The bomber pilot noticed me. The massive white aircraft banked hard, lumbering into a steep evasive turn. I anticipated the move, kicking the rudder and letting the F‑22 skid sideways, keeping the nose perfectly tracked on the joint where the right wing met the fuselage. A mile out. Half a mile. A quarter mile. The massive exhaust nozzles filled my canopy.
I pulled the trigger.
The entire airframe vibrated as the cannon spun up. A solid stream of depleted uranium armor‑piercing
rounds erupted from the wing root. In the darkness, the tracers looked like a laser beam of fire cutting through the rain. The stream of 20‑millimeter shells walked across the bomber’s right wing — shredded the aluminum skin, chewed through the wing spar, and detonated inside the massive fuel tanks.
A fireball blossomed from the starboard side. The massive wing buckled and folded upward at a grotesque angle. The bomber rolled violently onto its back, a burning, severed cross falling from the sky. I slammed the stick left, pulling high and hard to avoid the flaming debris. The wreckage of the White Swan hit the ocean below in a geyser of white steam and sea spray.
