Sky Warrior B-17
The Next Hell Trail
On an anvil still warm by the friction of the iron wheels, the Sky Warrior parked gracefully with its exhausted but still sturdy metal body. The twilight swept over its scratched and sooty sides, like a scar that was not shamefully shown to the world. The engine is already switched off. The wings are silent. But the plane's soul still vibrates with memories of the sky they just passed.
One by one the crew descended from the belly of the plane. Their shoes trace the soil of England, pressing down on the dust and oil that has long been part of the battlefield. Farlan jumped first, raising his hands high in the air like a child who had just come out of a nightmare. Peter patted her shoulder softly. "We are alive, Far."
Billy lit his cigarette at the edge of the stairs, sighing smoke as if he had just stolen the breath from death. "One is finished. Twelve more..." He muttered softly. Timmy was greeted by a technician who helped him out of the lower turret. His face was pale, but there was a small smile that tried to hold on.
Larry dismounted with his helmet, then turned his head towards the slowly darkening sky. "God still allows us to go home," he whispered.
Gabriel descended last from the nose of the plane, not saying much. He just lowered his head for a moment under the Sky Warrior's right wing, touching the metal of the plane with open arms, as if greeting the creature that had protected them all.
But there was one person who did not go down.
John realizes first. He stopped in the shadow of the plane and turned his head to the stairs. "Alex?"
There is no answer.
John climbed the stairs back, through a narrow passage leading to the cockpit. There, Alex Brown was still sitting in his chair, both hands gripping the dead steering wheel tightly. His gaze was blank staring at the windshield, towards the sky which was now reddening like unquenchable embers.
John stood beside him. "You didn't come down?"
Alex took a slow breath. "I'm just... Not ready to leave him yet."
Silence for a moment.
"This is just one," he said again. "Only one in thirteen. And it feels like it's been years."
John patted her on the shoulder, not saying anything. He understands. All the crew descended from the Sky Warrior with their bodies. But Alex, the pilot of the legendary plane, still hadn't really come down from the sky. There was still a part of him left up there—among the clouds, bullets, and the sound of machines growling like ancient creatures.
He finally stood up, slowly, and looked once more at the cockpit that had become a part of his soul. Then he walked out with John, down the stairs step by step, while the Sky Warrior stood silently behind them, waiting... Like a faithful animal that knows, tomorrow it will fly again.
Flashback
The skies of Washington DC were still pouring down in light rain as military cars stopped in front of a US air base building on the outskirts of the RAF base. Smoke from the exhaust blended with the morning mist, enveloping the deserted courtyard of the headquarters. From inside the car, one by one young men came out, some wearing uniforms that still looked new, others with shabby backpacks full of long road trips.
They come from different places. From the arid Nevada training, from the dusty Texas mainland, from the snow-soaked eastern tip of New Jersey. But that day, they came for one purpose: to receive a permanent assignment as active air crew.
In the main brifing room, the chandelier swings slowly. The walls are filled with maps of Europe and fleet diagrams. There was silence as a senior officer entered the room. The step is definite, the long coat is wet by the remnants of drizzle. He placed a large chocolate folder on the round table. His face was cold and full of experience.
Commanded by Arthur Vincent.
He looked towards the row of young faces in front of him. Some are still looking to the right and left, not fully understanding what they are facing. But Vincent's eyes left no room for doubt.
"Starting today, you are part of the elite fleet successor program," he said slowly but resoundingly. "You are not chosen at random. Every name sitting in this room has been filtered. Tested. And prepared for one task... filling the crew seat of the legendary aircraft—the B-17 Sky Warrior."
For a moment, the room was silent. The name is not unfamiliar. The name was in the reports, in the army newspapers, in the whispers in the barracks bedroom—the Sky Warrior, the plane that always returned from every mission, even as its surroundings were shattered to pieces.
"The previous crew veteran has completed more than twenty missions. They are now retired honorably," continued Vincent. "And now, the rod has been passed on to you. But don't be proud just yet. You guys are not okay."
He opened the folder, pulling out a long piece of paper framed with the War Department's official stamp.
"This is your contract. Black on white. Thirteen missions have been set. Thirteen targets. If the Sky Warrior and all the crew who crew him manage to complete these missions... You will receive the highest award from the United States Air Force. Your name will be recorded. And you will be sent home. Honorably retired. No frills. No additional duties."
He turned the paper towards them. At the bottom, space for the signature of each name.
"But if one fails... If a mission collapses... Contract is void. There are no substitutes. There is no rotation."
The men looked at each other. No one spoke. But in each of them, the beat began to take on another rhythm—between fear and pride, between burden and honor.
Alex Brown was the first to step up, pick up the pen, and sign.
Followed by John Marcush, Gabriel, Billy, Larry, Timmy, Farlan, and Peter. One by one. A decision that ties their lives into a metal body that will take them to the sky, to the battlefield, and perhaps—to history.
When the contract was folded back and put on the map, Vincent stood up straight.
"You guys are not ordinary crews. You are the heir to the most lifelike aircraft in the skies of Europe. Take care of him. Or he will reject you."
The rain outside still hasn't stopped. But that day, the skies welcomed eight new names that the Sky Warrior would soon receive—a plane that not only flew, but lived.
