They ask about you, you know. Their daredevil uncle who tests supersonic aircraft."
"Tell them I'll take them for a ride in the simulator next time I visit."
"You said that last Christmas. And the Christmas before that."
The accusation was gentle but pointed. Hal had mastered the art of making promises to his family that somehow never materialized—visits postponed, holidays missed for "unavoidable" test flight schedules, relationships maintained primarily through phone calls and occasional gifts sent by courier.
"I know. I'm sorry, Jim. Things have been... complicated."
"Things are always complicated with you, Hal." There was no malice in Jim's voice, just weary acceptance. "Mom says you're still having those dreams."
Hal stiffened. "Mom talks too much."
"She worries. We all do."
"Well, don't. I'm fine."
"Is that why you're about to spend the night sitting in front of Dad's crashed plane again?" When Hal didn't immediately respond, Jim continued, "Yeah, Thomas mentioned that too. Said you did it last year."
"Jesus, does anyone in my life have any concept of privacy?" Hal ran a hand through his hair in frustration. "Maybe I just want some time to remember him, Jim. Is that so strange?"
"No, but there are healthier ways to do it than torturing yourself in a dark museum all night." Jim's tone softened. "Have you ever considered that Dad would hate seeing you do this to yourself? That maybe the best way to honor him would be to actually live your life, not keep reliving his death?"
The words hit harder than Hal wanted to admit. "Thanks for the amateur psychology, Dr. Jordan. I'll take it under advisement."
"Hal—"
"I've got to go. Give my love to the family."
He ended the call before Jim could respond, immediately feeling a twinge of regret. His older brother deserved better than Hal's defensive deflection, but some wounds were too tender to expose, even to family. Especially to family.
With the sunset now complete and darkness settling over the coast, Hal resumed his journey. He had one more call to make, but this one would be easier. Jack, the youngest Jordan, had adapted to their father's death differently than his brothers. Having no memories of Martin, he had been shaped not by the man himself but by his absence—by the stories told, the photographs shown, the invisible pressure of a legacy he'd never directly experienced.
Jack answered with his customary enthusiasm. "Hey stranger! I was wondering when you'd surface."
"Hey, little brother." Hal's voice warmed naturally. "Heard you're redesigning downtown Coast City single-handedly."
"Just one building at a time," Jack laughed. "The Harrison Tower project is taking over my life. But it's good work. Important work."
"Changing the skyline, huh? Dad would be impressed."
"Maybe." There was a thoughtful pause. "Though sometimes I wonder if he'd question why I design places for people to stay firmly on the ground instead of helping them reach the sky."
The observation surprised Hal. Jack rarely spoke directly about their father or his possible opinions. "He'd be proud of you, Jack. You're creating something lasting. Something that will stand for generations."
"Unless Superman throws another cybernetic menace into it," Jack quipped, referencing the Metropolis incident. "Those insurance premiums are skyrocketing, let me tell you."
Hal smiled despite himself. Jack had always used humor to navigate difficult subjects. "How's Mom doing today? Really?"
Jack's voice sobered. "She's okay. Susan took her to lunch, then they went to that art gallery Mom likes in Bayside. She's gotten better at managing the anniversary, you know? First few years, she could barely get out of bed. Now she keeps busy, surrounds herself with people who care about her."
The implied criticism wasn't lost on Hal. While Jack and Jim made sure to visit their mother on significant dates, Hal typically found reasons to be elsewhere—test flights that couldn't be rescheduled, consultations with military contractors that required his specific expertise, aircraft deliveries that only he could handle.
"I'm glad she has you guys," Hal said, genuine gratitude mixing with guilt. "And Susan's been good for her."
"She has. Though Mom still keeps Dad's picture on her nightstand." Jack paused. "Where are you? Sounds like you're outside."
"Just taking a ride along the coast," Hal replied, deliberately vague. "Clearing my head."
"Headed to the museum?" Jack's perceptiveness had always been unnerving.
Hal hesitated before admitting, "Yeah. For a bit."
"Tell Dad I said hi." The simple statement carried no judgment, no critique of Hal's coping mechanism. "And Hal? He'd be proud of you too, you know. No matter what you think."
"Thanks, Jack." Hal's throat tightened unexpectedly. "I should go. The old security guard is waiting to let me in."
