by Stuart Slade
F-105D “Frankenwhoosh” 273rd Fighter Group, Over the Sixth Ring of Hell
The fact that any F-105s had survived at all wasn’t so unusual, but the sheer number of them had been remarkable indeed. The search through the museums had found no less than 103 F-105s of assorted marks, in conditions varying from the derelict to the pristine. Some had even had their engines and cannon still installed and three had been in immediately flyable condition. Over the last three months, 15 more had joined the 273rd making up one of its squadrons. They were all a blend of the most intact airframes with parts taken from the airframes too far gone to bring back into service, hence they all bore names starting with “Franken”. The single-engined aircraft were old and tired, all the museum salvaged aircraft were that, but they could still fly and haul bombs. They would do, they would fill the gap, until new aircraft came into service in enough numbers and the Thunderchiefs could return to their quiet life in the aircraft museums of America. Only this time, they would be sporting the red-and-gray camouflage scheme worn by the aircraft that fought in Hell.
Captain Casey “Loco” Jones angled his wings slightly and turned to follow the Styx as it meandered down below. The five other F-105s following him did the same. The aircraft were sluggish, the F-105 was stunningly fast low down but nobody had ever described it as agile. With six 750 pound bombs hanging under its belly, four more on each inner wing rack and one on each outer, a total of 12,000 pounds, the old aircraft were really hard to fly. It had been a wrench for him to be taken out of his Boeing 767 and put back into a Thud, but the old-timers who had flown the bird before were getting thin on the ground.
Down below, he could see a long black snake following the river. It was the column of baldricks he was hunting, apparently they were advancing on an area of Hell that had been liberated. Well, there were things he could do about that.
“All Frankenstein aircraft, target is below, roll out and follow me down.” Jones rolled his wings to vertical, feeling the aging spars and frames creaking in protest then pulled the stick back, hauling the nose of the Thunderchief around. Then, he leveled the wings, dropped the nose and rammed the throttle all the way forward. The F-105 responded gallantly, its engine surging with power, even through the filters built into its engine intakes.
Under his nose, the column was now stretched out before him, his flight path taking him along its length. Something that hadn’t been obvious before, there was a wall between them and the river, an old-fashioned, crenallated wall that marked the division between the fifth and sixth circles of Hell. That wouldn’t make much difference, it offered little cover and wouldn’t even get in the way of the bombing and strafing passes.
The target below was growing rapidly, this was a part of the attack that needed care. The Thud dived very fast and was too ponderous to pull out quickly. More than one F-105 pilot had been so interested in strafing his target that he’d left pulling out too late and flown right into the ground. A gentle pressure on the stick, pull the nose back and then release the bombs. Behind him, the dark green 750 pounders dropped clear, their tail fins spreading sideways as they opened up to slow the fall of the bombs. Those retarding fins and the long fuse extenders made sure that the bombs would explode above the ground, maximizing the radius covered by their fragments. The F-105s streaked over the column of baldricks, unleashing their total of nearly a hundred bombs onto the figures below, then used the energy they had built up in their dive to get clear. By the time the bombs exploded, they were already miles away and thousands of feet above the devastation their bombs had caused.
At the top of his climb, Jones rolled over again and started his second pass. The bombs had mostly hit around the head of the column so he thought it would be only fair to give the rear some attention. He put the pipper of his cannon sight on the last ranks and squeezed the trigger, haring the vicious rasp of the M-61 as it pumped its shells into the scattering mass of baldricks. Then, he lifted the nose, marching the tracers along the column, only ending when he was getting too low for comfort. Still, he had some ammunition left and a part of it was used on a harpy that staggered across is nose. Then he was away again, once more climbing for altitude.
“Frankenstein aircraft, formate on me, we’re going home to get some more goodies.” If there were any he thought quietly, the rate we’re using the stuff up, the day when we run out can’t be that far off.
