For Franz Josef Land

The plane bounced through several more pockets of turbulence as they crossed the bay. The island was in sight, as the pilot dipped low enough for Fitz to see its hilly peak through the cockpit windows.

From the rear of the plane, there was more intermittent shrieking and the occasional twang of something knocking against metal.

“I think it’s ready to drop,” the navigator yelled. He began entering sequences on the keyboard at his station. After a few seconds of typing, flashing red lights and klaxons exploded in the cabin, further taxing Fitz’s nerves.

The metal walls of the fuselage groaned as the cargo doors opened behind the bulkhead. Fitz spun around to the window in time to see a dark shadow plummet from the plane and arc towards the frigid steppe of the unfrozen sliver of the island. A transponder signal belched to life.

“That’s it,” Fitz mused out loud. “If all goes well, by this time tomorrow we’ll be celebrating victory. If not…”

The navigator turned to look at him. “Then we are screwed.”

View this story's 1 comments.