Back to the present
Drizzling rain was still knocking slowly on the metal surface of the plane, which was now stationary at the end of the British airstrip. The base's spotlight illuminated a portion of the Sky Warrior's body, making the water droplets clinging to the plane's skin appear to glow faintly like the remnants of tears from the sky. Inside, the cabin is darkened by only a small light from the cockpit panel that is still dimly lit—the remnants of emergency energy.
Alex Brown was still sitting in the pilot's seat, alone.
His helmet was already laid on the cabin floor, and his leather jacket hung halfway down the back of the seat. His breathing was slow, his eyes staring straight at the windshield that was blurred by dew. Out there, the sky was wet, and the sounds of other engines had long since disappeared. Only the sound of drizzle and the gentle clinking of metal became friends.
His sleep just now wasn't an ordinary sleep—it was more like falling into a void. The dream that appears is not a sleeping flower, but a real shadow that hits his soul.
He saw the Sky Warrior destroyed.
He saw his friends... destroyed.
Billy's face vanished in the flames, Timmy's screams from under the belly of the plane, Gabriel's voice calling through the shattered intercom... and himself, left above the sky that turned pitch black. No one went home. No one survived. Just the sound of the wind... and silence.
Alex woke up in the chair, his breath hunting, his forehead sweating despite the cold temperature in the cabin. He held his face, lowered his head for a long time. The fatigue of the first mission has not completely disappeared. But that dream... It felt more real than anything he had ever experienced.
He rubbed his face and stood up quietly, his body wobbling slightly as he balanced himself in the narrow aisle of the plane. All the crew had been down for a long time. They must now be laughing in a military café, enjoying their first warm dinner and drink after surviving death. Tapi Alex... cannot. Something inside him wasn't ready to leave this chair yet.
He walked down the hallway, walking towards the rear cabin, past the side gun compartment that was now empty and silent. Only the rustling sound of rain on the plane's skin and the sound of its own steps were heard.
And when he was about to step into the exit... His eyes caught something.
A small box.
Just lying on a spare seat near the side wall of the cabin. The old wooden box, keyless, dusty, and looked like it had been untouched for a long time.
Slowly, Alex approached him. His heart was pounding for no reason. He touched the top of the box, feeling the rough wood grains. Then, with one slow movement, he opened it.
Inside... There is only one thing.
A tape recorder.
The label faded, almost gone, but the handwriting is still legible if you look closely:
"Sky Warrior — Final Log — First Crew"
Alex sculpted.
His hands trembled as he picked up the tape. It is light in weight... But it feels like it carries the whole shadow of this plane's past. A message? A warning? Or... The will of those who used to sit in the same place?
The sky outside continued to cry softly.
And inside the old metal body of the Sky Warrior, a pilot stands in silence, grasping the remnants of the sound that will probably change the way they look at this plane... forever.
The night sky was getting darker, and the drizzle hadn't stopped yet.
Inside the Sky Warrior's cabin, the sound of water droplets flowed slowly from the metal roof to the floor, echoing softly like the rhythm of time that was reluctant to move. The dim light from the cockpit panel was still on, reflecting the silhouette of Alex Brown's face as he returned to the pilot's seat—a place he seemed unwilling to leave.
His hand was still holding the tape tape. Every now and then, his eyes looked at her fixedly, as if wishing that the thing could speak for itself. But in his silence, the small object actually added to the weight of an unnamed burden.
He took a deep breath, staring straight into the condensing windshield. Out there, only the runway was empty and the fog lights were flashing brightly. He opened his jacket pocket, then slowly inserted the tape into it, tucking it behind the folds of the cloth as if hiding a wound that had not yet been opened.
Then, without saying anything, he stared at a small photo mounted on the side of the cockpit panel. An image that has begun to fade with age—a woman with a warm smile, holding a small baby in her lap. Behind the firmness of Alex's eyes, there is a longing that never ends.
He leaned his head against the chair. Silence. But it is not the empty silence—the silence that settles, full of the whispers of the past.
Footsteps were heard from outside the plane. The voice was faintly joking. Chuckle.
Then the door opened with the distinctive sound of an old hinge squealing.
"Come on, Captain! Don't tell me you're sleeping here like a frozen rabbit!" Billy's voice echoed, bringing laughter with him.
Farlan and Peter enter first, carrying a paper bag filled with warm bread and canned soup. Timmy followed with two bottles of drinks, and Larry dragged a small box containing a portable heater. Gabriel came at the back, didn't say much, just smiled a little as usual.
"Our commander of the sky hasn't eaten yet," John said, tossing a sandwich at the dashboard, then sat down in his copilot's seat. "Don't let tomorrow we fly with the captain's belly ringing."
Alex quickly adjusted his sitting position, pulling the zipper of his jacket a little higher—hiding the tape as if it were just a piece of cloth. He nodded slowly.
"Thank you, everyone," he said shortly, but it was enough to erase the stiffness between them.
Billy sat on the metal floor, laying out the food. "You know, they in the café say the Sky Warrior is like a living carcass that can't die. "You think you're still asleep, but you're meditating here, right?"
"If anyone can sleep in this metal chair, it's Alex," Timmy joked.
Everyone chuckled. But Alex only smiled faintly.
