Chapter 28: Nighttime Air Raid

In the vast expanse of the grasslands, a fireball rising high enough can be seen from miles away. The faint, rolling sound of explosions in the distance only served to confirm the words of Natsume, that great traitor. This was a classic show of force from the Prince. Honestly, any soldier with a shred of backbone would have cut down a traitor like Natsume long ago.

Lieutenant Colonel Sakamoto was slightly—perhaps a few billion times—different from most Yamato officers. Even though the 4th Division was nominally a Grade-A division, it was composed entirely of small-time merchants, shopkeepers, and artisans; all its officers and men were known for their "shrewdness." They had the stomach to go to Seris and engage in indiscriminate slaughter, but when it came to tangling with a truly tough opponent, they wouldn't even dream of it. As the saying goes, "When comrades are in trouble, remain as motionless as a mountain."

They had never wanted to get involved in this mess. For half a month, they had dragged their feet, using a dizzying array of excuses—malaria, stomach ailments, toothaches—until the Commander-in-Chief of the Northern Guan Army issued a strict order, and they were practically escorted onto the trains by military police. Upon seeing the terrifying array of the Rachian forces, Lieutenant Colonel Sakamoto immediately changed his tune. "Well, a Yamato man does not deceive a Yamato man. Since Natsume-kun is willing to point us toward a clear path, we are naturally ready to listen..."

...

Half an hour earlier, Prokofiev was piloting his fighter, escorting an entire bomber wing into action. This night mission was nothing short of preposterous. Half the pilots had no professional night-fighting training, yet the Prince was determined to order the strike. It was a classic "all-in" maneuver.

The mission involved two fighter wings and one bomber wing, totaling 145 aircraft. It was no exaggeration to say that if this fleet were wiped out, the air force of the Grand Duchy of Bolia would be effectively neutralized; the remaining planes were either obsolete relics or trainers. The TB-3 bombers, in particular, had a top speed of only 288 kilometers per hour. Having grown accustomed to the I-16s, which could easily surge to nearly 500 kilometers per hour, Prokofiev had not experienced such snail-like speeds in ages. He wasn't bragging, but with the current firepower of his I-16, he was confident he could shoot down an entire squadron of TB-3s by himself in a daylight dogfight. Yet, these massive, sluggish metal birds were the only active-duty bombers the Empire possessed.

...

The most terrifying thing about flying at night is getting lost. In this era, there was no onboard radar. Pilots relied solely on their instruments and their own eyes. The weather that night was actually decent, with moonlight to guide them. Even so, finding a large, light-disciplined supply depot in the middle of a hundred-kilometer-wide, featureless, dark grassland was nearly impossible. Yet, the visionary Prince had guaranteed Prokofiev: "Don't worry, just head in the general direction, and you won't miss it."

Soon, Prokofiev understood what he meant. He spoke into the radio, "Brothers, do you see the light signals below?"

"Seen!"

"Clear as day!"

On the grasslands, a massive formation of individual fires created a clear, standard arrow symbol [↑], with a distinct "20" marked next to it.

Prokofiev realized the implication. "Brothers, follow the direction! We have 20 Rachian miles to go!"

"Incredible! I finally understand night combat now."

The massive fleet formed an attack pattern. Watching the arrows and numbers marked across the plains, they gained a newfound respect for the level of control their cavalry had over this territory.

Just as they neared the target, several flares were abruptly launched into the sky. Major Takayama, responsible for the night watch, rushed out upon seeing the flares, cursing wildly: "Who? Which idiot launched those signals? Wasn't there an order for light discipline?"

It was too late. He soon heard the roar of fighters and bombers—the grim, manic laughter of the Grim Reaper.

"Wooooooo—"

The deceptively comical fuselage of the I-16 fighters ripped through the clouds first, their wing skins reflecting a cold, cyan glow in the moonlight. Prokofiev, leading the formation, looked down. The Yamato supply depot looked like an inflamed wound embedded in the earth, and even the barbed wire shimmered with a sickly silver light.

"No enemy planes! Those poor wretches haven't even reached their anti-aircraft positions! Brothers, follow me!"

As the first searchlight from the depot pierced the darkness, it was already far too late. Prokofiev’s Adam’s apple bobbed as he licked his lips. Like a lead wolf pouncing on its prey, he squeezed the trigger, and his 20mm cannons began to roar.

What followed was brutal. By the moonlight, he could clearly see several Yamato soldiers being torn apart by the cannon fire. It wasn't even a full-throttle dive, allowing him to nimbly pull the stick and adjust his nose; the line of death formed by his cannons and machine guns swept across the anti-aircraft positions, sending flesh and blood flying. Human remains and debris from the destroyed anti-aircraft guns scattered into the air. In a single dive, he neutralized two positions.

In just five minutes, the escorting I-16s had raked everything in the depot that looked like anti-aircraft guns or tanks. The deafening noise in the sky alerted Major Takayama to the bombers slowly encroaching under the bright moon. At that moment, he collapsed internally. His depot held only three thousand men, plus the transport unit that had just arrived—barely four thousand in total. Was it really necessary to send so many bombers?

In the sky, Prokofiev called out repeatedly, "The enemy's anti-aircraft system has been destroyed. Calling [Perun] squadron, you are cleared for low-altitude bombing."

"[Perun] copies!"

The bomber fleet slowly opened their belly doors. Perhaps due to the low temperature, the aerial bombs hanging inside were already covered in white mist after only a few breaths. The moment the first incendiary bomb hit the ground, a cloud of orange-red fire, reeking of tar, roared into the sky, and the rolling heat wave turned the makeshift barracks into balls of flame. As the ammunition in the semi-buried depots began to detonate, the dark night sky was torn apart by fire.

Each TB-3 bomber had two gun turrets on its wings. The gunners, seeing human figures scurrying like ants flushed from a nest by boiling water, opened fire excitedly. The glow of the tracer rounds relentlessly chased every Yamato soldier fleeing from the burning trenches, mowing them down one by one.

One Yamato soldier, showing great heroism, jumped onto a tank that had been pierced by cannon fire and operated the mounted machine gun, firing at the sky. Unfortunately, a second later, the continuous, sharp sound of metal being shredded echoed in his ears, followed by the metallic taste of blood in his throat.

Damned Rachians!

As his rapidly cooling body tumbled from the tank, he saw the entire supply depot transformed into a purgatory of surging magma; the stench of burning rubber was so foul it was unbearable, even for a dying man.