The heavy attack bomber hummed along at five hundred feet off the ground. Wind whistled through the gun ports; engine roar was deafening. Ten of Pratt’s newest pushers allowed Snow White to cruise at speeds unheard of only a few years ago.

Captain Stark thrilled at finally being airborne, enjoying the view of the countryside sliding under the nose. Though the sunrise was only an hour old, sweat trickled down his back, and the familiar smells of hydraulic fluid and burned coffee hanging in the air made him feel at home. Typical bomber missions were high altitude affairs, with the idea being to stay above the enemy flak and make it harder for their fighters to reach them. This ship, on its maiden war mission, was anything but typical. For years, Russia had been dispersing its supplies and weapons. HQ decided they needed a new weapons platform to counter this strategy. Hence, the birth of the attack bomber.

Starks’s copilot leaned inward. “Sir, I’ve read your file, and you must be the most decorated pilot alive. My friends and I think what Brasswell did to you was unjust. Nobody should be demoted for telling the truth.”

Stark’s jaw tightened. “You’ve got a lot to learn about the military, Dobson.”

“Yes, sir. But many people at HQ are eager to hear your testimony to Congress this week.”

“Let’s focus on the mission, Dobson.”

Since his demotion, Stark often wondered if he should retire, but he couldn’t leave his crew in the hands of the green pilots being rushed out of training. He’d buried his share of crew members in the big war, and several since. Each time, he promised himself never again.

Following the end of the second great war, three groups divided the world. The Free States, a disparate coalition, held sway over Africa and South America, leaving Russia and the United Allies to dominate the remaining world. The latter two had been in constant warfare for decades.

Stark noted the crisp fabric of his flight suit. “How long have you been flying, Dobson?”

“Just passed a month, sir. My buddies at HQ said this would make an easy first mission.”

“Anybody in the ivory tower say why they painted this beast baby blue? Two days ago, on our last training mission, she was camo green. We arrive oh-dark-thirty this morning and she’s blue.”

“No, sir. I knew HQ considered it for camouflage on high-altitude bomb runs, but I didn’t know we painted any of the B-17s blue until I set eyes on Snow White this morning.”

INT: “Cap’n, Nav, target two minutes out.”

INT: “Copy, Nav. All right everybody. Now we find out if this bucket of bolts is everything HQ promised. Check your harnesses. All gunners extend. Ammo dump and fuel depot are the primary targets.”

Stark felt the ship slow with the increase in drag as ten of the twelve guns pushed their barrels into the airstream. “Full power, Dobson. Sync props. My aircraft.”

“Roger, Captain. This’ll be like fishing in a barrel.”

“Dobson, things out here aren’t as simple as you and HQ think. Do what I say, when I say it, and maybe we’ll all go home tonight.”

INT: “Cap’n, Nav, 30 seconds.”

INT: “Captain to all gunners. Fire at will.”

Stark had to admit to himself, I want to see what this bird can do. Alamogordo’s mad scientists installed new V-24 engines—twice as powerful as the old war’s B-17s—and reversible propellers. These engines put out so much power they could also run hydraulic pumps, which gave the massive gunship power assisted flight controls and gun decks. As big as a house, and nimble as a fighter, the 17Ps were the future of air interdiction.

Stark scanned the blue expanse in front of them out of habit, looking for the telltale signs of fighters. Nothing. Straining to see the target to give the forward guns a direct shot, Stark’s heart pounded. He knew each gunner wanted to be the first to fire, but not ridiculed for shooting too early.

Snow White barreled at the new Russian base, alone and unafraid. This was also different from the usual mission of a bomber. During the big war, hundreds of these planes would assemble in flight and drop an overwhelming number of bombs on a target. Precision bombing made the massive formations unnecessary, but those types of targets were gone now. Twenty-five years of war left nothing bigger than a Quonset hut within two hundred miles of the front lines. Cities were surrounded by miles of anti-aircraft guns.

This target presented an ideal first mission for the new AB-17RP. Bristling with twelve gun ports, each capable of destroying a tank or aircraft in seconds, it could annihilate an undefended base in very short order. Despite Dobson’s naivety, this seemed like a simple mission.

There, dead ahead, sat mountains of fuel barrels and dozens of ammunition trailers. He told himself to congratulate the Nav later for nailing the target. Just as he thought the Russians had gone insane, leaving such an amount of supplies unprotected, five of the twelve Gatling guns opened fire, their thunder reverberating throughout the ship. Stark adjusted the aircraft’s deck angle to maximize their firing time. He then arced left, reversed course, and climbed, ensuring the right-side guns had a full view of the supply depot. Their combined fire ripped into the target.

Stark maintained a tight turn around the base, the smell of cordite stinging his nostrils.

