See how you like them apples…! The voice muttered silently in his head, echoing his own thoughts perfectly as a short pause followed, Solingen clearly considering the implications of that last statement.
“That aircraft is joint property!” The colonel snarled. “No allied missions are to be undertaken without the knowledge and express consent of all parties. Do you think I’ve been blind to what’s been happening here? Reports of unauthorised departures have been flowing into Darwin all night! There has been no consultation whatsoever regarding whatever it is you’ve all been planning, and Canberra will not abide such duplicity…!”
“What… like the duplicity Canberra’s happily been party to regarding the Yanks cutting a deal with the bloody Krauts…?” Thorne shot back, no longer able to hold his tongue. “Is that the kind of ‘duplicity’ you’re talking about?”
“What are you…? No…! Impossible...!”
“Oh, so you don’t know?” Thorne sneered with a mirthless grin. “How embarrassing for an intelligence chief! You better believe it, pal: no aggression against the Yanks in the Atlantic, and the Krauts get free reign in Europe in return. Ask bloody Bennett about that…! If he doesn’t know, I’ll give you five-to-four on that that bastard, Blamey bloody-well does!”
“You’re insane!” Solingen howled, incapable of accepting even the possibility of such allegations. “Shut down immediately and vacate the aircraft…!” There was another pause as Thorne resisted the urge to reply, instead making a few final adjustments as the engine behind him began to run ever-closer to full power. “This is your last warning…!” Solingen screeched, the entire substance of his shrill tone crying desperately for attention to be paid. “Attempt to take-off and you will be fired upon…!”
“Ahh, blow it out your arse…!” Thorne finally blurted in angry exasperation, making sure his finger remained on the transmit button just long enough, before cutting the radio altogether. “As if you’d do that, y’ dumb shit…” he muttered in addition, to himself this time as he released the Lightning’s wheel brakes, drew back on the aircraft’s STOVL control lever and pushed the throttles steadily forward.
One final, gung-ho ‘blip’ on the road to maturity, eh? The voice in his head suggested, sounding almost excited about the idea.
“Why the hell not?” He muttered with an ironic grin, continuing to increase power to maximum.
Directly behind the cockpit, hatches drew back both above and below the fuselage to reveal the aircraft’s huge, Rolls Royce lift fan, while at the very rear, its thrust vectoring exhaust nozzle tilted suddenly downward at a forty-five degree angle. Thorne released his brakes and the F-35E surged forward, accelerating quickly along the empty taxiway at a startling rate. It leaped nimbly into the sky within a hundred yards or so, wings waggling slightly as it took a moment to stabilise and the transition to normal, level flight began.
Its flight path took it directly past the tower at eye level, with Solingen, surrounded by shocked and bewildered traffic controllers, still howling into a handheld microphone with rabid, impotent fury. Thorne refused to turn his head in the man’s direction, too busy with the take-off anyway for the most part, but at a distance of just a dozen yards or so, there was no mistaking the sight of his extended middle finger, pressed as it was up against the left side of the canopy glass.
17.Minutes to Midnight
Tan Tui Barracks
Ambon
As Eileen approached Reuters’ room, she could hear hushed German conversation between at least three people. Dawn was close now, and skies above the tree lines to their east were growing lighter by the minute. Already, the chill of night had given way to an almost balmy morning with the distinct threat of humidity to come. Scattered clouds were spread thinly above at high altitude, with birdsong and other jungle noises already filling the air.
As she stepped into the open doorway, all three men glanced up sharply, momentarily apprehensive until they registered who it actually was. Donelson herself was momentarily taken by surprise as she realised that the third man present with Ritter and Reuters was in fact the same Ensign Schultz who’d escorted her and Lloyd down to the Kormoran’s hold in the moments before Sydney had been torpedoed.
“Am I interrupting?” She asked quietly, leaning against the door frame with as casual an air as she could manage.