Among those who now began to warm up, joke quietly and eat in small laughter, only one still kept a secret. The tape. That box. And the shadow of the voice that has not had time to play.
For now, Alex chooses to remain silent.
Because he knows—some truths are better kept... until the sky was completely ready to hear it.
The Sky Warrior's cabin lights dim, dim framing the tired but relieved faces that were now gathered in the belly of the old plane. In the midst of the noisy light conversation and the smell of warm bread that began to fill the humid air of the cabin, Alex Brown just sat quietly in his chair. His gaze was blank through the still-dewy cockpit glass, staring deep into the darkness of the endless runway.
The sound of the laughter of the crew behind him seemed to echo from a distant place. They enjoyed the night, enjoying one success—one step closer to the finish line of thirteen missions. But Alex couldn't get along with it. Not completely.
Because for Alex, this mission is not just about dropping the bomb and coming back intact. It's about bringing home the people who now entrust their lives to him.
He leaned his body against the seat, one hand squeezing the steering wheel. Behind his silence, his mind kept moving—across time and face. He recalled Billy's father whom he had met before departure—a veteran of the First World War who just hugged him tightly and said: "Please take my son home, son."
She remembered a small letter from Gabriel's wife that had fallen from her husband's jacket pocket—prayerful, with a small child's hand on the bottom.
She remembered how Timmy, who was too young, too excited, said with shining eyes, "If we survive three times, I'll propose to Sally, Sis."
They all have a story. Have a life. And the only link between them and that future... is him. Alex Brown. Sky Warrior pilot.
That responsibility was never written into the mission contract. It is not written under a signature or under a command order. But it feels... Every time he sat behind the wheel, every time he heard the sound of his engine growling, every time he saw the crew climb into the plane with complete confidence.
Not just flying planes. But it brings hope.
So it's no wonder why bomber pilots often seem cooler, quieter, more quiet.
Because they had to hide thousands of fears, thousands of possible deaths—behind a flat expression that could calm the rest of the crew. They must be strong, even if every night is haunted by dreams about flames and wing chips. They must be sane, although each mission could be the last.
Behind Alex, Farlan and Peter's voices were still heard jokingly. Gabriel was busy checking the mission map that hung up, and Billy was complaining about how tasteless British food was.
But Alex... Stay still.
Not because he didn't want to talk, but because silence was the only way to hold the burden from breaking.
He turned his head to the right for a moment, to his own jacket pocket, where the old crew tape was still hidden—as if it were part of the burden he was now carrying alone.
Then he looked back ahead, at the cabin glass, at the night sky that was no longer friendly but always waiting.
And in the silence of his heart, Alex swore:
It will take them home. All. Until the thirteenth mission is completed.
Inside the Sky Warrior, the warmth began to be felt from the laughter of the crew, from the potluck food they shared, from the realization that—for today—they could still be alive.
But for Alex Brown, everything is still silent. His body sat down, his eyes lived, but his soul seemed to be left in the sky, merging with the roar of the engine and the clatter of bullets still ringing in his head.
His hands were still gripping the steering wheel, even though the engine had been dead for a long time. He turned slowly to the windshield... not to see the rain, not to see the English mainland, but to cast back the shadows of the French sky—the air battle this afternoon.
He still vividly remembers a German twin-engine fighter jet, swooping down sharply after its wings were shredded by the bullets of their escort Mustangs. Flames gushed out from the right engine. The enemy pilot tried to pull the lever, tried to turn the direction, but didn't have time. Alex watched it from above, just a fraction of a second before the plane hit the earth in the distance—exploding in fog and a pitiful silence.
There was no victory cheer. There was no proud cheering.
Just quiet... which left an unknown shadow of a body behind the window of the plane.
Alex knew. Those in the enemy cockpit... not the devil. Not monsters. But, humans. Just like them. Have a face. Have a house. Have someone who might be waiting for news on a wet night like this.
The pilot was probably John's age. It may also have a child like Gabriel. Or have a little dream like Timmy.
Alex nodded, his eyes bright but dim. He couldn't hate them completely. Because he knows that everyone in the air—both enemies and friends—is just a pawn in a larger field. And the one thing that had them all in common was the destiny of the heavens... who never chooses who returns and who is left behind.
He took a deep breath, as if trying to erase the shadow of the explosion this afternoon. But what's left isn't a puff of smoke... but consciousness.
That every time he takes the Sky Warrior into the air, it's not just him and his crew who are on the brink of death. But also hundreds of other pilots... who have no choice but to aim at each other and hope to go home.
And it is there that the role of a pilot like himself is tested—not only as a crew leader, but also as a bearer of humanity, in the midst of merciless wars.
Alex leaned his head against the chair. Silence still surrounds him. But in his chest, there was something deeper than fear—respect... even for those who were shot down.
Alex was still staring at the cockpit windshield which now only reflected his faint shadow. Outside, the night mist continued to flow like voiceless spirits. The last drizzle drops fell slowly from the curve of the Sky Warrior's wings. Quiet. But it is not empty silence. There was an echo from the sky that could not disappear overnight.
He closed his eyes for a moment, and in a matter of seconds, the sound of the enemy plane's engine screeching again in his mind—its shrill sound, its swooping motion, and the final flash of the fire spurting as it crashed into the ground.