"Call me tomorrow? We could grab lunch if you're free."
"Sure thing. Tomorrow."
Hal ended the call with a strange mixture of emotions churning in his chest. His family's concern touched him even as it made him want to pull away further. They saw his annual pilgrimage to the museum as unhealthy obsession; he saw it as the only honest acknowledgment of the event that had shaped all their lives.
The Coast City Memorial Aviation Museum came into view as he rounded the next bend in the coastal highway. Unlike most of the city's sleek, modern architecture, the museum was a converted hangar from the 1940s, its industrial silhouette a testament to more utilitarian times. A large American flag hung limply from a pole out front, illuminated by spotlights that had automatically activated at dusk.
Hal bypassed the main entrance, circling around to the service area at the rear of the building. As expected, Frank Lampert was waiting beside the maintenance door, his security guard uniform crisp despite the late hour and his seventy-plus years.
"Right on time, Jordan," Frank greeted him with a gruff nod. "Was beginning to think you might skip this year."
"Not a chance, Frank." Hal dismounted, removing his helmet. "Thanks for bending the rules again."
Frank shrugged, his weathered face impassive. "Martin would've done the same for my boy if things had been reversed." He unlocked the door, holding it open. "You know the drill. Lights stay low. Alarm's bypassed until midnight. After that, it auto-resets."
"Got it."
"There's coffee in the break room if you want it. Fresh pot." Frank hesitated before adding, "And there's a bottle of Johnnie Walker in my bottom desk drawer if you need something stronger. Martin's favorite."
The unexpected kindness caught Hal off guard. "Thanks, Frank. I appreciate it."
The old security guard nodded once more before leaving Hal alone with the ghosts of aviation past. The museum after hours had an almost sacred quality—shadowy displays of historic aircraft suspended from the ceiling, glass cases containing flight suits and logbooks, walls covered with photographs of pilots standing proudly beside their machines.
Hal moved through the darkened space from memory, heading directly to the central exhibition area where the remains of the X-27 were displayed. Unlike most of the museum's carefully restored aircraft, the X-27 had been left partially reconstructed—a deliberate decision to show the reality of experimental aviation's dangers. The twisted metal of the cockpit section was particularly haunting, its canopy shattered, its control panel blackened by fire.
A bronze plaque mounted beside the display read:
MARTIN HAROLD JORDAN
TEST PILOT, FERRIS AIRCRAFT
1943 - 1985
"HE FLEW FEARLESSLY INTO THE UNKNOWN"
Hal stood before the wreckage, hands in his pockets, the silence of the museum pressing in around him. The memorial's lighting cast long shadows across the exhibition floor, giving the twisted metal an almost organic quality, as if it might still contain some essence of the man who had died within it.
"Hey, Dad," he said quietly, the words echoing slightly in the cavernous space. "Another year."
The tradition had started on the fifth anniversary of the crash. Seventeen-year-old Hal, newly licensed and driving his mother's borrowed car, had broken into the then-new museum after hours to see the display. He'd been caught by Frank, who instead of calling the police had simply sat with him in silence before the wreckage for nearly an hour before driving him home.
Every year since, with varying degrees of formality, the arrangement had continued. Frank providing access, Hal conducting his solitary vigil. Some years he spoke at length, updating his father on life events as if Martin might respond. Other years he simply sat in contemplative silence. Tonight, it seemed, would be a talking year.
"Took the Starjumper up to Mach 3.2 today," Hal continued, moving to sit on the bench placed opposite the display. "Carol was furious, but the Pentagon observers were impressed. It's a beautiful aircraft, Dad. You would've loved handling it."
He leaned forward, elbows on knees, studying the cockpit section where his father had spent his final moments. "Jim's kids are growing up fast. Jack's designing skyscrapers. Mom's... doing better. She misses you, but she's found her way forward."
The silence stretched, broken only by the distant hum of the building's climate control system.
"I keep thinking about that look you gave us. Right at the end. Before the fire." Hal's voice dropped lower. "I used to think you were afraid. That maybe you knew what was coming, knew it would hurt. But that's not it, is it? You weren't afraid of dying. You were saying goodbye."
He reached for the coffee he'd retrieved from the break room, taking a long sip of the bitter liquid. "I don't know if I could do that—face death with that kind of peace. Every time I get into a cockpit, I feel it—the fear. Not just normal caution. Real, gut-churning fear."