“Not at all, captain,” Reuters answered immediately, forcing a smile as he fired a quick question at Schultz in German and received an equally-fast reply in return. “The ensign here tells me the two of you have already met: that he was with you on Kormoran as our U-boat attacked.” She gave a single nod in return and he shrugged in response. “A matter of no great consequence, but I think it helps that you have met already. He does not trust you – that, I can tell – but I think maybe he will accept the orders of his superior officer all the same.”
“I dinna bloody trust him either,” Eileen countered with a thin smile, “nor any of y’, for that matter; but I don’t see as I have much of a choice at the moment. I think I know why there are no prisoners here: my SAS escorts – also Hindsight members – told me something about the history of this island during the Second World War. In an act of vengeance over the sinking of a Jap minesweeper during the Realtime invasion, several hundred prisoners – predominantly Australian – were rounded up near the Laha airfield and murdered over a period of two or three days…” Both Reuters and Ritter reacted with mild shock at that revelation. “Swords… bayonets… they took them out in ones and twos, made them kneel over open, mass graves, staring down at the butchered corpses of their friends and colleagues and executed them out of hand. We sunk a minesweeper yesterday, and I’ve been thinking about where they took Evan… thinking about it a lot…” she continued, almost speaking to herself now.
“You have made a decision?”
“I have…”
“And…?”
“To the infirmary, like you said,” she finished finally, eyes red-rimmed and moist as they snapped back into focus and stared down at the seated Reichsmarschall. “I help you as far as the infirmary, and then we part ways… agreed…?”
“You will risk your life in the jungles here, knowing of what will happen with this bomb? The blast radius will cover many kilometres…”
“My risks are my concern, Donelson shot back, a faint smile crossing her lips, “and you’ve no idea how fast I can run!”
No more than a few hundred yards away, Langdale, Watson, Jinkins and the bulk of his platoon crept silent into position at the edge of the huge clearing that opened out onto Tan Tui, not far from the rear of the hospital itself. Dawn was coming, and the darkness above was definitely waning as the jungle sounds began to change from those of nocturnal animals to birdsong and the distinctly different calls of daytime wildlife. For his part, Langdale was happy for any noise to mask their progress: they’d already spotted several Japanese patrols in the vicinity, and regardless of how casually the guards seemed to be going about their business in those last few hours before sunrise, he felt no need to draw their attention prematurely.
“What’re we supposed to do now were here…?” Jinkins whispered, crouched at his right shoulder and sheltering mostly behind the trunk of a tall palm tree, his eyes constantly sweeping back and forth across the open ground and the buildings before them.
“Not sure, yet,” Langdale admitted without any apology. “Orders are to get into position and report,” he explained, positioning his radio headset carefully over one ear and drawing the microphone stalk closer to his lips, “and I’m about to do exactly that…”
He proceeded to spend perhaps twenty minutes speaking into his headset mike hushed tones, reporting the current situation and the limited enemy troop dispositions they were able to make out from their position, followed by a clear and lengthy set of orders in return.
“So, for the moment, we sit tight, observe and not get spotted …” Langdale advised eventually, having concluded his radio conversation. “They have a relief operation building
that’s due to arrive sometime after sunrise and we’re to be the QR team on the ground when they get here…”
“You don’t sound particularly pleased…” Jinkins observed, noting the sergeant’s dour expression.
“A little more detail would a’ been bloody nice,” he replied with a dark half-smile, “but with my CO, that’s pretty much par for the course.”
“Not Robinson Crusoe there,” the lieutenant grinned, considering the lot of infantrymen the world over. “‘QR team’…?”
“‘Quick Response’…” Langdale explained with a grimace. “Not bloody quick enough if you ask me.”
“You sound like you’re lookin’ for a blue…” Jinkins pointed out with a raised eyebrow, using Australian slang for ‘fight’.
“One o’ those bastards chopped my partner’s head off with a fuckin’ sword,” Langdale growled softly, drawing a sharp glance of surprise from Jinkins that turned into a similar expression of dark anger and disgust as he continued. “He was just the first of dozens of prisoners that morning, most of ‘em your mates from C-Company…”
“Bastards…” Jinkins muttered softly, face and tone hardened as the reality of what the man was saying began to fully sink in.
