‘Blyad.’
However, the extra knots he had coaxed from it did the job, and the aircraft steadied for sufficient time.
He started humming something faintly musical. Nothing he had heard before, just a few mixed notes suggested by a mind more occupied with deep concentration.
‘The runway’s closing fast.’
He adjusted throttle.
‘The Schwalbe’s going too fast.’
The angle of the stick altered slightly in response.
‘The runway is nearly underneath me.’
More stick.
‘The Schwalbe is going too fucking fast!’
Less throttle…watch stall.
‘The runway is…’
He cut the power and placed the engine pods on the concrete surface as a tender lover places his hand on the shoulder of his woman.
Gently, softly, like a caress.
‘Yes!’
The sound was excruciating. The light cowlings disintegrated, bringing both engines into contact with the runway.
Both engines came apart bit by bit.
Suddenly, the Schwalbe angled and the tail bit into the concrete, ripping off a sizeable portion instantly.
The port engine started to bite harder and the ME 262 swung to that side, feinting towards the trees before the starboard engine dug in and the port engine broke away with half the wing, the spectacular ignition of aviation spirit causing more than one of the old firefighters to consider immediate desertion.
The veteran fire tender labored towards the oncoming aircraft, careful to avoid any possible clash.
Djorov clung to the stick, leaning one way then the other, moving the controls from side to side in a useless attempt to steer his blazing aircraft.
Before he knew it, the sound of tortured metal had gone and the Schwalbe was stationary.
He pushed on the canopy and felt the full heat of the fuel fire on his left cheek.
Rolling out to the right, he fell onto the concrete, the hand he put out to steady his fall doing nothing more than striking the runway first, dislocating his little finger before the rest of his body hit hard.
Two puffing firefighters dashed in and dragged the aching pilot clear, whilst the others, surprisingly swift in their work, applied foam to the spreading fire.
Djorov dragged himself to his feet and brushed himself down, the dislocated little finger suddenly announcing its presence when he caught it in his lifejacket.
Examining the destroyed aircraft, he marveled at the number of holes he could see.
The Superfortress gunners had hit him hard, and he knew he was lucky to be alive.
Members of his regiment started to arrive and more than one offered up a cigarette or a canteen of fiery liquid.
Questions about the enemy contact were greeted with confirmation of damaging the enemy leviathan so severely that Djorov doubted it would make it home.
The spirits lifted, and many a swig of something non-regulation was taken in celebration.
Now that he had seen that his commander and friend was uninjured, Djorov’s second in command strolled around the peripheries, making a great play of looking at the runway, up and down, grabbing his chin and looking thoughtful.
Captain Oligrevin was not only the second in command of 2nd Guards; he was also a notorious clown.
Djorov moved over, a gaggle of his men moving in his wake, keen to listen in.
“So, Comrade Oligrevin, are you not happy to see me safe and sound?”
The Major look at Djorov as if it was the first time he had noticed him.
“Of course, I’m delighted by your survival, Comrade PodPolkovnik, truly I am.”
Djorov, his hands trembling a little as the shock started to work on his system, understood the false mocking tone for what it was.
“Come on, man, spit it out. Did you see promotion and command as I came fluttering by, eh?”
“Well, Comrade, you know me. Always the man for the mission.”
Behind Djorov, men lifted by their commander’s survival started to grin.
“You are a model second in command, Comrade Mayor.”
“I know, Sir. So may I be the first to congratulate you on completing your mission.”
Djorov suddenly got it, as did a few of the others. He decided not to spoil Oligrevin’s moment.
“Comrade PodPolkovnik, I believe you achieved the allocated task in approximately… eight hundred metres.”
The roars were genuine, as was the heavy slap that Djorov.
Djorov actually found himself checking the distance.
“Not quite what the Rodina expected of you, Comrade PodPolkovnik, but I’m sure your report will do your efforts justice.”
“I’m also sure it will, Comrade Mayor. And to honour your efforts, you get to drive the other Swallow tomorrow.”
All pretence gone, the two men hugged and kissed as only Russian men who have shared great dangers could do.
The Superfortress skimmed the ice-cold water with her left wing but Bradford exerted all his strength and recovered just in time.
Straightening the wounded beast, he assessed the distance to the shoreline and decided that now was the time.
“Brace yourself, Mister.”
He angled the fuselage, and immediately the rear end started to bump on the water.
In the rear, the rest of the crew, unaware of Bradford’s plans, panicked.
The shoreline approached as the friction started to rob the ‘Jenni Lee’ of momentum.
One last effort on the stick kept the aircraft ‘airborne’ for a few more seconds, before the fuselage dropped and started to skim, all the while the propellers on the starboard side turning, lashing the water, bending and starting to destroy themselves.
The feathered port props created drag themselves.
There was no control now, and Bradford could only watch, almost in slow motion, as the nose hit the water and a virtual tidal wave was scooped up and thrown at the two men in the pilot’s seats.
He couldn’t see and couldn’t breathe, his mask ripped off and the weight of water pushing him into the seat.
He used his other senses, and realized the aircraft was slowing considerably now.
In his mind he had the picture of where he was, and what he hoped would happen.
Medal of Honor holder or not, he was scared of water, and had tried to ensure that ‘Jenni Lee’ would slide onto the low beach and he would walk off as dry as a bone.
Dry he certainly wasn’t, but the thump and then scream of tortured metal told him the Superfortress had reached the beach, and he felt relief beyond measure.
The beach was quite flat, slightly angled up from the water’s edge, with only two obstructions, large rocks, to possibly impede the progress of the ‘Jenni Lee’.
The shattered nose hit the larger of the two rocks and folded, the impact slowing the forward rush until there was nothing but the sound of water dripping and gurgling within the cockpit area.
The civilian engineer retrieved himself from the fantasy world in which he had cocooned himself to avoid the terrors of his approaching death.
He checked himself out, first mentally, and then physically, his hands finding everything where it should be and no damage of note.
The gurgling sound that he had heard actually wasn’t water at all.
It was Bradford.
In the final impact, a piece of aluminium strut had been pushed forward like a lance, and caught him in the lower throat, raising him up out of the seat by two feet and holding him firmly in place.
The blood dripped down the metal, combining with the fuel and water mixture that started to drain out of the holes and gaps that the fight and crash had created.