“Or heavy transports...!” Joachim suddenly cut in, taking the conversation away from previously covered ground. Both men’s eyes fell upon him as he smiled broadly, the light of realisation on his face. “Really heavy transports…!”
“Go on…” Reuters urged softly, his eyes intense and fathomless as he recognised the expression the man often displayed when experiencing an epiphany.
“A Galaxy, for example, or one of those bloody great Antonovs for that matter: either of those big bastards would need the better part of three thousand metres to take off when fully loaded. If they do have all four TDUs, then we know that one of those is in that F-35. Their intel would’ve told them that we had four Flankers on our side, courtesy of the CIS and the Chechen Mafia via that pleasant little Pakistani arms dealer…do you think they’d have taken the chance on just one fighter being able to deal with all four Su-30s if they attacked all at once…even one fighter as advanced and stealthy as an F-35? I’d ask for at least one other fighter…a dedicated air combat aircraft: maybe an Eagle or a Tornado F3…perhaps a Eurofighter or a Rafale…something brand new – ‘straight off the rack’.”
“Raptor…” Schiller said softly, capturing the others’ attention instantly. “Why go back a generation for any of them if they’ve already been given one of the most advanced stealth aircraft on earth to play with? If you’re going to go ‘balls-out’ with an air superiority fighter, it stands to reason the only possible choice would be an F-22…”
“Have to keep an eye out for that, then…” Reuters nodded thoughtfully, not liking the concept but unable to fault his friend’s logic. “We’ll make sure Sentry is briefed to report any erroneous or unexpected emissions.” Inwardly, he cursed the fact that the aircraft was an old, ex-Soviet model with comparatively less sophisticated equipment…although he also recognised that it was probably a moot point anyway: the stealthy nature of a Lightning or Raptor would make either basically invisible even to the most advanced AWACS aircraft at anything more than suicidal ranges.
“If we assume a maximum of four units then we probably have two cargoes and two escorts,” Müller decided with some confidence, also accepting the F-22 theory as logical. “In their shoes I’d want as much equipment as I could get.”
“To do what with…?” Reuters frowned, tapping his fingers on the table top with mild frustration. “Say they do have a couple of C-5s or Antonovs? What do they bring with them: a load of cruise missiles to threaten us…Harpoons perhaps to sink our invasion force – or at least put a serious dent in it? Personally, I’d think the nuclear deterrent angle would be a better option – even the Führer would take notice of the threat of nuclear weapons… …probably…” he added finally with unwilling honesty. He noticed Schiller’s mouth beginning to open and cut him off with the raise of a hand. “And no, Albert – I’m not ready to tell him exactly how powerful this field of research is just yet. Explain atomic weapons completely on a Tuesday and our Chancellor would be demanding a gross of them by Friday…” Reuters gave a chuckle. “…Last Friday, at that…!” He gave a dismissive wave of his hand more in recognition of the fact that he was dog-tired rather than that anything had been resolved.
“We can speculate about it all we like but until we get a clear idea of what they have there – or what they don’t have – we really have nothing at all. We have two Flankers left…”
“A recon mission…?” Schiller suggested. “We can send one over Scapa Flow with a camera pod and have the glossies on your desk within five hours…”
“…And we can have both Flankers back there a few hours later if need be with thousand kilo bombs…” Reuters finished with finality “…but not tonight…” he finished firmly. “We’re all tired and I have something I need to take care of first thing in the morning. We’ll run the mission tomorrow night after sunset – that’ll give the ground crew plenty of time to prep and test the aircraft and equipment. I believe Sentry had a minor engine problem today they need to fix, anyway.”
