Chapter 1 - Operation: Bleeding Heart

Captain Thad Wilson was not a man you could fault easily.
Back on the base he was captain not only of Foxtrot flight - 323rd Bombardment Wing - but also of the baseball team, loving husband and father to four kids. He met his wife when he rescued her from a would-be rapist on prom night back at high school. Upon joining the USAF he graduated top of his intake at Eglin AFB before moving on to Clarke AFB in the Philippines, where his leadership skills were noted by his superiors. Colonel Rezeltine noted "This soldier is all things to all men. I swear by next year he'll have my damn job!"

Perhaps it was this, or his boundless enthusiasm, only surpassed by his bravery, that saw him rise through Officer training school to reach the rank of Captain at almost record age. At the outbreak of war he was already being groomed for Colonel, just as Colonel Rezeltine had predicted, but naturally, he packed it all in straight away, knowing that it would keep him from where he was needed; the front lines. Especially in the dark early days of the war, Allied successes were few and far between. Most particularly on the US Eastern coast where the Soviet forces were at their strongest. Most bomber crews enjoyed a life expectancy you could measure by the hour.

It was here Thad Wilson really made his mark. Amidst the horror and confusion of the invasion, Foxtrot flight of the 323rd bombardment wing shone through like a light at the end of the tunnel. With unmatched precision, skill and determination, it seemed Foxtrot flight were everywhere - here annihilating a Soviet armored spearhead, there bombing Soviet-held Naval facilities. Foxtrot flight were believed to be responsible for the destruction of over thirty Soviet MiG 31s, when units of Foxtrot flight caught a Soviet Air Battalion just shipped in, unfueled on their runways. Once, when asked why his unit was so successful when US aircraft losses were at an all-time high, the modest Captain Wilson only stated that "I'm just doing my job, as so many of my friends have done before me." Before turning enigmatically to go into yet another mission.

Captain Thad Wilson reined the rest of Foxtrot flight into formation. So many planes had been lost, a large proportion of F-flight's crews were green rookies. It was a cruel fact that some of them wouldn't return from this mission. Wilson tried to console himself that the ones who survived would be the better for it, but it still left a nasty taste in his mouth.

"Steve, signal Rob. Tell him to level off at .9, will you?"
"Yes sir." Steve signaled using his lamp arrays. It was the dead of night, and Colonel Rezeltine had insisted that radio silence be kept at all times to maximize the level of surprise, which would be essential if this attack on the Soviet homeland would succeed. Flying at night was always tough on the men, and Wilson didn't need to remind himself either, rubbing his aching eyes.

"Sir, want me to take over for a bit?" Said Drexler, the co-pilot.
"I'll be fine, Lieutenant. Get me some coffee will you?" Wilson was determined to stay behind the yoke of his B36 - she was an old bird but she had served the US well. She had to, because the war wasn't going well and it would be some time before newer aircraft would be available.

Wilson felt heat on the back of his neck.
"What the-"
He turned instinctively, just in time to catch the flash of the blast in his cockpit rear-view, dazzling him and ruining his night-vision.
"Jesus!" Said Drexler. "That was one of the newbie guys!"
Wilson's eyes darted to the radar screen, but then he remembered the radar was turned off, because that too would have given them away to the Russians. It looked to be a moot point in this case.
"Drex, the Russkies must have us. Reconnect the radar!" Wilson barked, then to his number three; "See anything? Missile trails? Afterburners?"
"I-"

The officer's reply was cut off as another blooming fireball filled the night sky - another huge bomber hacked out of the air in a huge conflagration. This one was closer, close enough to affect the plane, but not much. The Convair B-36 peacemaker was a behemoth, with six turboprops and two additional jet engines, it could usually power through any turbulence with sheer brute force.
"Dammit!" Someone shouted.

The radar was working now. It showed nothing but Foxtrot's B36s, minus two, and an awful lot of what had to be wreckage. Just then the fuselage shook terribly. An experienced aviator, Wilson knew whoever was attacking had just given them the flyby. Drexler was s**t scared. Still nothing on radar.