The six Thunderchiefs formed up into a loose arrowhead and started back towards the Hellmouth and home. Up ahead of him, Jones saw something that he couldn’t quite identify so he angled his course to take a closer look. It was further away than he had thought, mainly because the objects were so much larger.
“Just what the blazes is that?” the voice on the radio wasn’t quite identifiable but Jones shared the sentiments. It was a huge, misshapen beast, flying in an ungainly pattern, not quite holding a true course or height. He looked harder, it had wings of course, and a tail that seemed to act as a rudder. Then he caught his breath – it had seven heads.
“It’s a hydra, a flying hydra. And its huge, those wings must be three, four hundred feet across. Uh-oh look out guys. There’s wyverns with it and we haven’t seen ones like this before.” The wyverns were far larger than any that had been reported to date and were a brilliant gold in color. Jones started to count them and as he got to twelve, they broke formation to attack his aircraft. Simultaneously, the hydra dived away and started to break for cover, it might be ungainly but it was fast.
Jones picked out one of the Wyverns, the old Thud was no dogfighter but this wasn’t the time to argue matters. Once again he firewalled the throttle and felt the surge of power from his engine. The formation of six aircraft split into three pairs, one heading up and right, one up and left, the center pair with Jones in the lead went straight up. He glanced at the speed tape-gauge, he was pulling almost 18,000 feet per minute in a climb that was close to being straight up. As his speed bled off, he timed his climb, then rolled the F-105 over and dropped the nose. The wyverns were beneath him and his chosen target was in the perfect position for a gun pass. The Thud accelerated downwards and he moved the pipper so that it was on the tail of the monster. Then his cannon rasped again and he saw the tracers thudding into its body.
It was a short burst, it had to be he’d used most of his ammunition up on the column of troops. He saw tracers flashing past his wing, his wingman was firing as well, using up what was left of his cannon ammunition on the stricken wyvern. The creature was flailing, dying, the ball that ended its tail whipping through the air. That ball was dangerous, it had already cost the humans aircraft and that had been from the much smaller wyverns seen over the Phlegethon. It didn’t matter though, the Thuds were clear and three of the wyverns were dying, shot to pieces by the 20mm gatling guns in the nose of the F-105s.
“Any sign of that hydra?”
“It’s gone Loco.”
Jones swore quietly, a modern aircraft would have an air-to-air radar that could have found the beast in the dust laden air but the F-105 was old and obsolete. Still, she’d done her best at an age when any aircraft should have expected genteel retirement. The hydra had got away but the troops on the ground hadn’t. Nor had three wyverns.
Sixth Circle of Hell.
Xisorixus pulled himself out of the ditch that he had managed to find when the human sky chariots had found him. It had been so sudden he hadn’t had time to think about what to do, the chariots had screamed out of the sky and dropped their magebolts all over his column. Then they’d come back and repeated the performance, spraying fireflies into his foot soldiers. A few seconds that was all it had taken. They’d gone and left this shambles behind them.
The road was torn up, the stones shattered and cast around by the mage bolts that had left craters where they had landed. Around them were torn fragments of black flesh that was all anybody would ever find of those unlucky enough to be hit. Further out from the magebolt craters the wounded were sprawled on the ground, wailing with pai
n from the injuries inflicted by the iron splinters in their bodies.
“Get up, get moving. His Infernal Majesty did you the honor of inspecting you in person. Now show yourselves worthy of that privilege.” Then Xisorixus looked up at the city of Dis towering overhead and saw the great cloud of dust that masked where Satan’s palace had once stood. Others were looking at it as well.
“He might do the inspecting but he’s not around to do the fighting is he?” The voice from his troops was unidentifiable but the murmur of agreement that swept through the ranks showed that the speaker had a lot of agreement. Xisorixus was about to challenge the speaker, whoever he was, but then he decided to let it slide.
“How many have we lost?” Instead it was time to take stock of his losses.
“About eight hundred.” The reply was from the senior ‘Baron’ who Xisorixus had appointed to lead his first Legion. A ‘Baron’ who had led nothing larger than an octurbinium before and whose aristocratic rank was unrecognized by anybody outside Xisorixus’s hastily-assembled Army.
