You can read the previous part here: Part 3
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April 16, 2031
“Roger that.” A husky voice made its way into a microphone and went through perhaps all the transformations into signals and waves and finally reached the ears of whom it was supposed to be heard. It was a normal occurrence for them, as it was for the speaker of the words.
Captain Gibson paid attention neither to the transformations of his voice into waves nor to the amount of time he had been uttering the phrase. After all, that was the job of the scientist at Harvard who obsessed with the frequency of light. Or sound. Something like that. These were the executives, and they were the people who could point to a map and say, “I want that,” before having a complete breakfast. It was up to Captain Gibson to get that.
His commanding officer had told him his twenty-sixth mission was his first dangerous one. It was a pity. Captain Gibson had gotten lucky so far and had flown twenty-five milk runs up till this mission. Major Salisbury had said that he had to bomb down a bunker in east Farcia before he could fly back safely.
Captain Gibson was familiar with bunkers. Having been in the Air Force for the past three years, he was quite familiar with it all, and he was proud of himself for it. His daughter was too, and he tapped the pocket of his thick jacket, designed to protect him, full of equipment. In one of the pockets lay. A picture of his little girl. Gibson was losing his focus. I gotta do this, he thought. I gotta do this for my little girl.
And so he had to fly to Farcia. Only till the edge, but that was dangerous enough. Flying across to Farcia from Madagascar was no small feat, the captain had flown 1100 miles already. Just 18 miles to go. And that was when the real trouble started.
It was a simple plan to execute. Bunkers were made with high protection facilities and equipment, that too it had been increased in the past couple of years given the war and the uncertainty that came along with it. A bunker made of 5 feet reinforced concrete could easily survive the bomb. But Captain Gibson was two steps ahead.
If he dropped a gravity bomb from overhead the site and managed to drop it at an effective angle at the entrance of the bunker, his job was complete. No bunker, built however strong could withstand a bomb like that. Now to execute it, though, was a little harder.
2 miles to go. Then one. And soon he found himself right overhead.
It’s now or never, Gibson thought. Now or never.
He dropped his first bomb. Gibson had eight bombs in the plane. There was technically supposed to be one “target” bomb and seven “just in case” bombs. Gibson thought that if someone was likely to miss seven bombs, they would probably also miss the eighth. Gibson held his breath as the bomb went down and missed the bunker. As if on cue, two fighter jets from the enemy took off, blocking his path.
Gibson swerved downwards, narrowly avoiding the shower of bullets above. He dropped his second bomb and then swerved to the left, holding his breath. He prayed to every god he knew of. His prayers weren’t answered. The bomb missed by a hair.
Gibson steered his plane slightly to the left and took a massive chance. He unloaded his third, fourth, fifth, sixth, and seventh bombs while flying. If he missed, he had only one bomb to hit the target. Luckily for him, Gibson’s sixth bomb smashed onto the bunker, leaving a black spot and some ruins, making it look like Petra, except black. He still had to get away, though.
He went into a nosedive and pulled up at the last second. The planes above him were peppering his area with a spray of machine-gun bullets. Unfortunately, they had scored a single hit.
It didn’t take him a second to dodge the next spray of bullets, the three years of his service had paid off well. Now for the final, he thought. This time, I’m going to do it myself, and god will watch. Gibson grimaced, wondering if God was ready for the show about to come. He was going to dodge two fighter jets all by himself.
And so he did with a sudden swerve, and then hit it, flying off at a speed, releasing a spray of bullets from his own helicopter.
Behind him, Gibson saw two planes going down. He sighed in relief and it seemed to him, God was watching. The sky still seemed dull. The ground still had a black stream on it. The bunker was in flames. His mission was complete. Farcia seemed as drab to him as it was earlier. But he knew, all of Farcia wasn’t dull, and he knew where it wasn’t.
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You can read the next part here: Part 5