"Some kind of Stealthy aircraft…" Wilson muttered.
"Agh! Aliens sir! The aliens are after us!" Drexler was shouting over the radio as the number three tried to prize him away.
"Sir! I saw something!" Said little Mickey McGonagle, the Tailgunner. Wilson didn't have time to listen to him, because now yet another B36 went up in flames. Wreckage peppered Wilson's own ship, depressurizing one of the rear compartments. Wilson struggled to bring the behemoth under control.

"Ah, screw this!" Wilson, however heroic and gung-ho he was portrayed in the newspapers, knew a hopeless cause when he saw one. He had to turn back now, losing so many aircraft and experienced crews like this, he would never be able to complete the mission, which had been so top secret, not even the president knew of the objective; to drop America's only nuclear free-fall bombs on Moscow, Minsk, Leningrad and Stalingrad. "Foxtrot flight! Enemy superior! Get the hell outta dodge!"
As the planes of Foxtrot flight wheeled as one, there seemed to be a respite from the unseen onslaught. All crewmen were up against the windows and portholes, frantically trying to spot any would-be attackers.

"Aliens! Hehehehe! Aliens!" Drexler was saying over and over.
"Look, there are no such things as aliens! Christ, someone shut him up!" Wilson barked, then realized he had blasphemed. A good catholic, he resolved to confess later. "Mickey! You said you saw something?"
"Yes sir!" His voice crackled over the intercom. "Aliens!"

Five minutes went by, with no more attacks, although one more aircraft had gone missing, gone from radar and gone from the airwaves. However, it wasn't over yet…
A squadron's worth of Soviet blips were now tailing the squadron of tattered heroes. Wilson could tell they were only cannon-armed MiG 17s, but they were still a problem.

"Alert! Tailgunners at the ready!"
The MiGs were upon the squadron quickly, diving from a height. Wilson pulled his aircraft in a series of gut-wrenching maneuvers, trying to both avoid the MiG cannon fire and avoid pulling his own wings off. He was unsuccessful. Heavy rounds punctured the plane all along the fuselage. Elsewhere another B36 was ablaze and going down. The gunners tracked the speeding MiGs long after they were out of range, the gunners were so panicked. Then the MiGs came again - Wilson went into another dive. The B36 was hit again - starboard wing and more fuselage damage, a couple of small explosions in the cockpit.

Wilson's vision went red in the dive, such was the G-force, while the tailgunner was whooping and screaming. He seemed to have brought down one of the MiGs. Then all was quiet again. The MiGs were going, they must have been low on fuel. All was quite but the man choking on his own blood on the floor. With horror Wilson realized the man had half his chest blown away, he could see ribs and internal organs. He couldn't tell if it was Drexler or number three, but there was enough offal in the cockpit for two men.

"T-t…take th..is note….give to…wife…urgh…" The man said, proffering a pathetic, bloody scrap of paper, doubtless meant to be some kind of last will and testament. It was unreadable. Then the man died, one of Wilson's oldest and most trusted comrades, now a bloody heap on the floor.

"You bastards!" Wilson shouted, suddenly transfixed by two years of pure rage, fury and anger. "You Commie Russian bastards! You tried to kill me again didn't you? You failed bastards! You can't kill me! You can never kill me! And that's your worst mistake, because you left me, here, and one day, I WILL DESTROY YOU ALL!"
Maybe the enemy had some way of listening in to him, and decided in a fit of pique. Maybe it was just plain, dumb fate. Whatever it was, at that very moment, just as Wilson finished his tirade, the discharge of a 150 kW laser hit his windscreen.
The net result was complete disintegration, as if Wilson had never existed. In an instant, nothing remained of the man, save maybe a cloud of super-heated steam and a few scraps of charred flight gear. An unfitting end to a true hero.
The pilotless B36 'Old Dog' began her journey to the ground alone.

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