Eight hundred out of thirty thousand. A sharp loss for an attack that had been over in seconds but one that his army could swallow. The whispered words about the fighting on Earth and now along the Phlegethon were that a human attack usually created far more havoc than this.
“Resume our march. We will overrun the rebelling humans and gain great glory. And much favor in the eyes of His Majesty. We will have succeeded where Abigor and Beelzebub have failed!”
A ragged cheer went up and Xisorixus’s Army started to move again, leaving its dead beside the road. As they did, not a few were wondering when the Sky-Chariots would return and what form of death they would bring next time.
Chapter Sixty Nine
RAF Akrotiri, Cyprus. Wing Commander Martin Winters eased Vulcan B.2 XH558 down onto the air station’s long runway after taking her up for an air test. RAF Akrotiri was being used by the RAF as a staging post for aircraft bound for Iraq and onwards for operations in Hell.
The station was crowded with military aircraft and was busier than it had been at any point in its history, since the old days of the Near East Air Force anyway. In fact apart from more modern aircraft like Typhoons and Tornados it even looked like something out of the old NEAF days. Other than XH558 there were three other operational Vulcans and two Victor K.2s, a line-up of twelve Buccaneer S.2s, some of which had come all the way from South Africa, now wearing the markings of a reformed 208 Squadron, while four Phantom FGR.2s sat at the end of the row of Buccaneers, their paintwork looking a little faded, but were every bit operational. On the opposite side of the runway parked among ultra-modern Typhoons were a pair of Canberra PR.9s and a T.4. Winters expected to see the Battle of Britain flight with its Spitfires, Hurricane and other Word War Two veterans turning up an any moment. Then he reminded himself that those aircraft had been assigned to the Home Guard and were patrolling over cities in case of any more lava attacks. Of course, there was always the Shuttleworth Trust……
Ground Traffic Control was bleating as usual, they just weren’t used to having this many aircraft on the ground at once nor were they accustomed to the big bombers being around. Wing Commander Winters taxied the big bomber to the end of the row where the rest of the V-Bomber Flight was parked and shut down the four Rolls Royce Olympus 201 engines. Within seconds with the air conditioning turned off the cockpit began to get unbearably hot.
“Come on, lads, let’s get out of here before we all fry.” Winters said jocularly to his crew.
Like many of the aircrew in the flight Winters was a recalled pilot who had last flown the Vulcan in the early 1980s. The flight had the highest average age of aircrew of any unit in the Royal Air Force, and the highest average seniority, there were far more Wing Commanders and Squadron Leaders in such a relatively small unit than there normally would be. The air force was now attempting to rectify this situation by transferring some aircrew from the Nimrod and Tornado force to the V bombers. Since the RAF was hoping to buy some of the B-1Cs that the Americans were planning to put back in production the experience of flying large bomber aircraft would be valuable. Just as was happening all over the world, the museum-pieces were filling the gap until new production could replace them and allow them to return to retirement.
Winters climbed down the crew ladder, making sure he remained in the shadow of the big bat-winged bomber while he waited for the four other men to climb down. While he was doing so he heard the sound of another pair of aircraft making their approach. He did not recognise the engine sound and decided to go take a look, perhaps it was a visiting aircraft from another NATO unit.
“Bloody hell!” He remarked in astonishment as he saw the first of the pair of new aircraft flare out and release its braking parachute.
The large white aircraft’s nose wheel touched down and it began to decelerate, demonstrating the short-field capability that had been designed in from the start. As it passed XH558 Winters took in its pale, bleached national roundels and its serial number – XR220.
The Vulcan’s copilot, Squadron Leader David Maxwell, noticed that Winters was standing as if he was in a daze. He had not yet noticed either of the two arrivals.
“What is it, Boss…?” He said just in time to see the second aircraft, XR222, taxi past. “No…that couldn’t be! Tell me the Sun has finally gotten to me and that was a Tornado, not what I just thought it was.”