He knows for sure... The man behind the wheel of the plane is not just any enemy.
He was once another version of Alex Brown. Young. full of idealism. Perhaps forced by his country, or perhaps consumed by oath. Maybe have someone who loves him and is waiting for news. And tonight, no news will arrive.
"Sorry..." Alex whispered softly to himself. Neither to whom he was speaking—to the enemy pilot, to the sky, or to something higher.
The sound of small laughter from the back of the plane jolted him back. Peter was holding up a can of soup with two hands like a toast, greeted by a small cheer from the others. John was still talking to Larry about the possibility of his next mission, and Timmy was now asleep hugging a bag of bread, his head resting on the shoulder of the softly laughing Billy.
They live. Still alive.
And that's all that keeps Alex going.
To burn... There were two battlefields: one in the sky, the other inside one's own chest. And tonight, the second war is much heavier.
Slowly, he stood up. The steps were calm, towards the cabin hallway where the crew had gathered. But before that, he stopped near the emergency storage room, opened a small panel beside the cabin wall, and hid the tape of the footage he had found earlier. Tucked neatly behind old wiring equipment and metal toolkits, hidden from anyone's eyes—for a while.
He did not know the contents of the tape. It is not yet known whether the recorded sound will be a warning, a legacy, or an additional burden. But he knew one thing: it was not yet time for the others to know. It is not yet time for the truth of the old crew to be revealed.
Because the Sky Warrior is not just a plane. It is the legacy of the souls who once guarded it. And Alex's job... is to ensure that these new souls will survive until the 13th mission is completed.
He closed the panel slowly, then walked to the middle of the crew.
Gabriel looked at her, then pushed the coffee can towards Alex. "It's hot. There are still left."
Alex just nodded, sitting quietly in the folding chair in the middle of the cabin. For a moment, it blended in with them. Chuckle. Nods when asked. Eat slowly.
But behind his thin smile, he was still different.
He remains Alex Brown—the pilot of the Sky Warrior, the silent person in charge of eight lives and one legendary plane that never fails to come home.
And he knows... The sky wasn't done with them yet.
In the midst of that cold but life-filled metal cabin, between the sound of small laughter and the dinner cans opened with the tip of a knife, Alex Brown sat quietly, his eyes straight at the rough walls of the plane and the familiar smell of iron in his nose. This is where it is. At the heart of Sky Warrior. In the midst of the people who now entrust their lives to him, without ever even asking him to bear all of them.
But he knew. Without needing to ask. It is the center of all this.
Pilot. Nahkoda. Leader. Or... The bearers of the curse and honor that are both united in the body of this aircraft.
His life did not come from courage, but from a sense of responsibility that he never spoke.
Not because he was stronger, but because he knew—if he faltered, everything would fall.
Alex wasn't the most stubborn man among them. He is not the most talkative, or the funniest. But every time the Sky Warrior shook on the runway, every time the engine started roaring, all heads would turn in one direction—towards that pilot's seat. And as long as Alex was still there, grasping the wheel calmly, they would all believe that everything was still up to date.
This is the main character of Sky Warrior.
Not the plane itself, not the engines on its wings, not the clinking of bombs in the sight chamber.
Tapi Alex Brown.
The man who brought more than just an airplane into the sky.
It brings back memories of old crews, hopes of new crews, and never-ending prayers from those waiting at home—mothers clutching photos of their children, wives kissing their last letters, and little children who don't yet know what war is but believe their father will come home.
And when night fell again like a black cloak on the runway, when all the crew began to fall asleep in their respective seats, and the sound of rain ceased to be the rhythm of the background...
Alex is still awake.
Staring slowly at the metal walls of the plane, closing his eyes for a moment, and hearing the slow beat of the Sky Warrior who seemed to breathe with him.
He knew the next mission was coming. He knew that the sky would never be friendly.
But as long as his hands could still grasp the wheel, as long as his mind could still read directions, as long as his soul could still stand in the midst of a storm...
Sky Warrior will still fly.
And Alex Brown... will remain in his seat.
As a pilot. As a hope. As the main soul of the heavens who is always bloodthirsty, but every once in a while... still leaves hope for those who survive.
The English sky that night was pitch black, starless, as if the earth were being kept away from all hope of heaven. Only the glare of the runway lights lit dimly, forming a long line between the fog and the shadows of the plane sleeping in silence.
Alex Brown opened the side door of the Sky Warrior slowly, its metal hinges squealing softly, as if complaining of being awakened from his night's sleep. There was not a single sound from inside the cabin. The crew had fallen asleep—Billy was grinding his teeth softly in a dream, Timmy was hugging the little pillow of the barracks as if it were the last shield in the world, and Gabriel was asleep with the map open in his lap.
But Alex couldn't sleep.
He stepped down the metal stairs of the plane, his jacket wrapped tightly around his body, and the small, invisible bag—not made of cloth, but of weight—was still clinging to his back. The bag was invisible to anyone's eyes, yet it felt heavy every time he took a breath. Inside, not only are tapes of old crew recordings, but also responsibilities that were never asked for... only given.
