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."