“I’m afraid that’s what you thought it was, it’s the second one in fact.” Winters replied.
“Well they kept that pretty quiet, Boss. I never heard so much as a peep that anybody was working on them.”
“Considering that they’ve got no hours on the airframe and have been cosseted for the last forty odd years it must have been fairly easy to get them flying again. Depends how extensive the internal damage was I guess, I’d heard Healey had ordered them cut up inside. Either the staff fixed them up while they were on show or the orders sort of got lost. I suppose they looted the Concorde program for engines and spares. I always heard Maggie Thatcher wanted the aircraft put back in production so some work must have been done back then as well.”
“Way I heard it, it was just the electrical wiring that was hacked up, they even cut the cabling rather than disconnecting it. But they’ve been in temperature-controlled and air-conditioned environments so the wiring may have been the only thing that needed replacing. Winters turned to the great bomber above and behind him. “Sorry, Old Girl, I’m afraid you’re no longer the star of the show.”
Winters could swear that he heard the bomber ‘harrumph’, evidently she disapproved of such show-offs as the ‘Grey Ghost’. On the other hand it could just be the airframe expanding and contracting as some bits of it heated up in the Sun and others cooled down.
The two new arrivals taxied to the end of the line of Buccaneers, shut down their Olympus 22R engines and opened their cockpit canopies. Winters and Maxwell recognized their aircrew as belonging to the Fast Jet and Weapons Operational Evaluation Unit, which until recently had the number plate of 41 Squadron, though that unit had reformed as a Jaguar GR.3A squadron. Since nobody had flown an aircraft like these since Roland Beamont had test flown the first prototype it was probably quite sensible to have the most experienced pilots in the service fly them.
Behind him, Maxwell shook his head. If this looting of museums went on, there wouldn’t be an aviation collection left intact. Idly, he wondered what the Russians were recovering from Monino and whether the Chinese would let the Americans have their U-2 back. Then it struck him that this showed just how seriously humans were taking this war. They were prepared to destroy their past, their history, their background, everything that they normally held dear if by doing so they could get one more combat aircraft, one more ship, one more tank into the battle zone. They were fighting this war regardless of cost, regardless of effort. All that mattered to them was winning. Suddenly he felt quite sorry for Yahweh and Satan whose posturing had unleashed this fury upon them.
/> Mission Control, Detroit
“Now, this is going to present an interesting problem.”
“I thought this test shot was pretty well worked out. There’s nothing that problematical about a radio-controlled aircraft surely?”
“Not that. The test will work or it won’t. We’ll just have to wait and see.” The Targeteer gestured at the newspaper that was folded up and discarded on the desk. “That will.”
Doctor Kuroneko looked confused. “The election.”
“That? It won’t really make that much difference who wins. The Republic is stronger than a retired warhorse and a jackass combined. No, I meant the court ruling from Texas. They’ve just sentenced a sex offender called James Kevin Pope to 40 life prison terms — one for each sex assault conviction — and 20 years for each of the three sexual performance of a child convictions. They’ve made the sentences consecutive so he’s got 4,060 years. He will be eligible for parole in the year 3209.”
Doctor Kuroneko still looked confused. The problem with the targeteers was that their disinterested, inflexionless voices gave no hint as to whether they were joking or not. “I’m sorry, I still don’t follow.”
“Well, in the past, all such jail sentences were a bit absurd, after all, what were they going to do? Hold parole hearings around a two millennia old grave? But what happens now? Pope goes to jail, dies in his cell sooner or later, probably sooner, ordinary decent criminals don’t like child molesters, and goes up to the next level. Does he serve out the rest of his sentence there? Or does he get a pass since he’s dead? And if you think we had trouble over capital punishment in the past, wait until everybody starts arguing the issue now.”
“Excuse me Sir, the transport aircraft is approaching the portal now.”
“Thank you Captain. Any problems?”