INT: “Cap’n, Doc, no explosions or fires.”

Clouds of dust and splinters erupted where the oil barrels stood. The ammunition trailers collapsed, revealing wooden frames beneath.

“Captain,” said Dobson, “something’s not right. The guns are on target, but everything is crumbling, as if it’s made of—”

INT: “Muzzle flash, twelve o’clock.”

Stark whipped his head forward to see a line of fire headed at them. The muscles in his arms responded with no thought, rolling the plane level and pushing forward to dive under the incoming fire. Dobson groaned at the onslaught of negative g-forces, banging his head on the upper panel. Stark noted his loose harness and would chastise him later if they made it back to base. As soon as the wings were level, he banked hard left to stay under the tracers and rolled level again to fly perpendicular to the gun emplacement. Stark felt the right side gun decks return fire as he slammed the engines to maximum power. He had to stay ahead of the ground cannon’s rate of rotation to avoid being shredded by its shells. Snow White’s engines whined in defiance, turning their propellers at speeds only sustainable for two minutes at a time.

“Barrel fishing, huh Dobson?”

Stark watched the gun’s rate of rotation, keeping just ahead of it as he moved the 17P closer in. Another few seconds and his boys would have it.

INT: “Cannon fire, six o’clock.”

Snow White’s engines strained at full power to outrun the first anti-aircraft gun. Stark had no choice but to go vertical to escape the second gun. He abandoned the counter attack, rolling wings level and pulling for all he was worth. The lightning fast flight controls were never so appreciated.

Dobson’s head dropped to his chest, grunting, “Airspeed dropping rapidly.”

INT: “Cap’n, those are the new Vulcan 66s.”

The Russians hadn’t been idle in the research department, either. Their new Vulcan anti-aircraft guns were deadly to any plane found in their range. High explosive shells, detonating on impact, could destroy whatever they hit. Their known weaknesses were size and slow rate of movement. They also couldn’t fire upwards over sixty degrees from horizontal, and Stark was heading towards the cone of relative safety beyond that.

“I’m going to keep it coming over the top, Dobson. Pull the power out of max.”

Dobson screeched, “You’re going inverted?”

“Not for long.”

Snow White continued the loop maneuver as gracefully as any fighter aircraft Stark had flown. Easing off of the back pressure on the yoke allowed the ship’s arc to cover the entire width of the valley. Being inverted gave Stark his first view of the second Vulcan and he noted its barrel moving toward them. He also noted with pride that his gunners had not missed a beat, with at least one of them always firing during his maneuvers.

As the 17P’s nose dropped, he craned his neck to observe the first Vulcan, noting its barrel direction and rate of turn. Snow White’s aerobatics had surprised them so far, but that wasn’t likely to continue. Glancing right, Stark noticed Dobson’s eyes widen when he spun the aircraft back upright in a split second, pushing the nose down to almost eighty degrees. Before he finished the maneuver, the lower turrets unleashed their torrent of fire onto the Vulcan’s position. Once pointed downward, the nose and top gun ports fired as well. With only seconds left before the first Vulcan’s sights found him, Stark jerked the 17P left as the gun below disappeared into a ball of fire.

Stark wanted to finish that first Vulcan in the same manner. In another sixty seconds, he’d be heading home. He pulled out of the dive and raced across the valley.

INT: “Nice shooting Bugs!”

INT: “That’ll teach those Russkies!”

INT: “Can the chatter! Grumpy, how’s the valley look?”

INT: “All looks—”

INT: “Bogeys, three o’clock high, coming in fast!”

Stark snapped his head to the right, squinting to see through the glare. “Dobson, what do you see out there?”

“It doesn’t make sense. They’re too fast to be fighters.”

A cold weight settled in Stark’s gut. Cursing, he whipped Snow White back to the right and dived for the valley behind the burned out Vulcan. He realized the anti-aircraft guns had only been a delay tactic, and that, somehow, he had gone from hunter to hunted in less than three minutes.

INT: “Captain to all gunners, blanket fire!”

By filling the airspace between them and the bogeys, he hoped to either hit them or drive them off, buying himself fifteen seconds to reach cover.

INT: “Cap’n, incoming bogeys at eight o’clock moving to six. I see two, and they’re moving at the speed of light.”

INT: “Nav, find me a route through these valleys.”

“I don’t get it Captain, there aren’t any fighter bases within two hundred miles of here.”

Stark had a terrible feeling about this. He wasn’t concerned with any of the front-line fighters the Russians had in service, but they set a trap for him, and these fighters were the hammer. He keyed his intercom.

INT: “How far out—”

The unmistakable feel of enemy fire answered his question. Snow White shuddered as multiple shells ripped through the fuselage. The smell of burning insulation filled the cabin as warning lights flashed red. Stark watched as the fighters streaked by faster than the gun turrets could track them. Diverging, each looped back.