“So… no surprise I’m lookin’ for a little payback?”
“Reckon I’d be worried, if I were one o’ those Japs,” the lieutenant observed with a half-forced grin, trying to lighten the mood a little in spite of his own dark thoughts.
“I’m gonna show those fuckers they made a big mistake, getting’ on the wrong side of this blackfella with a gun…” Langdale shot back after a moment of silent thought, his own smile decidedly evil and mirthless.
“Yeah, well…” Jinkins chuckled, recalling an old racist joke and judging his moment “…I’d ask the boys to call you ‘sir’, sergeant, but you work for a livin’, after all…”
“Arsehole…” Langdale muttered under his breath, intentionally just loud enough for the other man to hear as he added “…sir…” almost as an afterthought.
They turned to stare straight out at the compound before them at that moment, both men smirking silently as Langdale fought an urge to chuckle on principle, not sure whether he should have been offended rather than amused, but unable to help himself.
Banda Sea
200 miles south-east of Ambon
Six helicopters flew low and slow, spread out into pairs as each of the three Iroquois refuelled a Crocodile gunship from the huge ‘buddy’ tanks fitted beneath their makeshift stub wings. Dispensed via hose trailed from the rear of one of the four fitted tanks, each AH-21 received its replenishment of jet fuel through a long, thin probe that, when not in use, retracted back into the portside lower fuselage, just behind the aircraft’s small chin turret.
The attack choppers, clearly far larger and more heavily armoured than their utility colleagues, also carried two huge, 200-gallon drop tanks beneath the innermost pylons of their own drooping wings, while single streamlined rocket pods were fitted beneath each of the two outer pylons on either side. Without external fuel, the Crocodile’s operational range was bare 300 miles, and even with additional tanks, operations of any extended length of time would severely limit its endurance over the combat zone. Refuelling in-flight both before and after the attack was the only way to guarantee sufficient supplies to bring the crews safely home.
The sun was well into the sky above a layer of broken cloud as they cruised on toward the north-west, barely a hundred feet above the shimmering surface of a choppy ocean. In a few moments, the Iroquois would complete their replenishment, disengage and turn back toward the RN carriers to the south-east, far too fragile to be risked in what was likely to be an extremely hot battle area. The Crocs would carry on alone from that point, still an hour’s flight time away from Ambon as the Royal Marine assault squads within their main cabins traded jokes and cigarettes and triple-checked their gear in preparation for the impending attack.
They should have departed three hours earlier, however a minor fault with one of the Iroquois’ refuelling units had proven incredibly difficult to locate and rectify, delaying the departure and increasing the associated tension levels of all concerned. There was nothing to be done other than wait it out, all the same: the mission was barely possible with all three gunships operational, and would have been outright suicide with anything less, and in this fashion, an assault that should have taken place at dawn, when the enemy’s was in theory at his weakest, would now take place sometime after mid-morning, in broad daylight.
That was their mission in any case, and as elite forces, the marines grumped and groused as much as would be expected as they went about their preparations, no thought whatsoever given to anything other than following their orders to the letter. The Iroquois disengaged a few minutes later and immediately banked away, turning back for home and safety as the Crocodiles retracted their refuelling probes and continued on their way.
Through large, open hatches on either side of their rear fuselages, side gunners manning .30-calibre machine guns kept careful watch, often craning their necks and almost pushing their heads out through the openings to check their rears for any danger. It was one of these men who first called a warning just seconds before the first wave of RAF fighters and attack jets roared past overhead, they too preferring to stay low above the surface of the sea below to avoid radar detection.
