“Electronics check,” Velma called, reciting the B-52 preflight checklist. She still couldn’t read, so it was from memory.
“Check,” replied Twilight.
“Controls check.”
“Check,” replied Rarity from the cockpit.
“Check,” repeated Rainbow, looking at the tail surfaces of the massive bomber.
“Ordnance check.”
“Ain’t any.” Applejack’s voice echoed from inside the bomb bay.
“Shame,” muttered Maverick from his place on the hangar floor. Goose nodded.
“Engines check.”
“They’re, um, here,” said Fluttershy, hovering near one pair of the bomber’s eight turbofans.
“Countermeasures check.”
“Checkaroonie!” called Pinkie. There was a pop and a cloud of confetti-like chaff burst out of the dispenser on the underside of the B-52.
The next item wasn’t on the checklist, but Velma said, “Sound check.”
“Check,” replied Kenny Loggins. His amplified voice echoed around the hangar from the speakers that had been quickly installed on the bomber.
“Thank you for helping us out, Mr. Loggins,” said Velma. “You’re the best.”
He sat beside her in the B-52’s control station. While she couldn’t see the handsome bearded face of the mystical guru who had manifested unto them because he sensed that his music was needed or the fancy electric guitar across his lap, she could imagine it.
Kenny Loggins nodded and smiled modestly. People paid him megabucks to write songs, but it was nice to get a sincere compliment once in a while. In light of Velma’s temporary blindness, he added verbally, “You’re very welcome.”
The improvised aircrew checked out their machine for a few more minutes before Velma decided that they were ready.
Maverick and Goose walked outside to climb into their jet. The rest of the humans and the ponies began loading up in the B-52. Pinkie’s secret-stash-of-instruments-for-band-emergencies-yes-that’s-totally-a-thing-you-never-know-doesn’t-hurt-to-be-prepared had come in handy, but Kenny Loggins had also arrived with state of the art sound equipment.
Everything was as ready as it was going to be. Settling herself into the cockpit with Rainbow, Twilight pulled the lever on the wall of the hangar with magic. The massive doors began to open, spilling bright sunlight into the hangar. Rainbow flipped some switches and the bomber’s eight engines began to spin.
Outside, Maverick and Goose were preparing for the show. The Tomcat was ready and waiting. Goose shifted uncomfortably in the back seat, sharing his space with the keyboard that had been jammed into the cockpit.
“Fireball, are you ready?” said Twilight’s voice in the radio.
“If you are, Purple Rain,” Maverick replied. They’d picked each other’s callsigns. Goose added his own reply with a quick riff through the keys.
Rainbow nudged the throttles forward, and the massive B-52 started to move, the jet blast trashing the back of the hangar. They should have gotten a tow onto the flightline, but that would take a while and someone would wonder why half a dozen ponies, about that many kids, and Kenny Loggins were stealing a nuclear bomber.
The two aircraft turned onto the runway, the Tomcat quickly accelerating down the strip and into the air. The bomber lumbered behind, but got airborne after a lengthy takeoff roll.
By now, the entire airfield was going nuts. Two airplanes taking off without permission, one of them stolen, would do that. It’s not like they could do anything about it, though. Maverick and Goose’s F-14 was the only fighter within a few hundred miles. However, as fast as Tomcats were, some more might be deployed from the carrier within minutes.
With that in mind, Goose said, “Okay, we don’t have time for a traditional ballad with multiple solos, just a quick power anthem. We’re going to have to give everything we’ve got. This might be our only chance.”
There hadn’t been time to rehearse. Everyone just assumed Kenny Loggins would do most of the work, being a professional musician/God.
He didn’t disappoint, either. The guitar opener was basically the best thing ever, combined with Pinkie’s drum setup and half a dozen other instruments thrown into the mix. Rainbow was rocking in the cockpit. Applejack was on bass in the tail turret. Rarity had a decidedly different kind of bass stood up and was playing it with a bow.
A tambourine rattled around the bombardier station. Fluttershy was vaguely responsible.
The song went a little something like this:
Fly, fly, soar up in the sky
All you gotta do is try
Fly, fly, it’s all right
All you gotta do is try!
When you’re cruisin’ at the limit
Of the stratosphere
When you’re in it to win it
One thing’s got to be clear…
You gotta fly, fly, soar up in the sky
All you gotta do is try
Fly, fly, it’s all right
All you gotta do is try!
There was a brief pause in the lyrics as Kenny Loggins shredded.
“Contact!” Goose reported, glancing at his radar screens and playing keyboard by feel.
They had the target. Now it was time to draw him in.
Feelin’ that heat, wind beneath your wings
Eyes wide open, jetstream sings
Flying together, partners in crime
Throttles to the limit, soaring through time
Fly, fly, soar up in the sky
All you gotta do is try
Fly, fly, it’s all right
All you gotta do is try!
If you’ve got the guts, come and fly with me
The two of us, happy and free
Moving in sync, rhyme and verse
Making friends across the universe
The timespace-altering jet was now within visual range. Maverick could vaguely see the pony inside bobbing his head with the music going out over the airwaves. Just a little closer…
Fly, fly, soar up in the sky
All you gotta do is try
Fly, fly, it’s all right
All you gotta do is try!
We’ve got the best kind of friendship type
Between two worlds, we share one life
We’re all in this together
Friends forever!
Fly, fly, soar up in the sky
All you gotta do is try
Fly, fly, it’s all right
All you gotta do is try!
Apparently singing and attempting to dance while strapped into the cockpit of a jet was a terrible idea and the pony in the pink plane juked upward at the worst possible time. The B-52 was directly overhead and the sophisticated magic-powered aircraft slammed into the underside of the Air Force bomber.
The bomb bay doors crumpled and the pony plane ended up mostly inside the B-52, sticking out of it like a pregnant whale halfway through giving birth.
“Well gang,” said Fred in the control center behind the B-52’s cockpit, “somebody’s got to go down there into the weapons compartment that’s exposed to the sky and make sure our aircraft’s structural integrity is still intact and check that we aren’t going to lose our unexpected detainee, and while you’re at it, unmask him, all the while we’re cruising at 500 knots at 40,000 feet.”
Shaggy sighed and traded glances with Scooby before replying. “Just give us the Scooby Snacks.”
Shortly thereafter, strapped up with radio headsets and bottles of emergency oxygen, Shaggy and Scooby descended through the bomber’s fuselage to the bomb bay. The part that wasn’t crumpled metal was a hole with nothing but miles of air beneath. They could vaguely see the F-14 hanging out below the B-52, providing another set of eyes.
“It looks like it’s pretty well stuck,” Goose reported through the radio.
“You’ll have to find the cockpit and press the emergency-open button,” Twilight added.
With as much caution as they could, which was quite a lot considering who they were, Shaggy and Scooby picked their way through the wreckage to the front of the plane. The canopy was cracked, but intact. The pony inside looked as if he’d had his brains scrambled by the impact, but was otherwise unharmed.
Shaggy found the button and the canopy popped open. As it did, the transdimensional camouflage properties of the glass fell away to reveal…
“Captain Smuth!” Shaggy exclaimed.
“Smith,” he grumbled in reply. “I can’t believe you hippies caught me.”