INT: “Crew, Captain, anybody get an ID on those things?”

INT: “Cap’n, Doc, I’ve never seen anything like it. Twice as fast as a Mustang. Starting their attack run.”

INT: “Captain, the right main fuel tank is leaking, and we took quite a few hits aft of Sleepy. Happy’s gun is out of action.”

INT: “Cap’n, Nav, hard left at the end of the valley, then follow the train tracks to the east.”

As Snow White’s guns opened up again, Stark barked out, “Reverse all engines. Full boards.” Dobson used both hands to yank all the throttles full aft and then pulled the speed brake lever to its maximum detent. Stark let his muscle memory maneuver the craft, knowing fighters never expected a bomber to slow down. They whizzed by in a blur.

Snow White took hits, but the staccato didn’t last as long as the first strafing. Nevertheless, engines two and three trailed fire. “Pull the extinguishers on two and three. Drop the boards. Full power remaining engines.” Dobson made a flurry of actions, carrying out the instructions. Stark watched as the fighters made another loop high overhead.

INT: “Cap’n, Bashful and Doc are hit. Guns out of commission.”

INT: “Goofy is unresponsive.”

Goofy should’ve been visible in front of the burning engines, but wasn’t. Stark watched the train tracks appear up ahead and banked sharply to follow them east. Whoever set this trap knew what they were up against. Stark’s gaze jumped between the fuel gauge, the burning engines, and the terrain outside. Seeing low clouds in the new valley, Stark pushed forward on the yoke.

“Two hundred feet and descending, sir. Steeple twelve o’clock!”

“I see it.”

INT: “Cap’n, Grumpy, they’re making their run, six o’clock low.”

INT: “Copy. Nav, get me a heading through this cloud cover and out to sea.”

Stark used his last trick by rolling the giant aircraft over and over to confuse the bogeys. Proud that his boys kept targeting the enemy, he willed Snow White forward into the safety of the clouds. The world outside vanished in an instant as they plunged into milky whiteness, but not before the last of the enemy’s shells found Snow White. Stark concentrated on his instruments, leveling at eighty feet.

INT: “Cap’n, Nav, heading zero-two-zero in three, two, one, turn.”

Stark maneuvered the 17P as the acrid smell of an electrical fire engulfed him and Dobson. They each whipped their heads left and right and up and down to find the source.

INT: “Fire in midship!”

“Dobson, grab the extinguisher and get back there!”

The guns were quiet, the engines humming. Stark knew the bogeys couldn’t hear his engines, but he pulled them back anyway to quiet things in the cockpit. He waited, knowing the enemy fighters would search the top of the cloud deck. After a few minutes, he allowed himself to think they may have survived.

The quiet was not comforting yet. His inner voice roared. You killed them.

Dobson came forward and pronounced the fire extinguished. “You don’t think they’ll follow us in here?”

“At the speeds they were flying, they’d hit us before they could see to shoot us. Besides, we’ll enter allied airspace before long. Wherever they came from, they won’t want to wander too far from home.”

“Sir, I saw the intelligence on this mission. There were no fighter bases and no Vulcan support.”

“Dobson, that wasn’t a base. It was a trap. Obviously, the Russians know we have a new aircraft. The question you should ask is whether our allies unwittingly gave us bad intel or knowingly set us up.”

“Sir, that’s preposterous. The intel assessment came directly from General Brasswell’s office.”

“What? I was told it came from our allies?”

“Your intel officer must’ve made a mistake.”

“Two new technologies show up simultaneously in the same place? Something stinks! How many casualties?”

“Goofy is dead and Grumpy is gone, presumed dead. The boys in back said Grumpy got some hits on the bogeys and they concentrated their fire on him that last pass. Happy, Doc, and Bashful are injured, but they’ll survive. Flying glass hit Casper, and Woody got some burns from the electrical fire.”

“Give me a damage report when I get back.”

Stark gave Dobson the controls and went to the latrine. Pulling the curtain closed with trembling fingers, he silently screamed his rage, beating his palms against his forehead. His chest tightened, panting for air. I should’ve aborted the mission at the first sign of a trap. We’ve become too reliant on the intel. He thought some HQ buffoon will call this a success, but they never write the parents or see the widows. They never witness the burial of another crewman in the endless fields of headstones. He splashed water on his face before opening the curtain. Stark walked by each of the remaining crew, giving them small words of encouragement, praise for their actions in combat. He saw Sleepy and Sneezy tending the wounded. “Hang in there, boys. We’ll be home soon.”

Dobson relinquished control when Stark took his seat. “Sir, is it safe to fly this low in the clouds? Our charts aren’t accurate at this altitude.”

