Summoning America

February 15, 1641

Chauvert Ridge, Mu

GVAF 7th Bomber Wing, 3rd Bomber Group
Guti Maun Super Bomber #42-24747, "Full House"

 

The steady drone of the Guti Maun’s engines filled Major Hadrich Krein’s ears as he guided the super bomber through the clear sky, filing in behind almost two dozen more bombers. Thirty missions. The final run, and he’d be done. Back to his family, back to teaching history instead of making it.

 

He checked the instrument panel, the dials and gauges as familiar to him now as the faces of his students once were. Steady altitude, nominal airspeed – excellent. Everything was as it should be.

 

“Crew, pre-bombing check. Report,” he called out.

 

"Altitude 20,000 feet, maintaining," came Captain Thoren Eisenhart’s response from the co-pilot's seat.

 

"Course zero eight zero, ground speed 200 knots, ETA to IP 3 minutes," Lieutenant Kai-Ven Ljungberg reported from the navigator's station.

 

"Radio check complete, all frequencies operational," Sergeant Brynjar Stenmark’s voice crackled through the intercom.

 

"Tail clear, no bogeys in sight," Corporal Lennart Vargson assured gruffly from his tail gun position.

 

"Waist guns operational, ammunition loaded," Private Erland Sturmquist's voice piped up.

 

Hadrich nodded, a small smile tugging at his lips despite the grim task ahead. His crew. All so different, yet united in purpose. If only his students could see the importance of teamwork like this. Then again, maybe it's better they never have to learn it this way.

 

Hadrich eased back, the Guti Maun's familiar rumble seeping into his bones. Gods, how many hours had he logged in this seat? The cockpit blurred, overlapping with memories of his old classroom. Rows of eager faces morphed into instrument panels, lesson plans into flight paths. Some days, it was hard to remember which life was real.

 

The intercom crackled to life, Sturmquist's voice grounding him in this life, in the present. "Hey, Stenmark, you catch the latest newsreel about the new fighters?"

 

"Nah, missed it. They finally rolling out those jets they've been yammering about?"

 

"Not quite, but word is they're close," Sturmquist replied, his youthful enthusiasm ringing through the intercom. Reminded Hadrich of some of his students back home, probably Sturmquist’s age and fighting in this same war right now. "Overheard the Colonel talking. Apparently, our engineers have been studying American jet designs from smuggled books and eyewitness accounts. They say we're on the verge of a breakthrough."

 

Vargson's gruff laugh echoed through the intercom. "Oh yeah? And I suppose next week we'll be flying to the moon, eh?"

 

"I'm serious!" Sturmquist insisted. "They say these new jets can outrun anything the Americans have. Level the playing field, you know?"

 

"Come on, Vargson," Ljungberg chimed in. "Don't tell me you're going soft on our scientific prowess now. If anyone can crack American tech, it's our eggheads."

 

"Soft? Me?" Vargson’s familiar cynicism rumbled through the comm. "I just know bullshit when I smell it. Same as that time Eisenhart tried to convince us he once dated a movie star."

 

"Hey now," Eisenhart protested, a smile in his voice. "I'll have you know that Greta Lundgren and I had a very meaningful conversation at a USO show once."

 

"Yeah, yeah," Stenmark laughed. "And I'm the Emperor's long-lost son."

 

"All I'm saying," Sturmquist continued, undeterred, "is that if these jets are half as good as they say, we might actually have a shot at pushing back the Americans."

 

"Kid, I admire your optimism," Vargson said, his tone softening a bit. "But it really ain’t a joke when they say that for every step forward we take, the Americans take two. Still, I wouldn't mind seeing one of these wonder-jets in action."

 

"Well, who knows?" Eisenhart mused. "Maybe after this mission, we'll all get a front-row seat to the future of aerial warfare."

 

"Oi," Ljungberg cut in, "ETA to IP is now 90 seconds. Focus up. I don’t know about you lot, but I sure as hell am taking my hard-earned leave. As much as I’d like to see the fruits of our eggheads’ efforts, I’d much rather be doing it from the comfort of my couch than up here."

