November 9, 1993. It’s still three hours until first light, and all systems are “go.” I’ll use the time to write a few pages – my last diary entry. Then it’s a one way trip to the Pentagon for me. The warhead is strapped into the front seat of the old Stearman and rigged to detonate either on impact or when I flip a switch in the back seat. Hopefully, I’ll be able to manage a low-level air burst directly over the center of the Pentagon. Failing that, I’ll at least try to fly as close as I can before I’m shot down.
It’s been more than four years since I’ve flown, but I’ve thoroughly familiarized myself with the Stearman cockpit and been briefed on the plane’s peculiarities: I don’t anticipate any piloting problems. The barn-hanger here is only eight miles from the Pentagon. We’ll thoroughly warm up the engine in the barn, and when the door is opened I’ll go out like a bat out of hell, straight for the Pentagon, at an altitude of about 50 feet.
By the time I hit the defensive perimeter I should be making about 150 miles an hour, and it’ll take me just under 70 minutes to reach the target. 
Heeling over slightly, the Lockheed struck the Games Building dead on, three quarters of the way up. Its tanks were still better than a quarter full. Its speed was slightly over five hundred miles an hour. The explosion was tremendous, lighting up the night like the wrath of God, and it rained fire twenty blocks away. 
SOURCE: Excerpt  The Turner Diaries by Andrew MacDonald. Excerpt  The Running Man by Richard Bachman. Photograph courtesy of a Drakon Covenant associate engaged in an intra-European flight.