It was the end of the mission, but the beginning of a new chapter of my life.

I had trained a few times on a P-40 for this mission, and did some parachute drops in my time as a Ranger. My mission called for me to commandeer an enemy aircraft to make my escape to a disclosed airstrip in France, and this would probably be the hardest (and quickest) part of the infiltration of a V-2 rocket base (which, to my horror, was also a place where some of those hideous cyborgs were being created; a continuation of my Op. Eisenfaust II days).

I fought my way onto the tarmac, and made my way to the nearest hangar under MG-42 fire and the guns of the Waffen-SS. Little did I know that a certain special aircraft was being tested and stored on this base, in this very hangar I made my way into: the Horten Ho-IX. I was astonished that something this Buck Rogers could exist, but I had no time to think about that. The scientists that I eliminated in the hangar seemed to have had it prepped for takeoff, as I had successfully disabled communications from the underground silos to the airstrip.

Luckily, most of the controls seemed familiar to me, though I did finally realize that this was one of those new jet aircraft that had just recently popped up in the skies of Europe as the Me-262.

I fired up the engines to taxi out of the open hangar doors (backup still hadn’t arrived due to my previous sabotage of their Volkswagen jeeps). The power I felt behind those engines was amazing, almost God-like in their vibration and sound; they demanded respect! I began to fire up to takeoff speed, over the pre-dawn runway (and one or two corpses O.o). I felt some resistance pushin’ me into the seat, but it really felt quite natural and comfortable.

The sheer euphoria I felt when the wheels left the ground could almost be considered orgasmic, not to sound like I’m over-exaggerating. Once I retracted the landing gear, the freedom I felt from the Earth was so strong and intoxicating…

But it was short-lived, as I saw a flight of FW-190’s at my two o’clock, comin’ to center. I don’t think they knew of my flight yet, as I had disabled the air control tower (I’m that good! o w o ), and it gave me the chance to test the 30mm cannons, or in the faith that there was ammo! I pulled the first one into the sight with a slight lead (my first roll in the Ho-IX was like a dream!) and pushed the trigger. Bright flashes from the nose flames out in tracer shots, some making home into the FW-190, while the rest of his flight broke formation to face me.

This had all happened in a matter of seconds, as I was going and excess of 400+ miles-per-hour. Those FW-190’s were left in the dust, while one of their own began to burn. I still do not know to this day if I actually got a “kill” per say that day, but I will always remember that I as my first enemy hit in an aircraft.

I climbed to 15,000 feet and made an excess of 500+ mph. Most would be feelin’ pretty nauseated right now, but after my strenuous mission, all I could feel was the power of the Flying Wing.
The pre-dawn sun made the sky a purple-gold, and turned everything it touched into a brilliant color reminiscent of Arabian royalty and glory. I looked down on the German countryside, glowing radiant with the dawn, and my eyes wandered from the fields, the farmhouses, the villages, the factories, the churches. It was then that I realized, from my position in the sky, that my eyes were encompassing an uncountable number of people, of lives, of existences. I was riding my Chariot among the realm of Heaven, alongside the omnipotence of God.

It was then that I knew I belonged in the sky.

It was when I got back to France and showed my new “toy” to Allied Command (who literally lost some bodily functions at my find), that I learned that the Flying Wing design was considered difficult to fly by even most aces (until the development of fly-by-wire technology). To me, it was like an extension of my body.

Later, once I had made my way into the USAAF, I asked to fly the Ho-IX on a recon mission, but it turned out that a special research team had taken it, and had probably already crashed it in some dumb accident. I really didn’t have time to be devastated, but I did shed a tear that she was gone.

In 1995, at age 32 (time travel in experimental planes can have the strangest effects on a man!), I was reunited with my Ho-IX. She had been dismantled, but was all still there (if not a bit… crusty, for she was left in uncared-for storage for 50 years). I paid a marginal sum to take her home to my private hangar, to join my P-38, Hs-129, and A-10. Finally, a part of me was back.

I never put her back together, but cleaned her up and put her in a place of alter. Every time I visit my home on leave, I pay daily visits to her shrine, and to remember that no matter how important my past may be, it was not meant to fly anymore, as it had its time.

I never again felt more grandeur than in the Horten Ho-IX.

-Wing Commander Rudoji Lapė