“Would you rather fly in the sunshine until those devils kill us?”

“No, sir, but a church steeple will kill us just the same.”

“Dobson, have faith in the Nav. He’s been plotting escape routes since before you were in flight school.” Stark leaned over and poked the map rubber-banded to the center of Dobson’s yoke. “And besides, I don’t think there are any churches in the Baltic Sea. Try to keep up, son. Now brief me on our condition.”

“Well, sir, the right main fuel tank is leaking. I recommend we burn all engines from that tank. They obliterated the aft gun in the last pass. Right and left rear guns and the top rear gun are disabled. The left wing gun suffered damage, but it’s not severe. The fire damaged the compressor. Engines two and three are out.”

“Let’s pull eight and nine back to idle. Cross-feed right fuel to left manifold.”

INT: “Cap’n, Nav, heading two-seven-zero in three, two, one, turn.”

“Your flying back there, sir, was truly impressive. Things could’ve been a lot worse. I think you have to count saving the ship and eliminating a Vulcan as a successful mission.”

“Dobson, we consider success a little differently out here.”

Dobson reddened. “Sorry, sir, I was just thinking about the purpose of our mission.”

INT: “Cap’n, Nav, I picked up some weird transmission about us on Radio Free Europe, while homing in on the base.”

INT: “Let’s hear it.”

INT: “Once again, in breaking news, enemy forces have shot down the intrepid Captain Stark and his crew. This is truly a sad day for Liberty base. In other news, General Brasswell’s office is investigating rumors that the Russians are painting their aircraft light blue—”

INT: “Boy, someone sure jumped the gun on that one.”

INT: “Imagine the look on their faces once we land.”

INT: “Those idiots in broadcasting. Where do they get their information?”

INT: “Crew, Captain, quiet down. Let me think a minute.”

Stark pondered the broadcast and their next steps. “I never thought Brasswell would kill an entire crew just to silence me,” he told Dobson.

“Sir, that’s crazy. This is all just a big mistake.”

“It makes perfect sense if someone at HQ set that trap.”

“That’s impossible, sir. Those bogeys had Russian markings.”

“Are you aware that our own aggressor pilots fly restored Russian aircraft with Russian markings? And why did HQ insist on painting Snow White immediately before the mission?”

“Sir, we chose this color to blend in with the sky.”

“Don’t be daft, Dobson. We’re a ground attack aircraft. Maybe it was so Allied aggressor pilots wouldn’t know they were shooting down one of their own?”

“But sir, think about it. If someone wanted us dead, all they’d have to do is shoot us down while we’re landing.”

“Too many witnesses on base. Unless…unless base personnel were told we were dead.”

INT: “Cap’n, Nav, Liberty base in ten miles.”

INT: “Copy, Nav. I need you to plot a low altitude escape route south of Liberty in case the situation turns hot.”

Stark eased the yoke back. The clouds sank below the cockpit, brilliant sunlight flooded in, blinding Stark. He adjusted his sun visor just as tracer fire whizzed past the left wing.

INT: “Liberty’s firing on us!”

Stark yanked Snow White into a hard right turn. “Full power! Dobson, get Liberty on the radio and tell them to quit firing.”

INT: “Nav, Captain. I need that heading.”

INT: “Cap’n, Woody, Liberty’s scrambling fighters!”

“Dobson, any word from Liberty?”

“Just static, sir.”

INT: “Cap’n, Nav, heading one-eight-five.”

Stark completed the turn while descending back to one hundred feet and met Dobson’s wide-eyed stare and ghostly visage.

INT: “Crew, Captain, I don’t think we’re getting home tonight, boys. Nav to the flight deck.”

Captain Billy Williams, Stark’s Navigator since his arrival in the Auxiliary Corps, knocked, poking his head into the cockpit. “What’s happening, Cap’n?”

“Billy, what do you think our chances are of landing safely at another base?”

“Sir, radio’s out, and it’s rumored the Russians are painting their bombers light blue. We don’t stand a chance.”

“My thoughts exactly. We need to get the wounded to a hospital, and fast.”

“Big hospital in Algiers.”

Dobson came out of his stupor. “That’s in Africa. They’ll kill us.”

Stark raised a hand to silence his copilot. “Don’t believe everything you hear on the radio. How much fuel do we have?”

Dobson eyed the gauges for a moment. “Three, maybe four hours.”

“Billy? Is that enough?”

“Give me four hours, and I’ll get us to Algiers.”

“Get to work.”

Dobson looked between the disappearing Nav and Stark. “Sir, I can’t believe you’re contemplating flying to Africa. It’s lawless and wild.”

“That’s propaganda, son. Besides, I think it’s our only choice to get medical attention for our wounded crew. I’m not losing anyone else today.”