The cold night breeze greeted him, bringing the scent of fuel, metal dust, and wet ground. Her shoe pedals slowly along the narrow strip between the hangar and the aircraft parking lot. Several other B-17 units were lined up neatly, all closed and silent. They looked like iron giants who had fallen asleep after a long war.
Alex stopped at the edge of the runway, staring far into the dark end of the invisible horizon.
Then, with one light movement, he pulled a cigarette from his jacket pocket, lit it with an old zippo match that had begun to shake his joints. The small flame danced for a moment before being extinguished by the wind, leaving a faint light on the end of the cigarette that burned red.
He took a deep breath, and let the smoke slowly come out of his mouth, flying with the night air.
Every puff seemed to attract memories. Each puff seemed to suppress the fear that was boiling at the bottom of the chest.
He did not want to escape responsibility. But he wanted to confess once in a while... that he is also human.
Every now and then, his eyes turned to the Sky Warrior—the plane stood still under the dim lights, its wings expanding like a shield for the souls asleep in it. And that's when Alex knew, he could never really leave the place. His body was allowed to walk, but his soul was tightly bound to the plane.
He touched his jacket pocket slowly. The tapes of the old crew recordings were still there, silent like a secret waiting for time to speak. And on his back, the invisible bag was still felt—containing the names he had to take home, one by one, in a blanket of honor and uncertain life.
The night went on. The wind brings a chill that bites the bones.
But Alex still stood there, with a nearly exhausted cigarette in his hand, and his eyes that never tired of staring at the dark sky.
Because for him, this is not an escape.
It's just one quiet night...
… For a pilot who takes over the world, but chooses to remain silent so that everyone can sleep well.
The shoe steps stomped gently on the wet asphalt.
Alex lifted his head from his daydream, the cigarette that was almost finished was still tucked in his finger. From behind the fog and the dim shadows of the runway lights, a man appeared—in a dark grey RAF coat, wearing a folded hat, with a pilot's badge on his chest. Her eyes were sharp, but her face was soft.
"I think I'm the only idiot who can't sleep tonight," he said in a calm English accent, stopping by Alex's side.
Alex turned his head, giving a light nod. "Maybe we're both idiots in the same thing."
The man smiled faintly and held out a hand. "Flight Lieutenant Thomas Albridge. 609 Squadron, Spitfire pilot."
Alex accepted the handshake. "Alex Brown. B-17 Sky Warrior."
Thomas nodded softly, then sat down on the side of the runway, not far from where Alex was standing. They were silent for a while, only accompanied by the gust of wind and the sound of the rubbing of tree branches in the distance. The rain had completely stopped, leaving behind a strong, cold earthy smell.
"I saw your plane... Sky Warrior. It wasn't an ordinary plane," Thomas said slowly. "The people at the base here even nicknamed him 'flying ghost'. They said the plane couldn't crash."
Alex smiled blandly, lowering his head. "It's not because of the plane. But because... everyone who sits in it, tries to die little by little so that the others may live."
Thomas turned his head, paying attention to Alex's face which seemed to hold many things that had never been said. "You look like a person carrying more than just a flying bag."
Alex chuckled, bitterly. "I brought them all. It's not just his body. But their hope. The names written on the contract. Letter from Billy's mother. A silent prayer from his son Gabriel. Dream of fucking Timmy who has never fallen in love. It's all here." He patted his chest gently. "And every night... I'm just afraid of failing to bring them home."
Quiet.
No one spoke. Thomas just sat there, listening. Like an old friend who knows that sometimes... Silence is the safest place to talk.
"People say bomber pilots are cold. Stiff. I have no emotions," Alex continued. "But it's just a mask. If we don't use that... we will be destroyed."
His voice began to break. His lips trembled. And without warning, tears began to drip from the corners of her eyes, falling down her cheeks and instantly evaporating in the cold of the night.
Thomas lowered his head, picked up a match, and lit his own cigarette. "I lost a wingman two days ago," he said quietly. "He's my sister. We grew up together, trained together, and I didn't have time to say goodbye when he burned up in the air."
Both of them were silent. The cold of the night now turned into a silent embrace that was not judgmental.
"I'm just scared... if one of them doesn't come back, all fingers will be on me," Alex said softly. "Even though I can't even promise myself to come back."
Thomas nodded slowly. "That's why you're a leader. Not because you know the way home, but because you're willing to get lost with them."
Those words didn't make the wound go away, but somehow it felt like a bandage enough for the night.
They sit longer. Tell a lot of stories. About the house, childhood, unanswered letters, and little dreams that never had time to grow.
Then finally, Thomas stood up, smoked his last cigarette and patted Alex on the shoulder.
"The next mission... We'll see who comes back first with full wings."
Alex nodded. "And who wrote the victory letter first."
They both smiled faintly.
As Thomas' steps moved away towards the RAF hangar, Alex was still standing in place. The night air is still cold. But now, that burden feels a little lighter.
He wiped the remaining tears from his cheeks, looking up at the sky that was slowly starting to clear of the clouds.
It was still dark. But he knew that the sky had not given up. And he won't either.
The early morning sky was still hanging dark, but the fog was starting to thin. The spotlights of the base light slowly reveal the true form of rows of iron birds sleeping on the runway—giants of metal that will again shake the sky in a matter of time. But the night wasn't completely over.
