As we finished our turn towards the target, the plane suddenly jolted as a loud noise came from the right side.
"What was that?" Eddie asked.
I looked out the window and, to my shock, saw engine number 3's propeller sitting almost perfectly still.
"Uhm, sir? I think we just lost number 3." Hopper checked the gauges briefly before shrugging it off.
"So we have. Sometimes it does that. Try to start it back up"
I must have repeated the procedures to restart the engine at least five times, but the it refused to start. With how thin the air was at this altitude, it'd be a wonder if it actually did.
"Well, shit. Looks like we're gonna have to have a talk with our field mechanic."
As I feathered the engine and cut its fuel supply, Eddie's voice came on in the intercom:
"Called it! I freaking called it! Bucky, you owe me 20 bucks, you son of a bitch!"
"I don't remember actually agreeing to that."
"Like hell you didn't, you said nothing bad could happen!"
"And how exactly does me saying that mean that I'm taking the bet?"
"Well, you didn't say you weren't taking the bet."
"I don't feel like arguing, so fine, I guess I took the bet."
"Great, where's my money?"
"You still don't get any money."
"Why the hell not? I won fair and square!"
"You said, and I quote, 'that engine's gonna start acting up the minute we start getting shot at', and seeing as we're not getting shot at, I don't think I owe you anything. Actually, I'm pretty sure that means you owe me money, seeing as the engine has already died."
"He's got you there, Eddie!" Charlie's voice came on the intercom. I could hear Marty laughing in the background.
"Wait, what?"
"But I'm willing to call it off if you are."
"Wait, no, this…Ugh…This is exactly why I don't talk to you, Bucky, you always have to be right about everything!"
"So you're admitting I'm right?"
"No, I'm…God dammit, Bucky!"
"You still haven't told me whether you want to call off the bet or not."
"If anyone's interested, I hate Lieutenant Bucky O'Hare, serial number 09811-"
"852. That's not really news to anyone, Eddie. So, are we calling off the bet or…?"
"Yes, we're calling off the bet."
"Pleasure doing business with you."
"Go to hell."
"I would but we don't have enough fuel for that. Speaking of which, are we gonna head back, Skip?"
"I don't see why we would, we've still got three working engines and brought a light fuel load, I don't think we're gonna have any problem keeping her flying."
"Wait, what?" Eddie rejoined the conversation.
"Jimmy, you think you can keep her in the air?"
"Yeah, I think I can handle it." I replied.
He was right, this thing does still perform pretty well on three engines and since it's such a short mission the plane is very light on fuel: it was very responsive and maneuverable.
"We should turn the hell back!" Clearly Eddie disagreed.
"Eddie, there's really no need to-"
"Don't Eddie me, let's turn the hell back!"
"Like I said before, if we don't hit the stupid target we're just gonna have to come back here again. And by the time we do come back they'll have more stuff to throw at us."
"They still got five other planes without us, don't you think they can hit the damn target?"
"And what if they don't? Look, I'm still the commanding officer of this aircraft, and I say we're staying on mission. You got a problem with that, you file a formal complaint to the squadron. Bucky, don't let him drop the bombs until we're over the target."
"Yes, sir." Bucky acknowledged.
"Good. Andy, notify squadron lead that we are damaged and unable to maintain formation, but will proceed with the mission. Now, we are still missing an engine. Barkley, how fast can we go?"
"Well, sir, if we set the engines to 93% we can keep up with the formation, but we'll be really pushing them and if we keep the current setting, we'll be about 60 miles too slow. I recommend 85% power, we'll fall behind a bit, but at least we won't risk over revving the engines."
"85%, what speed does that leave us at?"
"220, sir."
"Alright, that could work. Bucky, can you give us an ETA?"
"Let me see…with 220 that leaves us…Around 11 minutes until the IP, then a little over 5 and a half minutes until the drop point. Problem is that by then we'll be over a minute behind the formation. They'll know we're coming. It doesn't give them time to scramble any fighters, but they'll have their AA guns ready."
"Great, just great!" Eddie voiced his reluctance.
"Okay, fellas, get ready on those turrets. Just because there aren't supposed to be any fighters doesn't mean there won't be."
