Sky Ghost (18 page)

Getting off the ground went well.

With the ice finally off his wings, the takeoff run took only two-thirds the distance.

Hunter climbed, and began sucking on the oxygen mask. He knew enough to know that the big O was the best cure for a hangover. As he rose above the airfield, for the first time he was able to get a glimpse of some of the other bases around the Circle.

There were two bomber bases about a mile from Dreamland. Then a cargo unit was located directly over the hill. Then another couple of bomber bases. The rest was sealed in mist and blowing snow.

He rose to 20,000 feet and turned on the homing TV. Sure enough, way up ahead of him was yet another bomber group.

But there were to be many different things about this outfit.

Many,
many
things.

They were the 3234th, located on Base Six, way on the other side of the Circle. They weren’t crudely impressive like the 999th or brass-plated cowards like the 13th.

He made contact with the flight leader and was surprised to see only 12 bombers in a loose formation. They were flying the B-17/36s like the 13th, but they were hardly shiny. Instead, they were painted in white and blue camo.

Hunter pulled square with the leader as usual—but was surprised to see the windscreen of this airplane, and all the others, was tinted. It was so dark, it was impossible for him to see in.

He keyed his radio and sent over his call sign. The reply was full of static. Hunter tried again with the same result. He was certain the fault lay in his own radio set. It was something he’d have to bring up with his fan club once he got back.

He could hear just well enough to read his radio checks and then to inform the flight leader he was moving up to the point.

A wag of the wings was his only reply.

He took the point as promised and played the mission tape again. The cartoon showed Ireland and the weather and where the hit was going to be.

It was another power plant, but this one was deep in a valley which, according to the mission film, was suspected of bearing heavy AA fire.

Hunter sucked on his oxygen mask a little deeper. This was not going to be a routine mission here, he could tell already. It was going to be rough going in, rough flying over this valley of flak, and rough going out. No wonder Payne chose not to brief him in person.

So he took the next 90 minutes of the flight to read over the mission paper and watch the tape and try to attune his inner senses to give him warning of the first sign of trouble.

But the ride down was uneventful—eerily so. They arrived sooner than expected, a great wind on their tails. At 20 miles out, the flight leader ordered the 12 aircraft to bunch up.

They did, expertly forming into two chevrons of six each. The flight leader gave another order, and now the chevrons began to stretch and stretch and soon the whole squadron was flying in a single file line.

Hunter was watching all this over his shoulder. Before him was the fog and the rain and the east side of Ireland and the target they were supposed to hit. But this was a strange formation to complete this task.

Then the bombers started diving…

Hunter couldn’t believe it at first—but down they went, the 12 bombers, one right after another, dropping into the Irish mist.

Hunter knew his place was with them, so he looped over, cut speed, and dove down to join them in the murk.

The reports
that
the valley was thick with ack-ack guns had not been exaggerated. No sooner had Hunter broken through the clouds at 3000 feet when he started picking up muzzle flashes. Again, it looked like a Fourth of July celebration. There were so many streaks of fire and smoke and muzzle flashes and explosions, the glare off his cockpit glass was nearly blinding.

The two lead bombers had already started their bombing runs. It was nightmarish to see the two huge airplanes whipping along not 500 feet above the ground, bomb bays open, somehow swinging and swaying their way through the solid wall of flak.

Again Hunter felt his airplane kind of take over and go where it wanted to go. He came in right on the bomber number two’s tail, and opened up at the ground. There was no aiming necessary here—anywhere his long stream of tracers went hit something belonging to the enemy.

The flak guns were like trees interspersed among the dens and dells. Some were locked in place, but many others were mobile. Flak trucks and towed wagons were much in evidence. Hunter zigged and zagged—flak was exploding all around him, but he was literally steering through it.

He found the road that led to the power station and began firing at anything that moved on it. The road was the targeting point of reference for the bombers, so he was cleaving a path through it in which they could fly. The problem was there were so many guns below him it would be impossible for the enemy gunners to miss the bombers coming in so low and so slow.

Hunter had to evacuate the area to let the big planes come in and do their work. The hail of fire that met these two big planes was incredible.

Streaks of light were tearing right through the two huge bombers, but they were not deterred in their bombing run. They came right in over the power plant and let loose a string of bombs that practically went right through the chimney.

Both planes managed to run the gauntlet and come out the other end battered but still flying.

Hunter looped again. He had about a five-second window before the next pair came in. He took out a towed flak wagon and a row of trucks in one long barrage. Then he had to get out again.

The next two planes came in, even lower, even slower. They stayed steady and true—right to the end.

It was strange how they both got hit in almost the same place at the same time. Both caught on fire, but side by side they continued the bombing run, dropped their ordnance, and then tried to climb out of the valley. But neither made it. The strain and the flames were just too much. They both hit the hillside at almost the same time, their demise signaled by two identical fireballs.

Hunter screamed over and came down on the 188 mm gun that had pinged them and destroyed it—but it was too little too late. The pair of airplanes were now no more than two craters in the side of an Irish hill.

The next three pairs of bombers came down harder, faster, and dropped their bombs right on the money. By the time they pulled up, the power plant was engulfed in flames.

Climbing out of the valley of death, their multitude of engines screaming, the diminished bomber squadron formed up at 7500 feet Then, in something Hunter could not believe, they grouped in a tight formation, and rode right over the place where the two planes had gone in.

Braving the still-lethal flak, they flew a last tribute to their fallen colleagues.

Then they all turned northwest and, with Hunter watching the rear, headed for home.

Over the Atlantic

T
HE ENORMOUS HUGHES B-201
Navy Superbomber had been on combat patrol for 16 days now.

