The North PacificBoard

"Where shall we target next then, Trev?"

“Gosh darn it,” muttered Captain Zedit Dausunski, leader of the mission, watching the second plane fall in a steady arc toward the ground, six little parachutes drifting down slowly. “At least the crew escaped all right,” said Grigory Namestoff, the tail gunner. “Let’s hope so,” said the captain, already focused back on the mission ahead: bomb Vielo.

“You guys holding up okay?” came a third voice over the radio. It was Leonid Zebreznev, twenty-two-year-old romantic war hero, who had volunteered to pilot one of the bombers—the other one that had survived.

“Yes, Storm One,” said the Captain. “For now,” he muttered to himself.

“Captain, those fighters are gaining on us,” said Sholem Alexandrov, the young copilot whose mother was Jewish. “Yes, I know,” said the Captain. “What can we do?” “Absolutely nothing. We’ve almost reached the objective. Once we’re there, we can let the bombs go and run for it.”

“Damage report, Vitauly,” said the Captain. “On it, sir.”

The planes continued droning through the sky.

“Captain, the right spar is damaged,” reported Vitauly. “How badly?” “It should hold up for now. If we push it too hard it could fly right off.” “Good. Let’s continue.” “But sir!” “Don’t but sir me,” snapped the Captain. “We’ll lay over someplace friendly for repairs, after we complete our mission.” “Yes, sir.”

“Target in sight, gentlemen,” said Leonid over the radio. The captain seized his pair of binoculars and peered northward. Sure enough, there it was—the beautiful city of Vielo. “Excellent, Storm One,” said the Captain. “Stay on course.” “Captain, if I may.” “Yes?” “I think I could shake some of these fighters if I turn and run north-northeast. They’ll think I’m headed for the capital and they’ll go after me.” “No, Storm One,” said the Captain irritably. “Right now is not the time for heroics. Let’s just bomb this place and then go home.” “Very well, sir.”

They were approaching the city fast, but so were the enemy fighters.

“Captain, they’re gaining,” reported Grigory, the tail gunner. “How fast?” “Very.” “No, no. How many knots?” “I don’t know, sir. More than we’ve got, that’s for sure.” “Well, open fire on them! See if you can hold them off.” “Yes, sir.” There was a burst of fire from the back of the plane, and the fighters quickly swerved out of the way.

“Hit anything?” “I’m afraid not, sir.” “Oh well. We’re over the city now. Two degrees down.” “Yes, sir,” said the copilot.

The plane was nearing the targeted area, the center of the city.

“Captain!” came the voice of Leonid over the radio. “Yes, Storm One?” “We’re hit. We’re going down! See you fellows later!” There was a burst of static. The captain turned his head. To his dismay, he saw Storm One falling from the sky, a stream of black smoke coming from her tail. “Blast,” muttered the captain.

Only five parachutes drifted down from Storm One. The tail gunner had been killed.

“Stay on course,” the captain said, repeating his motto to himself.

“Now...now...bombs away!”

The bays opened, and twelve highly explosive bombs rained down onto the streets of Vielo.

“Well done, men!” the captain said, watching the series of explosions and the smoke. “Now, let’s—“

He never finished his sentence. There was a burst of machine gun fire, the fuel ignited, and the last plane exploded over Vielo in a brilliant ball of orange flame.