The admission, spoken aloud for perhaps the first time, hung in the empty museum.
"I push through it. I fly anyway. I push the boundaries because that's what you would have done. But Dad..." Hal's voice grew ragged with unexpected emotion. "I'm always afraid. And I think that would disappoint you more than anything else."
He sat back, staring up at the museum's high ceiling. "The greatest test pilot of his generation has a son who's terrified of flying. How's that for irony?"
A photograph on the wall beside the display caught his attention—Martin Jordan standing proudly beside the X-27 before its fateful flight, his expression confident, his posture relaxed. Hal had inherited his father's tall build, strong jaw, and dark hair, but looking at the photo now, he wondered if he'd inherited any of Martin's fearlessness.
"There's something else," Hal continued after a long pause. "Something I've never told anyone. Not Mom, not my brothers, not even Carol or Thomas." He leaned forward again, voice dropping to a near-whisper. "Sometimes I think I'm trying to recreate your crash. To understand what happened by coming as close as I can to experiencing it myself. That maybe if I push far enough, I'll finally understand why you seemed so at peace in those final moments."
The confession left him feeling hollow, exposed in a way that conversations with living people never did. There was a terrible freedom in speaking to the dead—they offered no judgment, no well-meaning advice, no concerned expressions that made you regret your honesty.
"General Lane was there today. From Metropolis. He mentioned Superman, talked about the 'Metropolis situation' like it was just another military operation." Hal ran a hand through his hair. "But we all know it changed everything. A man who can fly without engines, who can break the sound barrier with his body alone."
Hal stood, moving closer to the wreckage. "What's the point of what I do if beings like that exist? What's the future of aviation if people can just... fly? Is everything you worked for, everything you died for, becoming obsolete?"
The questions echoed unanswered in the shadowy museum. Hal reached out, his fingers stopping just short of touching the twisted metal of the X-27's frame—a barrier he'd never quite brought himself to cross in all his years of these visits.
"I think that's why I pushed the Starjumper so hard today. To prove that human flight still matters. That what we do with machines and skill and courage still has value in a world where alien gods fly through the sky."
He pulled his hand back, turning away from the display to pace the length of the exhibition hall. "But it's more than that. Every time I read about Superman saving lives, doing the impossible, I wonder... what if someone like him had been there that day? Could he have saved you? Pulled you from the cockpit before the explosion? Given us all a different ending?"
The thought had haunted Hal since the first Superman sightings—the cruel cosmic timing that placed humanity's most powerful protector decades too late to save Martin Jordan.
"Or maybe you wouldn't have wanted to be saved," Hal continued, voicing another thought that had troubled him. "Maybe that peacefulness I saw wasn't acceptance of the inevitable, but a choice. A pilot's choice to go down with his aircraft rather than risk others."
He returned to the bench, suddenly feeling the exhaustion of the day—the intense concentration of the test flight, the confrontation with Carol, the emotional toll of the anniversary itself.
"I don't know if I'll ever understand what you felt in those final moments, Dad. But I keep trying." Hal closed his eyes, the museum's silence enveloping him. "And I keep flying, despite the fear. Maybe that's all that matters in the end."
He sat in silence for nearly an hour, memories washing over him—not just of the crash, but of the good times before: fishing trips when his father was home between test flights, Martin teaching him to fly a kite on the beach, the model airplanes they'd built together, the stories of aerial adventures that had fired young Hal's imagination.
Eventually, he roused himself, checking his watch to find it was just past 8:30 PM. Unusually early for him to end his vigil, but something felt different this year. Perhaps his family's concerns had finally penetrated, or perhaps he'd simply said what needed to be said.
He stood, offering a final glance to the wreckage of his father's last flight. "I miss you, Dad. Every day. But especially today."
With that, Hal made his way back through the darkened museum to the exit, leaving a brief note of thanks for Frank on the security desk. The night air felt unexpectedly refreshing after the museum's stillness, carrying the scent of salt from the nearby ocean.
Twenty minutes later, he was speeding along the coastal highway, the road illuminated by his headlight and the three-quarter moon that had risen while he was in the museum. His apartment was still the eventual destination, but he wasn't ready to be confined by walls just yet. The open road and the night air offered a freedom that seemed appropriate after his unusually candid one-sided conversation.