Andy moved from his seat at the radio desk to the turret sighting station. All of the 4 turrets were remotely operated. Oddly enough, while the top turret was behind the bomb bay, the sighting station was up front, complete with a big plexiglas dome and a periscope, while the belly turret that was just below said station was controlled from behind the wing. The tail and nose turrets were the exception, with the controls being just inches from each. The nose turret was pretty much left unused, since Bucky was busy with the maps and Eddie had to be ready on the bombsight. I presumed everyone else took their stations. Not much happened in the next few minutes. In fact, the plane fell completely silent with the exception of the roar of the engines and the occasional whirring of the turrets as Andy, Charlie and Marty scanned the skies for targets. Bucky cut through said silence:
"IP, I repeat, IP. 5 minutes and 30 seconds to target."
"Roger that, Bucky." Hopper acknowledged before messing with a few switches on the autopilot panel "Pilot to bombardier, you have control, over."
"Bombardier to pilot, I have control." The anger was gone from Eddie's voice, replaced by fatigue. From then until the target, he would be controlling the plane through the small knobs on his bombsight. "Opening bomb bay doors."
The incredibly loud hydraulics drowned out everything else as they pushed open the massive doors that covered each one of the four bays, including the ones on the outer engines. As soon as the doors were fully open big puffs of black smoke started to fill the sky.
"Looks like they've seen us coming!" Charlie remarked.
"Yeah…Or maybe they saw the other five planes before us. Y'know, the ones that dropped bombs on them?" Was Bucky's reply.
While at first they were sporadic, the puffs were growing closer and closer to hitting us with each passing moment. One burst near the left wingtip rocked the plane to the side before the autopilot brought it back.
"Guess they've figured out our altitude too! This day just keeps getting better and better!" Eddie said to himself, laughing nervously.
"2 minutes!" Bucky called out.
"We're almost there, just keep your eyes on the gauges. I'm gonna need you to push her to full power the second those bombs leave the plane. Staring at the flak won't make it go away." Hopper advised.
He did have a point. Though not staring at the flak did still leave the plane shaking from each deafening blast.
"30 seconds!" Bucky called out again.
"Almost there…" Eddie said, still glued to the bombsight from what I could see. "Almost got it…"
A few seconds felt like a lifetime until Eddie cut in again:
"There you are!" He said, before flipping a small switch on the panel to his left. We could hear wave after wave of bombs drop until the bays were finally empty. "Bombardier to pilot, bombs are away, you have control."
"Roger, I have control." Hopper said, before flicking off the autopilot. "You ready for this?"
I nodded and pushed the plane to full power as Hopper started to turn it. The roar from the engines was remarkably loud now and we knew we couldn't keep it that way much longer, or we'd risk damaging them.
"Bucky, can I get a heading?" Hopper asked.
"Turn to a heading of 2-4-0, should lead us straight back home."
There was once again a loud noise as the hydraulics closed the massive doors. Flak was still surrounding the plane, but at least we were now heading home. Bucky was right, it was a total milk run.
"We better throttle back a little bit." Hopper advised, after checking the temperature gauges. You could only keep her at full power for 5 minutes before the engines cut out, and in even less time you'd already have some serious damage.
As I reached for the throttles, a shell exploded right in front of the cockpit. Shrapnel tore through the windshield and went everywhere, a piece missing my head by no more than an inch!
"That was a close one, huh?" I commented to Hopper, still doing my best to stay focused on the gauges. "Hopper?"
I turned to see Hopper clutching his right shoulder, a piece of shrapnel the size of my ear sticking out of it, pinning him to the seat.
"Shit! Hopper's hit! Andy, get the medkit!"
"Dive." Hopper managed to say.
"What?" Oh, shit, this thing's pressurized! Well, was pressurized. "Everyone put on your oxygen masks and hold on tight!" I said over the intercom, before pushing the column forward and putting us into a rather steep dive. I needed to get the plane below 10,000 and fast, before we lost all heat and cabin pressure. Soon enough, Andy showed up with some morphine and a few bandages, clearly struggling to walk considering the plane's current attitude. He then grabbed my left paw and placed it on Hopper's wound, around the shrapnel.
"As soon as I pull it out, I'm gonna need you to apply a lot of pressure to the area!" I'm pretty sure that was the first time I ever heard him speak. I nodded. "Alright, 1, 2, 3!" He shouted as he pulled out the piece of shrapnel and I moved to cover the wound. I could feel the blood starting to cover my paw. Andy returned and moved my paw away as he bandaged up the wound, all while the airplane was still dropping fast, clocking in at almost 400! The needles on the altitude gauge were spinning too quickly. I started to pull out of the climb when it indicated 10,000, eventually managing to level out at around 9,000 ft. At this point it was safe to breathe the air, but it would soon get pretty cold inside the plane. Metal can freeze to the touch up here, so I asked Andy to go through our bags and get our gloves and boots. They were part of the uniform, we just didn't like wearing them. The good thing about our sudden plunge was that it completely threw off the anti-aircraft guns, as well as cutting down on our flight time.