A few of the marines and chopper crews waved and called out unheard cheers of encouragement as a dozen each of the brand new Sabres and Bushrangers screamed away ahead at close to twice the helicopters’ top speed, the howling jets quickly disappearing into ever-shrinking specs against the distant backdrop of ocean and sky. They all knew that those pilots were tasked with the clearing the way ahead, and many remarked in awe over the clusters of bombs and rocket pods that had hung beneath the long, straight wings of the huge Bushrangers, imagining with glee the devastation they were likely to inflict on their enemy during the coming engagement.
The jet pilots, for their part, expected a far sooner engagement. Even at the slower optimum cruising speed of the A-5A Bushranger – one that was far below the usual for the far more nimble Sabre – they were no more than thirty minutes from target by the time they swept past the now-receding Crocodiles. The twin-engined Bushrangers, far larger than their fighter escorts, also required extra fuel tanks beneath their wings to ensure sufficient range for the mission, although the remaining seven hardpoints below each aircraft’s wings and fuselage nevertheless still allowed for close to 10,000 pounds of varied and incredibly lethal ordnance.
Even the Sabres, fighters that they were, also carried almost half that in bombs and rockets beneath their own slender, swept wings, and although their primary mission would always be that of top cover, protecting their fellow attack aircraft, they would also have an opportunity to unleash their own weapons against ground targets during the opening phase of the assault.
At an altitude of no more than a hundred feet, there was no chance yet of detection by enemy radar, although they all knew that was likely to change as they drew ever nearer. Like the choppers they’d just passed however, they too were waiting on their own ‘saviour’ of sorts: a final piece of the improvised attack plan that was absolutely vital to success in the initial attack phase.
As time-to-target closed to the fifteen-minute mark, the F-35E Lightning II positively shrieked past the two squadrons of Sabres and Bushrangers at similar altitude, perhaps half a mile or more off to the north-east. Normally stealthy and to all intents and purposes invisible to enemy radar when flying ‘clean’, the additional weapon racks beneath its wings that morning could definitely be detected, although probably only at such short range – Thorne hoped, at least – that there would be no time left for any warning to be raised.
He flew on alone, the airframe juddering markedly as the Lightning pushed through the sound barrier at full afterburner, closing on Mach 1.2 with sheer, unadulterated thrust as it sliced through the thick, sea-level ai
r. His EW systems were already picking up multiple radar emissions from the target area, the most powerful of which seemed to emanate from the centre of Ambon Bay itself. Considering the reports of Japanese carriers and/or cruisers in the area, it wasn’t difficult to assume logically that those powerful emissions were most likely emanating from some kind of heavy warship – probably several, judging by what he was reading.
His iPod was slotted into its specially-fitted socket to one side of the instrument panel, and AC/DC’s charged classic, Thunderstruck played loudly in his ears as he psyched himself for his first air combat in over two years. The jet was responding perfectly – as was to be expected with digital, fly-by-wire systems – and although his active radar was down at present so as to not give away his own position, the Lightning’s passive IR detection systems were nevertheless sufficiently sensitive that even at a range now of almost 100 miles, he was already starting to pick out the heat signatures of come larger aircraft operating above the island ahead.
There was a small blessing to be found in the intermittent cloud cover and the surprising coolness of the morning so far. Under favourable circumstances, the Lightning’s state-of-the art passive sensors could potentially detect missile launches as at distances of many hundreds of miles, however piston-engined aircraft were notoriously difficult to detect via infra-red, and direct sunlight and summer heat significantly compounded the problem immensely.
“Phoenix-Leader to all units,” he announced over the radio, using the call-sign all had been briefed on in advance. “Picking up emissions from two large search radars and several smaller units – possibly airborne. No hard intel on the main units yet, but my gut feeling is they’re shipborne sets: maybe one or both of the carriers we’ve had reports on in the area…” he added, the music having muted automatically as he’d keyed transmit. “ETA now ten minutes and closing. Please keep in mind the Tan Tui area is not to be hit – free to engage all targets otherwise. Good luck all; I’ll see you on the other side: Harbinger, out…”
The Dead Alone (Empires Lost Book 3) Page 100