When the plane left its cruising altitude we separated from each other to do some stretching exercises, then we mutually checked our uniforms, which still smelled like smoke. Then I buckled up again.

Just in time before the machine went into a dive with a sharp turn. “Missile!” the co-pilot shouted over the speaker.

Zoe tossed me her jacket, which I grabbed in a reflex. Then she was on her way to the cabin door, jerked the levers and opened the pressure cabin. With her powers and claws she neither had problems with the heavy door, nor with the dropping plane, nor with the immediate surge of air.

I saw her wings growing from her back in a golden shower before she swung out of the hatch, right when the pilot pulled the two-engine jet into a tight turn, which let my blood rush from my head to my belly.

“Bloody fucking shit!” sounded from the cockpit.

Is this bird built for such maneuvers? Luckily, the centrifugal force didn’t take me out, and I tried to spot something through the windows or on the cabin screen showing the forward view.

For one moment I caught a glimpse of the slender missile body riding on a fiery tail, before it was engulfed by a fireball and blew up.

“Yippieeee, baby!” I heard. “Beat ‘em up!”

Our plane reassumed a normal position, the cabin floor down, but then I heard a dull vibration. “Attack course,” the cabin body hummed.

“Aye, baby!” the pilot shouted before he pulled the plane into another tight downward turn. It felt a bit like a dive bomber, but without the infernal wailing of the siren. “Heeere comes the cavalry! Oh, girl, ride me into hellfire!”

On the screen the horizon rolled around. Suddenly the ground was on our side and several fireballs sailed downward.

“Yeehaw!” the pilot and co-pilot yelled almost simultaneously. “Got ‘em! Fuck the bloody bastard, agaiiiin!”

The engines wailed, the jet continued its tight turn until several large sources of fire, crowned by black smoke, came into view through the right window, a wide area image of devastation, which we were again heading for. I had to resort to the monitor again.

There was a knocking from outside. Dadidadid Didida. Morse code for CU, See you.

“Wowiiee!” I heard, and the pilot changed the direction of turning. Now the battlefield could be seen to the left. A tiny winged, gold-flashing shape sailed back and forth across the ground, spitting more fireballs.

“Yeees, treat ‘em motherfuckers!”

The lateral image disappeared, we approached frontally again. “What now?” sounded the clueless question from the cabin speaker. The next moment I spotted two rows of golden claws at the open cabin door, and Zoe swung inside. “Wheee!” the cockpit voice commented. Gracefully, my companion came to a stand with folded wings and closed the hatch. Then she knocked on the cockpit door and opened it.

“Thanks, boys!” she called out cheerfully.

“Always at your service,” the pilot returned in a likewise good mood and paused. Yes, there was an echo from the cabin speaker. “Was that on all the time?” he then asked his co-pilot silently, but still understandably.