“She’s developed some more irregularities in one of the engines…” Müller confirmed with some frustration, nodding. “It’s those bloody replacement compressor blades again: the metal in the rest of the aircraft doesn’t age or wear any more than we do, but the blades we had to replace due to damage do.” He shrugged. “…The replacement parts wear, and the quality isn’t as high as the originals to begin with, and they keep throwing everything out of sync and eventually fail as a result. It’s like the rest of the plane keeps ‘rejecting them’ and it’s something we’re going to have to live with…”
“There are a lot of things we’ve had to live with over the last seven years,” Reuters observed pointedly and all nodded in agreement, if for different reasons. With as much silent pain as ever, Schiller thought about Rachel, whom he’d left behind and who would now never exist. They’d played with time, and time could do many things, but healing his soul wasn’t one of the things they could hope to accomplish.
HMS Proserpine, Home Fleet Naval Anchorage
Scapa Flow, Orkney Islands
Sunday
June 30, 1940
Trumbull still wasn’t asleep at 0130 hours on that freezing Sunday early morning. He’d been shown to more than adequate quarters within the officers’ billets and he was certainly exhausted, but the overwhelming power of his curiosity refused to give in to his body’s demands for much-needed rest. The room he’d been allocated was one with windows that provided an excellent view of the runway, hangars and concreted aircraft parking areas. All of those areas were still brightly illuminated and although they were hundreds of metres away, Trumbull could see quite clearly the hive of activity that continued to surround the new arrivals.
All four aircraft intrigued him equally. Although everyone had been far to busy to be able to answer many of his numerous questions, he’d at least been able to eventually ascertain that all four were American planes, and the three he’d watched arrive with Thorne and Alpert the evening before clearly displayed United States’ national insignia, unlike the F-35E he’d arrived in which displayed little other than the coloured strip of multinational flags he’d noted upon its first appearance. The information came as a surprise to Trumbull, to say the least, as the USA had continually and emphatically proclaimed its neutrality with regard to war in Europe. Certainly, the Americans had been sympathetic to Britain’s plight and there were rumours that military aid was indeed being secretly provided, but the presence of three such obviously military aircraft might well be viewed by the Axis as an outright act of war.
That was assuming for a moment that Trumbull believed the Americans capable of such technology, which he didn’t despite the aircraft’s obvious existence. Another inexplicable point was that the insignia on the craft all purported to belong to the ‘United States Air Force’. There was no such organisation that he was aware of – the Americans’ air power resided with the USAAC – the United States Army Air Corps – and Trumbull was certain he’d have been aware had there been such a major name change.
The second fighter aircraft had landed some minutes after the two larger planes and was generally similar in overall appearance to the F-35, although there were some notable differences as well. Its twin tails were canted dramatically outward much like the Lightning, and there didn’t seem to be a defined point at which the broad wings and tail actually joined the flattened, faired fuselage – the wings and body instead seemed to ‘blend’ together in a smooth fashion that Trumbull suspected was very aerodynamic. Save for the tricycle landing gear it rested upon there seemed to be almost no breaks at all in the smooth surfaces of its fuselage.
Trumbull had never seen a more streamlined or sleek craft: even the bubble-shaped canopy that covered the single-seat cockpit was low and ‘sculpted’ to fit in with the rest of its shape. He’d heard Thorne and Alpert refer to the fighter as a ‘Raptor’, which the dictionary defined as a bird of prey of some type…as he stared at the plane’s sleek, purposeful lines he thought the
name was singularly appropriate.
The two larger aircraft were something else again. The smallest of the pair – Thorne had called it a ‘KC-10A Extender’ or something equally obscure – lay off to one side of a large concreted area close to the near end of the runway. At that point in time, none of the activity outside on that cold early morning appeared to be centred around it at all. As with all of the aircraft, it was painted all over in a low-visibility mid/dark grey with faded markings and insignia. Three engines powered the Extender (one mounted in the very tail with an intake set below the leading edge of the jet’s tall rudder to complement one under each wing), and beneath its tail was a singularly unusual piece of apparatus that in Trumbull’s opinion looked to all the world like some kind of huge, man-made ‘wasp’s sting’.
