"Still, I think I have enough time to drop the bombs and head back."
The co-pilot said, smiling.
Colonel Alexander Jokic didn't know why, but this comment stirred discomfort deep in his heart...
There was an instinctive aversion to it.
But he said nothing, because he knew that for a bomber, the mission was simple—find the target, drop the payload, and turn around. Besides, Mexico only had a few dozen fighter jets that they had somehow "stolen" from somewhere… most of which were World War II relics.
"Sir, your coffee." A crew member walked into the cockpit holding a cup, his eyes filled with envy as he gazed at the room's fully-equipped control systems.
"Thanks."
Colonel Alexander Jokic took the cup, aiming to take a sip, but the plane hit turbulence, spilling the coffee all over him.
It burned him enough to make him yelp in pain.
He quickly started wiping his uniform.
"Beep! Beep! Beep!"
"Warning! Warning!"
