[img]https://www.worldometers.info/img/maps/dominican_rep_physical_map.gif[/img]
[center][h3][b][color=yellow] Somewhere off the Northern Coast of Hispaniola - Tropical Storm Clouds [/color][/b][/h3][/center]

Francisco de Peralta looked out the windscreen of the plane he rode in, watching as the heavy rains lashed out, while the winds buffeted the plane. He held on tightly as the wind seemed to dropkick the plane upwards, the wings and metal tensioning wires groaning loudly over the roar of the engines. He cursed the lack of a meteorologist on the islands, had they known about the storm, they would have waiting, but now... it was too late. He stepped back away from the pilot and copilot, looking over to the navigator. "How much further? We're burning through fuel faster than we've anticipated... This is now for sure a one way trip." He had to yell in order to be heard. The younger man looked up at his commanding officer, beckoning him closer to point out at the map.

"We're at worst...." He steadied himself as the plane shook violently, "No more than another two hours of flight time. The storm has slowed us down considerably. I don't dare radio ahead, the vanguard would know more, but we're too close to enemy airspace now, they might pick up radio chatter." The crewman turned away, trying to keep his tools from flying off his station, the plane now kiltering off and down to the side. Peralta patted the younger man on his back, nodding thank you to him, before returning to his perch, looking at the windscreen again. 'If, God willing, the invasion force isn't completely scattered, I'll consider it a blessing.' He tightened the chin strap of his helmet, hoping that he'd not have the unluck of the plane going down in the middle of the ocean.

Peralta looked up at the plane's ceiling, holding his breath as it seemed every piece of metal groaned collectively. He thought he could even here a few rivets popping, giving way to the strain. Ahead, lightning flashed brightly, blinding the pilots and him for a few seconds. 'Of all the luck, a tropical storm just happened to form on this day... figures.' Taking a breath again, he strapped himself into his seat making sure his rifle was still nearby, Peralta clasped his hands together and began to quietly pray. He closed his eyes, focusing on his thoughts instead of the storm outside the thin metal body of the plane, and lent out his prayers to those on his own plane, and to all the souls on the other planes. 'We who fly unto the sacred lands of the our fathers, we who fight in God's name, we who are prepared to pay the ultimate price ask for your blessing and protection father. Grant us your holy strength, and if we are to fall in battle, allow your divine grace to guide us up unto heaven. Amen.'