The Stratofortress of Freedom

That B52 was sturdy in my hands
with her foot-long plastic wings,
blunt nose, tall tail,
gunner's pod aimed boldly aft.
Her mighty engines enthralled me --
eight turbofans, fused in twos,
all four pairs roaring.

I conjured thunder from my throat,
ran across the lawn, plane in hand,
nose pitched up, flaps down,
four imagined trails of soot
poured out behind, reeking of kerosene.

My mission was unfathomable --
penetrate deep into Soviet airspace,
deliver a belly-full of nuclear fire
upon a faceless Evil Empire,
millions of souls infected
with the Communistic Plague.

I, her fearless pilot,
would ride my dragon straight
into that unholy heart,
give my life for America,
wave my Stetson all the way down,
legs wrapped around that fat fucker of a nuke,
"Freedom" painted 'cross the nose.

I gazed proudly above my own cherished
black angel of death.  And froze.
Forty thousand feet up, above the cirrus,
one thick white smear invaded the blue,
like God's paint roller,
far wider than any aircraft's contrails.

I dashed inside for binoculars,
raced past Mom backed up flat
against the dryer.
Outside again, on our sharp green lawn,
two purple bubble-eye lenses shivered
against my brow.

Eight B52's cruised side by side,
so high their engines were lost in silence,
underbellies pale, ice exhaust
from sixty-four engines merging
into a single snow-white swath.

One bomber peeled away from the pack,
banked wildly, four white smears swerving
ninety degrees in ten seconds flat.
I followed, terrified, heart thudding,
hoping that gorgeous jet
and her gallant crew were safe.

Then her bomb bay cranked open,
and I could hardly keep my focus.
I shouted to God, in vain, for an answer,
when Dad drew up beside me.

It's only a drill, an exercise, he said.
SAC pilots practice here, in our skies,
to stay on top of their game.
That jet's target is Pittsburgh, he said,
just twenty miles to our west.

He left me frozen, praying that God
steady their sinister hands.
Let there be no eager flip of switch
or hasty press of button.
Let no deadly gleam of metal
poke its fins from that bomb bay
black as night...

Scott Speck
01/31/2003