Lucky Lightning

"Captain Nichols, we're coming up on the town."

"Got it, dropping to the deck? No traffic below?

"None."

"Here we go then."

Easing over the stick of the small B-37, nicknamed 'Lightning' by its crew, URF aircraft commander Captain Albert Nichols watched the tops of the scorched Mamorian trees come dangerously close to his aircraft's landing gear. As he concentrated on keeping the aircraft from clipping one of the tops, he heard a voice come over his radio, Sergeant Robert May, who controlled the ventral machine gun. "What exactly are we bombing this town for again?"

Before he could tell the Sergeant to pipe down, Lieutenant Yuri Welsov responded. "They took one of our commando units in, then told the UNSC where they were hiding them. All of them were killed in the middle of the night."

"Seems like every mission we have is making an example of someone."

"That's what we do. Doesn't make the missions any less dangerous."

"I guess..."

"Alright, pipe down, we're coming up on the town." barked Nichols. "Yuri, bombs ready to drop?"

"Roger that Captain. Three hundred pounds frag, three hundred pounds white phosphorous."

"We'll have to make two runs. WP first, then frag."

"Roger."

"Gunners, status?

"Ventral gun armed and ready." responded Sergeant May.

"Dorsal gun armed and ready." responded Sergeant Sicard, the exposed tail gunner.

"Alright boys, here we go." said Nichols as he gained altitude to avoid an oncoming ridge, and dove on the down below, firing the four forward-mounted M247H machine guns, their chattering adding to the noise produced by the radial engine.

"WP away!" yelled Welsov as the aircraft lurched upward, giving May a field of fire. Yet his gun was silent.

"Coming around for another run!"

Trying to stay calm as the G forces pressed him into his seat, Nichols saw tracers flying up at the aircraft. "Ah shit!" he yelled, leveling the aircraft. "Yuri, drop the frag now!"

"Done!"

As if on cue, as the last of the bombs were released, flak bursts began exploding around the aircraft, the sound of metal shrapnel sounding through the fuselage. Disappearing over the ridge, Nichols let out a breath he hadn't known he had been holding. "Sicard! Check the damage!" he ordered.

"Uhhh..." came the response.

"What is it?"

"Well...we've got a lot of holes in our fuselage."

"Any wounds on the crew?"

"Nope, looks like that starship plate really did us good."

"Evidently. This one's a keeper, that's for sure. Sure as hell keeps us safe."