BOOM! A blinding flash of light turned the universe white for a moment. Before his eyes recovered, a powerful concussion shook the fighter, ripping the control stick from his hands. A fraction of a second later, a hail of sharp "pings" rattled the ship as shrapnel ripped through it. Blackhawk's eyes recovered from the flash of the exploding missile in time to see a red warning light blinking on his control panel. The shrapnel had destroyed the engine and he was lucky it hadn't exploded, too. It was his second piece of luck in as many seconds. The missile's proximity fuse must have gone off prematurely and exploded the warhead a little farther from his plane than intended. That little bit of distance made the difference between being killed instantly and having a chance, however slim, of getting his damaged plane down in one piece.

Blackhawk's hands had instinctively grabbed the stick and got the P-80 under control. The jet fighter wasn't built for gliding, though, and he lost altitude fast. He pointed the ship toward the east and hoped he could reach the Soviet's lines before he hit the ground. He fought the ship all the way down. Shrapnel had shredded his rudder, leaving barely enough to keep the Shooting Star going in a straight line. With the charred stubble of a burned wheat field only a few feet below the bottom of his plane, Blackhawk pulled back on the stick and let the tail touch first. The fighter slammed down and skidded across the field. He thought he might make it and then a deep ditch opened in front of him. The plane slewed sideways and fell into the ditch, crumpling the port wing and knocking Blackhawk's head against the canopy.

A hand shook his shoulder and he blinked against the searing sunlight. Two rough looking men in ill-made brown uniforms, carrying Mosin-Nagent M91 rifles, leaned in from each side of the cockpit. Soviet infantry, then. They must have used their rifle butts to break out the rest of the shattered canopy.

"Are you all right, Comrade," one of them asked, a sergeant from the faded boards on his shoulders.

Blackhawk moved his arms and legs cautiously. He hurt all over, but nothing bad enough to indicate serious damage. "I'm alright, I think," he answered in Russian.

He unfastened his harness and tried to get up. The soldiers grabbed him from either side and lifted him from the cockpit. The sergeant helped him down to the ground and tried to pull him away from the plane. "No, got to get the film," Blackhawk said, stumbling to the nose of the plane.

"Come on, Comrade," the sergeant said urgently. "Fire!"

He was right. Smoke billowed from the rear of the twisted fuselage and small flames spurted through the torn sheet metal. The whole thing could explode any second if the fire reached the fuel tanks. But he had to get the film. Blackhawk's still dazed mind somehow guided his fumbling fingers to the recessed latches on the camera compartment hatch. The cover came loose and he unsnapped the film canister from the high-speed camera. He turned and ran as fast as his bruised legs could carry him. The wrecked fighter disappeared in a huge, expanding ball of flame. A shock wave slammed into him, throwing him forward like he'd been hit by a truck, and the world turned black.

Back to Blackhawk New Adventures Page

All characters, pictures, and related indicia on these pages are the property of DC Comics. All text is ©2004 Dan Thompson, except where otherwise noted. This homepage is not intended to infringe on the copyright of DC Comics to its characters, but was created out of gratitude to all the wonderful writers, artists, and editors who created the Blackhawks.

---