 

Hadrich listened, shaking his head with a wry smile. The banter reminded him of his rowdier classes, the back-and-forth that often preceded a particularly engaging lesson. He opened his mouth to bring the crew's attention back to the task at hand when a sudden, blinding flash erupted outside the cockpit. For a moment, Hadrich was sure he'd gone blind.

 

Then, another flash erupted, this time to their front-left.

"Lead and Chalk Two just bought it!" Vargson's voice crackled through the intercom, tight with disbelief. "No bogeys, no flak. They're just... gone."

 

Hadrich's eyes darted across the instrument panel, searching for any sign of what could cause such destruction. Nothing. All readings normal.

 

"Stenmark! What's the word from Group?" Hadrich called out, fighting to keep his voice level.

 

"It's all garbled, sir," Stenmark replied, his usual calm cracking. "Half the squadron's gone silent. The rest are yammering about explosions out of nowhere."

 

Another flash lit up the sky, maybe a thousand yards ahead. Hadrich could almost feel the concussion through the airframe. What the hell could this be? He couldn’t think of anything from anything that might explain this invisible onslaught.

 

"Major," Eisenhart's steady voice cut in, "we're losing formation integrity. Your orders?"

Hadrich's throat went dry. Years of training screamed at him to press on, complete the mission. But the lives of his crew…

 

"Plot a reciprocal heading," he ordered, the words tasting of copper. "We're aborting. Ljungberg, keep your eyes glued to that bombsight. I want to know the second you spot anything unusual."

 

"Wilco, sir," Ljungberg responded, his voice tight.

 

Hadrich eased the Guti Maun into a wide turn, peeling right. The mission, the war effort, his career — all potentially sacrificed. But the Colonel would understand, right? It wasn’t unreasonable to fall back at this stage, not just out of tactical concerns, but to preserve assets – the bombers and their crews.

 

The formation ahead disintegrated, planes peeling off in every direction. Another flash, and Hadrich's mental calculations crumbled to ash.

 

The Guti Maun shuddered, listing heavily to the left. 

 

"We're hit!" Eisenhart shouted. "Port wing, just outboard of engine two!"

 

Fuck. He wrestled with the controls, arms burning with the effort to keep the Guti Maun level. Through the cockpit window, the damage was clear as day—their port wing sheered off clean, like some giant hand had simply snapped it away. Fuel streamed from the wound, catching the sunlight. Damn, that's a lot of fuel, he thought. How long before—?

 

The bomber lurched again, nose dipping sharply. Hadrich's stomach clenched as the horizon swung wildly. The stick fought him, nothing like the responsive beast he knew. It was like trying to steer one of those old surplus trainers from flight school, only worse. Much worse.

 

"Report!" The word snapped out of Hadrich's mouth before he could think.

 

Eisenhart's voice was a jumble of bad news. "Number one's gone! The whole fucking wing tip is just gone! Number two's out – feathered! Three's surging. Fuel pressure dropping on all port tanks!"

 

By Valhalla, they were dropping like a stone. Ljungberg might as well have been reading their eulogy. "Vertical speed 1,500 feet per minute and increasing. Altitude 18,500 and falling."

 

"Vargson, Sturmquist—any chutes from the other planes?" Hadrich called out.

 

"No chutes in sight, skipper. Whole squadron's gone quiet," Vargson replied grimly.

 

The implications hit Hadrich like a physical blow. Whatever was hitting them, it was too fast, too devastating for standard bailout procedures. They were being swatted from the sky like flies, with no chance to react.

 

Nothing but static. Stenmark's silence confirmed what Hadrich already knew - they were on their own.

 

No time to second-guess. The boys needed direction, needed him to be the teacher one last time. "All stations, prepare to abandon ship," he said, surprised at the steadiness in his voice. "Eisenhart, engage Automat. Stenmark, send Mayday on guard. Ljungberg, start bail-out checklist."

 

The moment hung there, suspended. Any second now…

 

Keep her steady, keep her level. Just a little longer. Give the boys a chance. That's all that mattered now.

 

"Skipper!" Sturmquist's voice cut through everything else. Oh god, not the kid... "Waist hatch is seized. Emergency release isn't budging!"

 

Hadrich felt his blood run cold. He looked at Eisenhart, saw the same horrified realization in his co-pilot's eyes. "Hang on, son," he said, already unbuckling his harness. "I'm coming back."