"Hopper, you okay?" I asked, the adrenaline starting to wear off.
"Yeah, I'm… I'm just peachy." From the sound of it, the morphine was doing its job. "How are you?"
I couldn't help but chuckle at that.
"Alright, everyone, I'm gonna need a damage report." I figured I should take charge since Hopper was clearly in no position to do so. Bucky's voice was the first one to respond:
"Well, everything's shot up pretty bad down here and I think you scared Eddie half to death with that dive, but we're uninjured."
"Right. Sorry, Eddie. Charlie, Marty, what about you?"
"We're doing fine, boss. There's no damage back here, so we've still got heating." Charlie replied.
"Roger that. Bucky, how far 'til the Burrows?"
"Uh, with that sudden plunge and at 9,000 ft? Should be around 55 minutes, 60 tops."
"Okay. Maybe you guys should stay in the back where there's heating. Oh, and take Hopper with you, he's not looking too good."
"Won't that make the plane too tail-heavy?"
"Nothing I can't handle. Just be sure to get back in position when we start the approach."
"Yes, sir."
I don't think I've ever been called 'sir' before in my life, feels pretty weird. Then again, what about my current situation is normal?
"Oh, and someone please get on the fuel transfer pump, we've still got a lot of fuel on the right wing that's not going anywhere since number 3 died."
"I got it." Andy volunteered. "Bucky, help me carry Hopper to the back."
And so I was alone in the front of the plane. I guess the upside to being four times as heavy as a bunny is that it's not really hard to keep the plane balanced, even if they were all in the back. I turned on the autopilot briefly as I went to put on my boots and gloves. Kinda wish I was wearing these earlier, getting these bloodstains out of my fur is something I'm not looking forward to.
For 45 minutes or so there was almost complete silence. I say 'almost' due to the howling of the wind as it passed through the holes in the windshield. That and the sound of Bucky occasionally calling out ETAs or suggesting a heading change until finally the airfield came into sight near the horizon.
"Alright, boys, there's Harrington AFB, get back to your stations. Andy, notify them of our situation."
"On it."
Andy started to tinker with the radio as Eddie took the seat to the right of the escape hatch and Bucky once again sat in the small swing-out seat just behind the cockpit.
"Harrison tower, this is 42-35407, we have a dead engine and a wounded pilot, along with a busted pressurization system, awaiting instructions, over."
"42-35407, this is Harrison tower. Fly straight in, we'll have an ambulance and firetrucks standing by at the edge of the runway. Good luck, boys."
"Alright, let's do this." I pushed the gear lever down, the plane filling with noise as the hydraulics lowered the gigantic landing gear. The indicator showed all three were down & locked. I lowered the flaps 10 degrees at a time as we bled off our speed, so that they wouldn't jam. A few hundred feet from the threshold and every item on the checklist had already been checked & rechecked. I tried whistling to ease my nerves, but I'm not too sure how much it helped. I hoped we still had enough power to go around if anything went wrong.
The needle in the airspeed gauge gradually slowed until it reached 130: our landing speed. It was now or never. I started to flare out so that the main wheels touched down first. The right wing dropped a little and I reacted instantly. A little too much, actually, as the left wing now dropped, its massive tires hitting the ground hard, quickly followed by the right ones. The plane shook like crazy. As we got below 90, I gently lowered the nose. As soon as it touched down, I turned off the safety switches for the propellers and put them into reverse, the plane veering left due to the uneven thrust and quickly bringing itself to a stop halfway down the runway. I pushed the propeller switches back into their normal position before taxiing onto the ramp, cutting the engine and finishing the checklist. At this point, I was panting heavily and just about covered in sweat. Talk about an adrenaline rush. I turned around to see a very similar expression on everyone's faces. It was then that a realization dawned on me: We made it. We actually made it. I couldn't help but laugh (and maybe cry a little), and soon enough the rest of the crew followed suit, a round of woohoo's and cheering starting shortly afterward. I then heard Hopper's voice on the intercom:
"Wasn't the smoothest landing, kid, but it'll do. Now let's get the fuck out of here. I could use a drink."
The ambulance came soon enough to pick up Hopper and he was reluctantly taken to the infirmary to get his shoulder properly looked at. He told us to celebrate for him before asking Bucky for a pack of cigarettes. Like I said before, I don't drink, but after today, I think I might need something.