Alex Brown was still standing at the end of the wet cement road, where he spent time talking to Thomas. In his left hand, there was only a cigarette butt that went out more because he forgot to smoke it than it burned out. In his chest, his heart began to regain regularity—still heavy, but no longer pounding with fear.
He turned his head to the sky. It's still black. But he could feel something.
The air that will vibrate again.
His footsteps returned towards the Sky Warrior, passing through the slowly flashing guardpost lights. He slipped into the cabin through the side door, wiped off the dew on his jacket, and passed through the sleeping bodies that looked peaceful—peaceful because they didn't see dreams like he did, and didn't carry old tapes like he hid.
Alex sat back in his pilot's seat. The place felt like home, like the only chair in the world that knew how to support the body of someone who was carrying too much.
He unzipped his inner jacket, pulled the tape back from his hiding place, staring at him in the dark. His fingers touched the label slowly, like touching a tombstone inscription that he had never had time to visit.
Sky Warrior — Final Log — First crew.
He knew that the longer it was hidden, the heavier the burden.
But he also knew that the time to hear the contents of the tape had not yet come. Not tonight.
Carefully, he slipped it back into a hidden spot behind the cockpit side panel, making sure none of his crew was aware of the object's existence.
Then, he leaned back.
Looking back at the faces that were asleep in peace.
Gabriel, who still hugged the map, didn't want to get lost even while sleeping.
Larry, his head bowed over an empty ammo box, still with a headset hanging around his neck.
Billy and Timmy, leaning against each other, like brother and sister who don't know that tomorrow can erase the laughter of tonight.
They all, unknowingly, were inside an invisible circle drawn by Alex's own decisions. And if just one falls... then the shadow will swallow it first.
Alex didn't sleep that night. He just sat there, watching them all like a silent guard.
And when the first dawn began to sneak in from the eastern horizon, and the sky changed from black to light gray...
The sound of footsteps began to be heard outside the plane.
Then the base radio sounded: "Sky Warrior and crew, report to briefing station. The second mission begins."
Alex closed his eyes for a moment. Take a deep breath. Then open your eyes and stand up.
The sky is calling again.
And Sky Warrior... ready to answer.
The morning was slowly rising, bringing a thin fog that crept slowly between the plane's wheels and the flagpole that fluttered weakly. The color of the sky wasn't completely blue—there was still the gray left of the night, hanging like an unspoken premonition. But on the runway where the Sky Warrior was parked, the morning came not with a warm hug... but with a gripping silence.
The sound of military boots stomping slowly towards the plane.
A British officer in a neat uniform and flat face approached, his hand grasping a thick brown folder sealed with a red stamp with fresh ink.
From inside the cabin, Alex Brown was already standing at the door. He got off without a word, staring straight at the officer.
Without further ado, the folder was presented directly to him.
"Orders. Direct from High Command," said the flat officer. "Priority reroute."
Alex opened the folder. A document is neatly displayed. He reads slowly, his eyes fully focused. But the longer he read, the more the wrinkles on his forehead turned into a big question mark.
There are no target coordinates.
There is no ammunition list.
There was no combat formation.
There was no bombing.
Only routes.
The route from the British base—to the refueling base on the territory of the Republic of China, and after that... landed at a U.S. Air Force air base in Batavia, Dutch East Indies—now called Indonesia.
Alex looked at the officer.
"No bombs? And guns? No escorts? Just a ferry run?" he asked firmly.
The officer nodded. "That's all. Full discretion. No questions."
Alex wanted to ask more. But he knew... It's a waste.
When he re-entered the cabin, the crew was awake, some still yawning, others busy putting on shoes or folding makeshift blankets.
Billy was the first to speak up. "Captain, what mission is today? Big or small bombs?"
Alex simply picked up the letter, then dropped it on the makeshift folding table. "There are no bombs. No ammunition. Only flights change bases."
"Huh?" several crew members voiced in unison.
Gabriel picked up the letter, read it at a glance. His eyes widened. "Batavia? In Indonesia?"
Peter stood up quickly. "Seriously? The archipelago? Who has thousands of islands?"
Timmy, who was still rubbing his eyes, immediately woke up full. "Crazy! Let's go to the tropics! Hot! Coconut! Beach!"
Farlan laughed. "This is the first time we've been sent to a place that wasn't full of artillery."
John leaned against the cabin wall and chuckled. "Maybe this is the military's way of saying, 'vacation first before hell starts again'."
Alex smiled slightly, although in his mind, he was still suspicious.
No mission is really easy.
Especially if it starts with not bringing anything.
However, seeing his crew's reaction—eyes rekindled, spirit rekindled, laughter echoing inside the fuselage that usually contained nothing but bangs and firm orders—Alex allowed them to enjoy the moment.
"Maybe you can see elephants," muttered Billy as he sat down, "or the girls singing on the beach."
Gabriel added, "Or we go home with burnt skin because of the sun of the archipelago."
Larry nodded excitedly. "Or... We finally see a place that is not full of bomb holes."
And for the first time after that first mission, the Sky Warrior came back to life not because he had to fight... But because of a new hope.
They don't know what awaits in Batavia yet.
It is not yet known why this route was sent mysteriously.