It was the largest of the arrivals however – obviously a gigantic transport aircraft of some kind – that was the centre of attention out in the landing area that night. They’d called it a C-5M ‘Super Galaxy’ and the grandeur of the name was more than suitable. The massive nose of the craft was hinged beneath the high-mounted cockpit glass and had lifted upward and completely out of the way, revealing a loading and a vast, spacious cargo bay beyond that ran down what appeared to be the entire length of the aircraft. At the far end, beneath the high tail, equally large ‘clamshell’ doors also opened on either side to reveal a second, rear loading ramp. Trumbull couldn’t even begin to estimate the carrying capacity but it was obviously massive, and to his mind the craft was one of the most intelligently designed things he’d ever seen. He was incredibly impressed by the potential and practicality of the Galaxy and what that could mean to any armed force that made use of it.
The front and rear doors of the Galaxy had opened within minutes of landing and the disembarkation and removal of personnel and cargo had begun. Still watching from the tower earlier in the night, Trumbull had been privy to a much better view of the goings-on. Two dozen men had emerged from the C-5M, filing down its forward ramp in twos and threes before assembling as a group in front of the huge plane and all dressed in various types of military fatigues. Some were of a similar type to those Trumbull had sometimes seen visiting US personnel wear, but others were of strange patterns indeed – splotches of green and black and browns against a light tan background. Rather than US-style forage caps or helmets, those men wore Slouch Hats in the fashion of Commonwealth troops: Australians or New Zealanders.
As the men had assembled on the tarmac below the plane in those first few moments they were almost uncontrollable. As they were met by Thorne and Alpert there were whoops and howls of joy as all embracing each other in an obvious show of relief that seemed to be going quite a bit overboard to Trumbull. After a bit more thought however he was willing to concede with a wry smile that a flight inside that huge thing might indeed make him feel as happy about being on land again as they obviously were.
They were a loud and boisterous lot – some of them were definitely American – and the enlisted men joked and chatted enthusiastically as they began to unload the first few cargo pallets, NCOs bellowing orders back and forth all the while. Trumbull also noted with some interest that there was at least one woman among them wearing the full uniform of an officer of the Royal Navy – as opposed to that of the WRNS (the Women’s Royal Naval Service).
Trumbull had watched with great interest as the first of the items of cargo the huge plane carried were unloaded that evening. He was intrigued as the first of a pair of vehicles trundled down the rear ramp wreathed in clouds of condensation and diesel exhaust. Although the vehicles were unlike any he’d before seen, the RAF pilot was quickly becoming desensitised to surprise to the point of simple acceptance…most things he’d seen that day had been unlike anything he’d seen before and he’d basically used up his capacity for amazement to the point that he was willing to hold it in check until some suitable explanations had been provided. Whoever held those answers was certainly going to be in for a lot of questions.
The vehicles were quite big – substantially larger than a Matilda or Vickers – but were obviously tanks of some type nevertheless that travelled on long, wide sets of tracks. Both of them were seemingly identical, painted in khaki, brown and dark green stripes similar to those the pilot had seen on British tanks. Each sported a large turret atop the centre of their hulls mounting what appeared to be long-barrelled cannon on either side. A cluster of six long tubes were also mounted outside each of the guns, while several other large devices were hung from the front of the turret or projected above it that he couldn’t identify.
As the pair of tanks reached the concrete they each halted momentarily to allow a trio of men to enter the vehicle through a large hatch in its turret after which each cleared the shelter of the C-5M’s tail and powered away off the taxiway in clouds of exhaust. The first disappeared into the darkness along a track running parallel to the long, concrete runway, presumably heading for the opposite end with only its tail and headlights visible for a long time until they too eventually vanished.
The second of the tanks headed off in the opposite direction toward a large mound of earthworks, the top of which stood two stories above the ground level and was dimly visible beyond the OR’s barracks to the south west. He lost sight of the vehicle momentarily as it moved behind the nearer buildings before spotting it once more, driving lights blazing as it climbed the moderate gradient to the top of the artificial hill. Once there it almost disappeared entirely into what was obviously a prepared defensive position.
