They used a female voice for the computerized warnings. Maybe it was supposed to calm us down, or make us think of our mothers or our wives and rally our spirits. It did neither of those things for me; all I could hear was the voice of a dumb bitch telling me what I already knew: you are all fucked. Letuchy’s voice crackled in on my headset, giving me the heading and estimated intercept time of the missile. My first response was to look out the glare-resistant cockpit window. I checked myself and instead looked down at the controls. The missile was carving towards us at a relative bearing of 300 degrees, outpacing the howl of its engine. I tried to evade, but the big ship was too slow to respond. 
A sledgehammer hit the small of my back and dug the harness straps tight into my shoulders. Everything turned bright blue for a moment, before slowly solidifying into the cockpit again. I could feel the vibrations in my ear, but struggled to interpret them as sounds. The ringing finally subsided and I turned to look behind me. Letuchy was slowly rocking back and forth, crying or praying, or maybe both. He suddenly stopped rocking and began feverishly trying to wipe the blood from his monitors, but only succeeded in smearing it into a red scrim coating the screens. Strapped in next to him was Kolyvanov, the source of the blood. He was very obviously dead; his head hung at an improbable angle and a large piece of the aluminum fuselage punched through his body. In the co-pilot’s chair next to me, Barsukov’s head slumped down to his chest. Blood ran in rivulets from his mouth and nose. I thought I saw his chest move; it may have been wishful thinking. 
Engines one and two were out. If the winds cooperated, maybe we could eke out enough fuel to make an emergency landing at one of the dispersal fields. I brought the wounded plane in to a wide banking turn. The ice below was unforgivingly white. Bailing out this far north would be a certain but slow death. Even if a search and rescue team could make it to us, they would only bring back bodies. We were almost back on our reciprocal heading when I heard it again. She had survived. My men were broken and bleeding, but she was unharmed. The second missile was closing fast.
I looked down at the instruments to where it was; it was gone. The photograph of my wife and our daughter that I kept attached to the yoke had fallen off during the impact. This bitch wouldn’t be the last female presence I knew. I bent to pick up the photo. My bloody fingers scrabbled over the bloody surface of the photo. I looked at myself in confusion. There was an angry gash in my flight suit running across my front weeping a deep red. I had not felt anything except a chill slowly washing over me. My fingers slipped again, trying to close around the photo. I had to see their faces. Fire surrounded me. The universe roared.

The room sounded with the low buzz of activity. The young man watched the computer screen intently, moved the trackball, and then pressed a button. He sat back and watched the blue symbol on the screen race towards the red one. The dispassion on his face was akin to someone watching a status bar slowly inch across the screen. The blue shape met the red one and then disappeared. The red box staggered and began a long arc the other direction. The man reached out and pressed another key. A second blue shape flashed into life and made its way towards the red. This time when they met, they both blinked off the screen.