Novikov Airfield, Eastern Basil, 2209, October 19th, 2312 hour:
It was impossible to tell where the leaves ended and the storm began. A halo of light crowned every lamp outside Major General Morozov’s command post, yet such was the ferocity of the storm that has been battering the city for hours that the scant illumination the lights provided was hardly enough to read the orders he held in his hands. The din, muffled sound of a young group of pilots gambling away their scant wages and belongings in a nearby truck was all but drowned out by the howling screech of the wind. Under normal circumstances, he would reprimand the young, inexperienced men for such a dereliction of duty, especially given that the entire force is on high alert, yet he could not find it in himself to do that now, given how trivial it now seemed to him. In the distance, an air defense battery, recently repositioned to the airfield, is silhouetted against the panning searchlights. Morozov steadies himself, and reads the paper once more:
Strike Plan 18772:
Target: Northern Hearthia
Force: Szefian National Guard, 198th Bomber Squadron
Time: 2209, October 20th, 0000 hour
Strike plan: Ingress to northern Hearthia, engage factories and air defense
Notes: No return fuel to be provided
All that remains is for Morozov to acknowledge the order, yet he struggles internally to sign it off. Of course, he knows that in the grand scheme of things, resistance to such an insane order would be futile, yet he just cannot bring himself to send the young men under his command to certain demise. He paces over the tiny command post for minutes, palms sweating. Then, he braces himself and signals his adjutant.
“Bring me my flight suit. I’m going to personally lead this strike.”
He puts down the paper and strides out from the command post. It is time to give the briefing.