But one thing is for sure:
A new sky awaits.
And the sky is called Nusantara.
The Sky Warrior engine roared slowly, breaking through the morning mist that was starting to recede. The sky was still ash, but streaks of sunlight began to slip behind the clouds—signifying a different day from before. A day without explosions. Days without rifles. But still... a day full of question marks.
Inside the cabin, the Sky Warrior crew was already prepared. The helmet was put on, the belt was fastened, and all positions were taken as usual. But this time... the bomb chamber is empty. Empty ammo boxes. There is no sharp metal clink from the bullets, just smooth engine sounds and navigation equipment adapted for long-distance travel.
From the radio on the cockpit panel, voices began to come in—familiar calls.
"Sky Warrior, this is Charlie Eagle. Have you received the briefing this morning?"
"Charlie Eagle, yes. You also got a blank order?"
"That's right. There are no weapons. There is no mission. Only a long route. But... we were asked to follow the Sky Warrior."
Alex grabbed the radio microphone and pressed the transmission button.
"Charlie Eagle and the whole unit, this is Sky Warrior. We will form as usual. I'm in front. Maintain position and coordination. Destination: Batavia air base."
"That's Roger, Captain," another voice answered.
"It's been a long time since we've flown behind a legendary plane," said another with a small laugh.
The other five B-17s that once flew together on the first mission are now reunited under the shadow of the Sky Warrior wings. They took positions one by one in the air, slowly forming a wide V formation, with Alex and the crew leading in the middle.
On the next platform, the rumbling sound of light engines grew louder.
P-51 Mustang fighters were already moving fast at the end of the runway. They did not participate in this formation. They have separate missions.
From the radio, the voice of the Mustang pilot was heard quickly and clearly:
"Sky Warrior, this is Red Talon. We moved to the waters of the Pacific, the eastern region of the Philippines. May Nusantara welcome you safely."
"Hope you guys come back safely too," Alex replied.
One by one, the Mustangs raised their muzzles and flew eastward, like sharp arrows shot from a sky arc. They vanished behind the horizon in a matter of minutes, leaving the B-17 formation in a majestic silence.
Alex looked up at the sky above, then shifted the throttle slowly.
The Sky Warrior began to move.
His wheel left the ground like a habit he had known for a long time. The entire crew's heartbeat was in sync with the engine's revs, and when the wheels lifted perfectly off the runway, they all knew—the journey would be far, far beyond just the coordinates on the map.
"Gabriel, key heading."
"Roger, heading east... 92 degrees. Altitude 18,000 feet."
"Peter, open the intersecting communication."
"Done. Everything is on standby."
"John, take over the wheel for two minutes. I want to make sure the formation is behind."
Alex turned his head to the small glass above and saw five other B-17s trailing in a tight, guarded distance, engines steady, wings as sturdy as a row of armor. They were all waiting for directions from one point in the sky—the Sky Warrior.
Here he is again.
Become the axis of the formation.
Be the cardinal for those who follow.
To be an anchor in the midst of a vast air that holds no mercy.
There were no explosions today. There was no barrage of weapons.
But there's a big question...
Why Indonesia? Why Batavia? Why no bombs?
And none of them knew the exact answer.
But one thing is certain—they are flying not to victory...
But to the puzzle.
To a foreign country called Nusantara.
The sky is starting to turn blue.
And Sky Warrior... Now he is back in the lead.
The silvery blue sky stretched out wide before them, calm... too quiet for the mission so far. Inside the cabin of the Sky Warrior, the subtle vibrations of the four-propeller engine remained steady, creating a rhythm familiar to the crew's ears. But unlike usual, there was no rumbling sound of bombs, no map of enemy targets, just long lines on the navigation chart to the far east.
Alex sat quietly in the pilot's seat, his left hand gripping the steering wheel, eyes constantly moving from the instrument panel to the side window. The sky in front is clean. But his mind did not.
"John," Alex said quietly without turning his head, "we're going to cross a lot of things today. From the path of war to the path of diplomacy. Prepare the crew. Even if we don't have weapons, we can still be targets."
John nodded. "I have told them all. Gabriel was checking the airline, and Billy and Larry helped with visual monitoring. The rest are on standby at their respective posts."
Alex took a deep breath, turning his head to the side glass.
The five B-17s in the rear were still solid. Their wings sway lightly following the waves of air. Above this height, they are like bronze birds that keep hovering, not knowing what awaits below.
Gabriel emerged from a narrow hallway while carrying a new map.
"Captain," he said, pointing to the red line in the center of the map, "we're going to stop for a while at a refueling base in Kunming province, southwest China. The place is used for cross-Pacific logistics. After that, we continue to fly across the sea to Batavia."
"How many hours?" asked Alex.
"Eight hours to Kunming. A full day if you go directly to Batavia afterwards. But the route is safe—at least according to the latest report."
Alex just nodded. Quiet. But Gabriel could read his face.
"It's still heavy, huh?"
Alex did not answer. He just stared at the windshield, then said quietly, "Every time we go up... I always felt, the higher it flies, the more things we have to carry."
Gabriel sat on a small bench beside him.
"Do you believe that all this has a purpose?" asked Gabriel, suddenly.
