Uncharted

"Damn it," Hogan growled as he gripped his yoke tighter. Irish Luck shook terribly as German fighters fired on her from all sides.

"Colonel, Bingo's hit. She's going down," Private Patterson reported from the tail.

"Chutes?" Hogan's co-pilot, Captain Sullivan, asked.

There was a long pause. "I don't see any."

"Damn it," Hogan swore again. That was the third ship they had lost. "O'Reilly, how long to the IP?"

"'Bout ten minutes still," the navigator reported.

"Damn, damn, damn." All his planning had gone to hell. His most elaborate plan yet had somehow been foiled. It seemed the Germans had scrambled every fighter in their whole damn fleet to attack their approach. Hopefully that meant that the diversionary forces Hogan had sent were in the clear. Their targets were less valuable, and perhaps not enough to make up for this disaster, but he would take what he could get.

Gunfire slammed into the cockpit, shattering the front glass. Blood splattered across the console. Sullivan cursed and grabbed hold of his shoulder.

"You okay?" Hogan asked.

"Yeah, yeah," Sullivan grunted.

"Come on, fellas, show 'em what happens when they try to fight the Irish," Hogan ordered. There were certainly enough targets for his gunners to choose from. But they were fast and agile and hitting them was easier said than done. But, if anyone could, it was his crew.

The sound of 50-calibre machine guns filled the plane as every gunner fired on anything that zipped by. A messerschmitt suddenly dove out of the clouds in front of them. "Twelve o'clock level," Hogan reported.

"Got 'im," both Gribbin, the upper turret gunner, and O'Reilly replied. Red hot bullets streaked out from the fortress. The messerschmitt fired and then weaved and dodged, but it was no match for the many guns of Irish Luck. Its wing disintegrated and the plane spiralled out of sight.

"Good shot, but there's plenty more, boys," Hogan said.

"I think I may have lied, Rob."

Hogan quickly spared a glance at his co-pilot. "What?"

"I'm… not okay." Sullivan suddenly slumped forward.

"Pat? Pat!" Hogan grabbed Sullivan and pushed him back against his seat. It was then that he noticed the blood streaming down Sullivan's chest. "Come on." Hogan shook him but Sullivan didn't respond.

"Sunny Days just got hit," one of the waist-gunners said.

"Colonel, rocket!" Gribbin shouted. Hogan didn't have time to react. Almost as soon as the report hit his ears, the rocket hit, slamming right into the side of their ship before exploding.

Any control Hogan had over the control slipped away as Irish Luck fell into a spin. "Colonel, we lost the whole damn wing!" someone cried.

That was it. No amount of skill from Hogan or the engineer could fix that. As if it wasn't obvious, Hogan hit the alarm. "Pilot to crew. Bail out!" He turned his attention to Sullivan. "You're coming too." Sullivan didn't answer. Hogan unclipped his own belt and then Sullivan's and dragged him out of the cockpit. He grabbed Gribbin, who was climbing down from the turret. "I need a chute for Sullivan."

Gribbin looked from Sullivan to Hogan. "He's dead, Colonel."

Hogan refused to believe that. "No, he was fine a minute ago."

"He's dead, Colonel," Gribbin insisted. "We need to get out of here!"

As soon as he said it, bullets ripped through the side of the plane and Gribbin flew backwards. He stumbled and fell right out of the open door. Hogan made a grab for him even though it was too late.

"Colonel!" Kelly, the bombardier, came into the compartment. "Colonel, I shot the bombsight."

"Good. Where's O'Reilly?"

Kelly shook his head. Hogan cursed. "Get going, Kelly."

"You too, sir."

"I have to make sure everyone's out." They were running out of time. Fast.

"They're gone sir. They bailed. I'm sure of it. We need to go!"

He was right. Hogan looked down at Sullivan, who he still held by the vest. He was dead. He knew he was dead. He had to leave him or he would join him in the other world.

"Go. Go, go, go." Hogan said. He harnessed his parachute. Together, he and Kelly went to the door. He looked out and took a breath. Then he took a precious moment to look at the interior of the plane– the holes blown into the frame, the blood spattered on the walls, the thousands of spent shells littering the floor. His eyes fell upon the glazed, unseeing stare of his co-pilot.

"Sir!"

"Go!"

Kelly jumped. Hogan followed.

The wind stole his breath as he tumbled through the air. He forced himself to spread out to slow his descent. An explosion thundered nearby and he looked just in time to see Irish Luck blow apart.

He cursed and then pulled his chute. It opened, jerking him upwards. He could see Kelly's chute open as well. Were there others? He couldn't see. How many of his men had escaped? He should've made sure they had all left the plane.

A messerschmitt rushed past, blowing his chute to the side. Hogan shook his fist at him. It veered around and came back and fired at him. The bullets missed him and Hogan traced their path. Right into Kelly's chute. The chute collapsed and Kelly dropped like a rock. Hogan looked away and swore.

The messerschmitt had other targets and flew off, leaving him alone.

A thousand thoughts ran through his head as he fell towards the earth. How had this mission failed so spectacularly? Between his time with the RAF and his own air force, he had twenty-three missions under his belt. And, while there had been losses-those were unavoidable no matter how genius his planning- they were minimal and he could proudly claim all his missions had been successful. He had planned every detail perfectly. Why was this one so different?

But he supposed even his luck had to run out eventually. He only wished he had been the only one to pay the price for it. But even now, as he looked up, he saw more bombers trailing smoke, more bombers exploding, more bombers falling. Chutes? How many chutes? Not many. Damn.

The ground approached quicker than Hogan anticipated. He readied himself and rolled on impact. When he came to a stop he grunted and tried to get onto his feet. Pain shot up from his ankle and he hissed. He couldn't let that stop him, though. Hogan quickly wrapped up his parachute and looked around. There was a mess of trees not too far from him. Despite the protests from his ankle, Hogan ran towards him.

He had planned out twenty-three perfect missions. And now he found himself without any concrete plan. Just a goal. Get home. Get back to England. Fly again.

"Halt! Halt!" a voice cried before a shot rang out.

Hogan looked over his shoulder to see a group of Germans heading his way. He kept running, but his ankle finally gave out, causing him to stumble and fall. Before he could get back up again, the Germans were on him, aiming their rifles at him.

"For you, the war is over."

Hogan rolled onto his back and glared up at them, but slowly raised his hands. "You got me, Fritz," he sneered. "For now." Because this wasn't the end. He'd find a way to escape. He didn't know how he would do that. He didn't know when the opportunity to escape would even come. He didn't even know, despite his training, what was going to happen in the coming hours or days. But he did know that, one way or another, the war was not over. Not today. Not for him.

Yes, he didn't know what lay ahead, but he knew the Germans were about to find out just how dangerous Colonel Robert E. Hogan could be.