 

He squeezed past Eisenhart, stumbling down the tilting fuselage towards the waist gun position. Sturmquist was there, face pale, yanking desperately at the hatch lever.

 

Hadrich threw his weight against it. Nothing. He tried again, straining until his vision blurred. The hatch didn't budge. Damn it all to hell.

 

"Get me that fire axe!" he shouted, pointing to the emergency kit. Vargson scrambled to obey, handing him the axe before preparing his own chute.

 

Hadrich swung the axe at the hatch's hinges, sparks flying. Once, twice, three times. Not even a dent. The axe slipped from his sweaty hands, clattering away.

 

"Sir," Eisenhart's voice crackled over the intercom. "One minute thirty to critical altitude."

Think, dammit, think! What would he tell his students? What would he do if this were a classroom emergency?

 

His hand fell to his sidearm. Could he shoot the lock? No, too risky. A ricochet in this tin can could kill them both. There was nothing left he could do.

 

"Sturmquist," Hadrich said, his voice low and pained. "Son, I'm... I'm so sorry. I’m sorry."

 

"Skipper?" The young private's voice cracked, understanding and fear bleeding through.

 

"Stenmark, Eisenhart…" Hadrich continued, each word feeling like glass in his throat, "help the others out. We... we have to go."

 

"What? No!" Sturmquist cried out. "You can't—please, sir, don't leave me! Please! Please! I wanna go home!"

 

Hadrich squeezed his eyes shut, Sturmquist's pleas cutting deeper than any wound. He'd failed. Failed as a leader, failed as a teacher. Failed this boy who'd trusted him with his life.

 

Warm tears trickled from his eyes, filling up his goggles.

 

"I'm sorry. I – I can’t. I’m sorry," he whispered again, knowing it would never be enough. "May the gods watch over you, son."

 

As he jumped into the cold air, the Guti Maun – and young Sturmquist with it – disappeared into the clouds below.

 

Hadrich fell through the sky, the wind whipping at his face. He searched desperately for signs of his crew's parachutes, but saw nothing but empty air and distant explosions. As he neared the ground, a bitter realization settled over him: they had faced an enemy so advanced, so beyond their comprehension, that all their training, all their bravery, had meant nothing.

 

It was nothing short of a miracle that they’d survived even when the other bombers had gone down instantly, in one shot each. He should be thankful to the gods that his crew even had the chance to bail out successfully. Yet, with the loss of Stormquist, it felt… hollow. 

 

As Hadrich pulled his ripcord, the sudden jerk nearly knocked the wind out of him. The eerie silence of his descent was broken only by the whistle of wind through his parachute shrouds. Then, without warning, the air seemed to tear apart.

 

BOOM!

 

The sound hit him like a physical force, rattling his teeth and vibrating through his chest. What in the Emperor's name—?

 

Then he saw them. Sleek shapes, moving faster than anything he'd ever seen, streaking across the sky. One, two, four of them, and even more. Their sharp silhouettes were unlike any aircraft he knew. Jets. Had to be. American jets.

 

They were gone almost as soon as he spotted them, leaving only faint contrails high above. Another boom followed, the sound catching up with him moments after the jets had vanished.

 

Sturmquist's excited words echoed in his mind. "They say these new jets can outrun anything the Americans have. Level the playing field, you know?"

 

A bitter laugh escaped Hadrich's lips. Level the playing field? They weren't even playing the same game.

 

As he continued his slow descent, Hadrich's eyes searched the horizon. The base where they'd launched from was too far to see, but he could imagine the panic there now. Did they even know what was coming?

 

He thought of his students back home, of the lessons he'd taught about air warfare. About the pride of the Gra Valkan air force. What could he possibly teach them now? How could he explain this... this future that had somehow arrived years too soon? More pressingly, what the hell would he tell Sturmquist's parents? How could he face them, knowing he'd left their son behind?

 

The ground was coming up fast now. Somewhere down there, amid fields and forests he once thought he knew, lay whatever fate awaited him. As an enemy. As a relic of a war that had suddenly become obsolete.

 

Hadrich closed his eyes, bracing for impact. His last thought before touching down was of Sturmquist, and a silent prayer that at least the boy's end had come quickly.