Alex turned his head slightly. "The goal is not about winning... or a matter of survival. It's about who can go home and still be human."
Gabriel was silent, then smiled slightly. "You're the one who is the master of our humanity, aren't you?"
Alex just laughed faintly. "I don't know. But I'll take you flying as far as I can... as long as the heavens allow."
The plane glides smoothly over cities, forests and mountains that rise in the distance, until it finally enters Chinese territory. The clouds began to gather, the daylight of the sun slipping in from between the white and gray gaps. The atmosphere in the cabin began to calm down. Timmy fell asleep for a while under the ball turret. Billy sang a little song with a discordant tone. Peter and Farlan play paper-rock-scissors suits while guarding the side of the rifle window.
Only Alex remained fully awake. Stare, measure, and note.
Suddenly, from the radio, the voice of a Chinese operator was heard:
"Sky Warrior, this is Kunming base. You are clear to land. Stable weather condition. Welcome."
Alex grabbed the microphone.
"Copy, Kunming Base. Sky Warrior and five B-17s inbound. ETA twenty-five minutes."
He puts the microphone back down. Then I looked ahead, and for some reason... Her chest was swollen again.
Because he knows, this mission is not just an empty flight.
This is a new chapter.
And behind the clouds that greet them today, there is something waiting in the land called Batavia... Nusantara... Indonesia. Something that is not just an ordinary mission. Something that could only be answered by those who dared to break through the limits of the last sky. The sky began to change color as the formation of six B-17s entered the airspace of the Republic of China. The midday sun hung pale behind the high clouds, while the mountains towered like stone teeth splitting the land. Their air path now began to decline, slowly but surely, following the direction of a seemingly small emergency air base tower in the middle of a vast green valley.
The track is hidden behind hills, surrounded by bushes and rocky slopes. The base is not a major base—just a heavily guarded military staging area, spacious enough to accommodate B-17s, but definitely not a place made for comfort. Dust and sand flew as the metal giant wheels landed one by one, shaking the ground and creating a gust of air that made the Chinese and U.S. flags flutter side by side.
The Sky Warrior landed first.
Alex pulled the brake lever slowly, bringing the steel bird to a perfect stop at the end of the open hangar. One by one, the other planes followed and filled the left and right sides of the runway. The roar of the engine slowly faded, replaced by the sound of valley winds and the rattle of steel wheels on the rough cement.
"Touchdown, China," John muttered from the copilot's seat.
Billy from behind exclaimed, "Does this belong in the history books?"
"If we go home alive, yes," Larry replied from the top of the turret while tapping his helmet.
Local technicians and base soldiers began to approach, wearing fatigue uniforms and dust shields on their faces. They swiftly directed fuel vehicles and light inspection equipment. A young officer from the Chinese Air Force raised his hand to greet him, then walked over to Alex who was getting out of the cockpit.
"Welcome, Captain," he said in English with a distinctive accent. "Fuel has been prepared. We can only order to receive you and provide a direct line to Batavia after completion of charging."
Alex nodded, polite but still wary. "How long does it take to charge?"
"Less than two hours. You can rest, but it is not recommended to go out of the perimeter area."
While instructing his crew to stay prepared, Alex walked towards the hangar's shadows with John and Gabriel. They sat on empty ammunition boxes that were used as emergency benches.
"Of all the places we've landed, this one... the quietest," said Gabriel while staring at the sky that felt so far away.
"It's like a place that keeps secrets," John said softly.
Behind them, Billy, Timmy, Peter and Farlan sat leaning against the metal walls of the plane, opening emergency food while making small jokes about local food that they hadn't had a chance to try. Occasionally they observed the Chinese soldiers passing by silently, without saying much, as if they knew that the guests from the sky were carrying a mission greater than what had been spoken.
Larry remained on the plane, checking the wing fins and empty turrets. Even though there were no weapons there, the habit of staying awake never really disappeared.
And Alex, while sitting alone a few meters away from the others, stared at the ground. He knew that a break like this was just a break... not the end.
His hand again touched the pocket of his jacket—the tape of footage from the old crew of the Sky Warrior was still there. Cold. Quiet. And it hasn't dared to be played.
At the end of the runway, the sound of fuel transport vehicles roared softly. The charging process begins. The engineers worked fast, knowing full well that this plane could not stay in an unstable place for long.
After one hour and thirty minutes, all the planes were ready to fly again.
Alex stood up, put his gloves back on, and walked back to the cockpit.
"Is it time to continue?" asked John.
Alex nodded. "Yes... Now we're really heading south."
"To Indonesia..." Gabriel muttered as he took out a new map from his bag.
And without further ado, one by one, the crew returned to their positions. The engine roared again, creating a new vibration in the valley. The giant metal birds were preparing to leave this lonely place—to a land they had never seen. Nusantara.
From the radio, the sound of a second plane was heard:
"Sky Warrior, the formation is ready. When are we going to pick it up?"
Alex replied, his voice steady.
"Now."
Sky Warrior moved first.
The wheels rotate. Its muzzle points to the sky.
And for the second time that day—the B-17 formation lifted off the earth.
Towards a place where history has not been written.
Heading to Batavia.
Towards Indonesia.
And maybe... towards a secret that was bigger than they had ever imagined.