Before its lights shut down and it too vanished into the darkness once more, Trumbull noted that the only part of the vehicle that could still be seen was the large, bulbous turret and its side-mounted weapons. The squadron leader was no fool, and as his mind took in the placement of the vehicle and the complete field of fire its raised position afforded, the immediate thought that came to him was that the vehicle was intended for anti-aircraft defence. Having seen the missiles Thorne had used earlier to destroy one of the enemy Flankers, he suspected the six tubes mounted beside each cannon might well contain similar weapons. Although it was no more than a guess, it somehow seemed a logical assumption, and those missiles would most likely provide long-range defence to compliment the deadly-looking guns.
He’d experienced ack-ack fire a few times in his career – twice from German gunners on the French coast and once, rather more irritatingly, from an over-exuberant Bofors crew at one of his own airfields – and it was something he didn’t care to experience again if it could be avoided. He could only wonder at the potential power of the weapons each vehicle mounted and hope fervently there’d be no air attack against which they’d be called on to defend.
As he continued to watch on that early morning, Trumbull shivered at the cold despite the warm clothes and fur-lined flying jacket someone had found for him. He turned away from the windows, finally deciding to try and get some sleep…sleep that proved to be a long time coming and even then, one that was restless and filled with strange dreams.
The Officer’s Mess was much warmer thanks to the raging fireplace in the wall opposite the door, close to one end of the small but ornate, wooden bar. It was a relatively small mess, having been originally designed specifically for the group of officers who’d just entered, and was also relatively cosy as a result. The panelled walls were sparsely decorated with small, original paintings that, by the look of their naval themes might well have been scrounged up from the main areas of the naval base itself.
A de rigueur portrait of the King hung above the bar of course, and a collection of a dozen or so armchairs in worn but well-kept condition – all large and comfortable to be certain – were clustered beside and around circular drinks tables that sat at knee height. Someone had followed Alpert’s earlier orders and seven filled champagne flutes now sat together on a silver tray on one of those tables near the centre of the room.
“Now there’s a bloody good idea,” Thorne declared loudly, first through the door and spying the
booze immediately. “Nice goin’, Nick old son!” He made a beeline for the table as the rest of the seven present filed in behind him. Thorne, in his mid-forties, was the commander of their newly-arrived unit – the unit named ‘Hindsight’ as Schiller had correctly assumed from the other side of The Channel.
“I heard that, boy!” Captain Jack Davies added as he entered close behind, dressed in a black pilot’s G-suit and dark blue parka of Arctic capabilities. “Goddamn, it’s cold out there. Anyone told those bastards at meteorology it’s actually still summer here?” Despite years of experience, Davies refused on principle to accustom himself to British weather. He possessed a broad, country face and a smile filled with impossibly-large teeth that resulted in him being a not altogether unattractive but also a not altogether handsome man either. Davies, apart from being equal second-in-command, was the only man qualified to fly the F-22 Raptor. A veteran pilot with service in Bosnia along with several tours of Iraq and Afghanistan, Davies had also spent time as one of the USAF’s lead test pilots on the aircraft before transferring to the Hindsight unit eight months before.
“God forbid they’d have cold weather in the States of course…” The dark-haired, female naval officer behind him added, baiting him in long running gag between the two. Her voice was tinged with a moderate Glaswegian accent and her hair, although cut in a short bob and barely reaching the back of her neck, still served to frame her pale skin, well-defined high cheek bones and a finely-shaped nose. Commander Eileen Donelson was twenty-nine years of age in comparison to Davies’ thirty-six, although she stood at least fifteen centimetres shorter than the Texan’s one hundred and ninety. Donelson also held the same standing within the group as Davies – that of equal 2IC- and filled the role of Thorne’s engineering and military ordnance adviser.
England Expects (Empires Lost) Page 14