In that time, it had seen action off the French coast, over Gibraltar, off the Ivory Coast, near the Channel Islands, and briefly in the Scapa Flow. It had sunk three German supply ships and heavily damaged a destroyer. But this had not been a pleasant flight for the big plane. It had been aloft for so long, the paint was actually peeling off its wings. The electrical system had not worked correctly since the third day out, and the domino effect from this was everything from spoiled food to stuffed toilets.

The crew was exhausted and demoralized. This flight was nearly twice as long as their usual combat patrol, and yet the prizes of war had been very few, and they had nearly been shot down several times already. But just like every other American aircraft still flying, the big plane was being pressed to the limit. That’s how bad the war had been going.

The crew knew better than most how the tide had turned so dramatically in favor of Germany in the last few months. In fact, there were some who actually blamed the commander of this particular aircraft for the German resurgence.

As the story went, the OSS, at odds for months as to determine the cause of the dramatic German comeback, had reached a startling conclusion: the resurgence could be traced back to the day that the B-201 Super Sea spotted three floaters in the mid-Atlantic, then watched as one was picked up by an American destroyer, and another by a German battle cruiser.

Though no one knew exactly what the connection between the two events might be, the thinking was that if the COA had sunk the German rescue boat, the German revival might not have happened, strange as that sounded.

This was all very top secret, of course, but someone at Atlantic Wartime Command had let the aircraft commander know, and rumors soon started swirling among the crew. This led the commander to take to his stateroom for long periods of time, drinking brandy from the airship’s medicine supply. To see their once proud if haughty COA reduced to this further demoralized the 42-man crew. One story swept the airplane at midflight that the second-in-command had actually found a suicide note written by the COA discarded in the trash.

It got so bad, many crewmen had started whispering about the airplane itself being cursed. A morbid betting pool had even been established. What would happen first: would the COA blow his brains out or would the airplane crash? Many were simply convinced the airplane would never make it home again.

Its latest orders did nothing to squelch the notion that the B-201 was a cursed ship.

The exhausted crew had just navigated the big plane around the enemy-held Azores when they received a message from Atlantic Wartime Command. HQ was diverting their return route. Instead of putting down at their usual air base in Ship Bottom Bay, New Jersey, the plane was being directed to a base in South Carolina. This would add four more hours to the crew’s already-backbreaking ordeal. What’s more, the weather they were expected to go through would guarantee to toss them around some. The forecast between mid-Atlantic and the Carolina coast was for heavy rain and very high winds.

No surprise either that it had them flying through a section of the infamous Demon Zone.

The lumbering B-201 was two hours west of the Azores when an urgent call woke the aircraft commander out of his latest drunken stupor.

The crew had just turned the big plane slightly to the southwest, in hopes of missing the worst of the mid-ocean storm, when its air defense officer reported seeing unidentified objects on his long-range TV screen.

There were five in all, he first reported. They were flying at 25,000 feet, some two miles below the B-201 and heading in the same general direction.

Normally the ADO would have done a visual-data check on the unidentified aircraft. This was a Main/AC computer-generated search of the airplane’s TV-video records made in an attempt to match up the blurry objects with some-thing similar stored in the big plane’s video logs. But right away the ADO knew there was nothing like these objects in the plane’s video library—or anyone else’s for that matter.

Quite simply, the airplanes they had spotted were gigantic. Bigger than the B-201 SuperSea. Bigger than anything in the U.S. aircraft arsenal. In fact, they were so big, the ADO’s first estimate that the airplanes were actually 15 miles away from the SuperSea proved to be wrong by exactly half. When first spotted, the mystery planes were more than
thirty
miles away from the SuperSea. They were so big they simply looked closer.

This was a strange turn of events aboard the B-201. To see something flying that was bigger than themselves was just one step away from being impossible.

Yet here were five aircraft that dwarfed them.

And they
were
airplanes—that much the ADO did know. On the long-range insta-film he’d shot, one could clearly see wings and fuselages and fronts and back and tail sections—all the components of an airplane. But the wings were enormous in length, and they held more than 20 engines—on one side!

The noses of these aircraft were huge, bulbous. They rode atop the front part of the fuselage like a penthouse atop a skyscraper. The fuselages themselves looked to contain eight to 10 decks or more. There were oceanliners with less room for accommodations.

As soon as the aircraft commander got over the astonishment of the gigantic airplanes, he screeched a radio message down to the air defense officer.

“Who do these planes belong to?” he demanded of the ADO.

The ADO had anticipated the question, but the truth was, he didn’t know. With the highly secretive—some would say paranoid—nature of the U.S. military these days, there was a chance these flying behemoths were just another in a long line of secret weapons to come out of the war effort in the last half century.

The problem with that scenario was simple though: if these were American airplanes, being tested way out here in the Demon Zone, there would be no way that Atlantic Wartime Command would have vectored the SuperSea to fly anywhere near them.

This led the ADO, along with the B-201’s intelligence officers, to reach the same conclusion: The monstrous airplanes must belong to the enemy.

But the greatest surprise was about to come.

As the ADO watched, another five airplanes appeared. These were just as large, just as frighteningly grand as the first five. The two groups merged, and like clockwork, separated into pairs—one new arrival with one from the original group.

But now what was this? Long hoses were being let out of the rear of the lead airplanes and somehow were connecting to the noses of the trailing ships? Hoses? Stretching between two airplanes four miles above the ocean? What madness could this be?

The entire SuperSea crew was now aware of what was happening below them. Peering out the many bubble windows adorning the bottom of the B-201, the crew members gasped in horror at the sight of the huge airplanes. They seemed too big to be flying. Too big to be real. And the connecting operation of the hoses. What was that all about?

“Could they be transferring fuel?” one crew man wondered.