The Legend of Garison Fitch (Book 3): Lost Time
Page 6
"I have called you four in because a recon flight has found the base that launched the attach on Crockett. They're in a canyon back of the Bacon Strips—I'm sure you all know where that is." At their nods he said, "Between the canyon and the river the Japanese are massing a ground swell of troops for an invasion we expect to begin today. With that knowledge, six bombers out of Bowie Army Air Base took off at oh-two-hundred hours this morning. They are going to be refueling here in about fifteen minutes, then they are going to fill that canyon to the rim with high explosives before the sun comes up—if you understand my meaning. They are being escorted by a squadron of Comal 38s."
He looked at each of the pilots in turn, then said, "Personally, I believe they could use a little more escort coverage. Someone out on the flank of the formation. Command agrees, but says they can't spare anyone else. I told them I have four aging but well-maintained Comal 34s out there on the flight line but all my pilots are already over their limits for flight time because of yesterday's recon missions. Besides that, one of them has the flu and, as you know how these things go, the others probably soon will. I asked command if I could send those 34s up if I could find four suitable pilots who would volunteer." With a slight smile, he asked in his gravelly voice, "I have called you four out of bed because I thought you might know where I could find four such volunteers."
It had been a while since Kerrigan had been up in a '34. To relearn the bird in the dark was not his favorite way to operate, but he hadn't been about to turn down a chance to get back up in the sky so soon—and especially with the possibility of avenging Crockett. Besides, the differences in the cockpits of a Comal 34 and a Comal 38 were negligible. The real differences came in the way they handled, owing to the improved tail assembly of the '38. Maybe, he thought, this was one of the '34s that had been upgraded to the newer assembly, which would mean it would handle much like a '38.
Twenty yards to his left was Lieutenant Avery. When he looked real close, he could just barely make out the cockpit lights on Avery's '34, or a shadow when he passed in front of a star. Mainly, he knew he was there because he knew Avery. They had flown together enough back in the '27th to have learned quite a bit about each other’s habits. And Avery had been his wingman for a while back then when Carter had been grounded from the concussion. Lieutenant Dalmouth and Captain Mulchahey were about three miles due east, flying escort on the other side of the big bombers. And around the bombers was another circle of fighters flying escort.
He admired bomber pilots but was glad he wasn't one. Not just because the birds were so slow, but because so many of them didn't come back. Of course, the life expectancy of a fighter pilot wasn't much longer.
Some pilots, he knew, didn't like flying at night. Jason didn't want to do it every night, but for the most part, he enjoyed it. While every sense had to be alert—especially flying around the canyon and mountain country that surrounded Crockett—there was also a sort of peacefulness. It was a chance to see the stars with a clarity that didn't seem possible on the ground, to feel one's plane in a way that didn't seem possible when the eyes were the primary sensory organ. It was a chance to think, for one thing.
Really, that was the downside of night flying. No, he told himself ruefully, the chance to think was the downside of any flying—or any activity, for that matter. He used to like to work with wood or play solitaire because they gave him opportunities to think. Now he eschewed those activities for the very same reason.
Shortly after she had passed away, Jason had thrown himself into any sort of activity that would take his mind off Susan. But as time went by, he had come to realize that she wouldn't be back. While that didn't make him feel good or happy or even allow the pain to ease, it had finally brought him to the realization that the best thing he now had of Susan were the memories so he might as well remember them. Still, it was hard. And he fought a constant battle with his mind over whether to think about her or not.
So on some of these dark-of-the-night flights, he remembered her. He thought back to her beautiful hair, which she had kept long and down even into adulthood. He thought of how beautiful she had looked in her wedding dress and how she felt in his arms. On some night flights he could remember her kisses so well he could almost taste them on his lips. But not this one.
He wondered if she were up there watching over him—or at least watching him—but mainly he was focused on what they were about to do. He had known what Bronwyn meant when she said her grandfather was up there with her and there had been times when he had felt the same thing about Susan. While he hoped she were up there, maybe asking God to dispatch a few more guardian angels for the flight, he had to put her out of his mind as he flew ever closer to their target.
The Rio Grande was now behind them and the mountains they called "The Bacon Strips," for their uncanny resemblance to bacon when the setting sun hit them, were folding away beneath them. Approximately one and a half miles to his left was a fleet of bombers, loaded to the gills. About five minutes ahead of him was a canyon that contained a previously well-concealed Japanese base that he was going to help bomb out of existence.
At five miles out, he and the other Crockett survivors throttled up to get ahead of the bombing convoy and try to knock out or distract any sentry planes that might be on patrol. It was highly assumed that there would be sentries as some sort of retaliatory strike had to be expected after yesterday's attack on Crockett. They were well to the east of where intelligence said the ground troops were stationed—and maybe crossing the river even as he flew—but he and Avery were keeping an eye out for the sentry planes that were sure to be guarding the ground masses. And there were plenty of mesas in the serrated countryside below them that would serve as excellent stations for anti-aircraft guns. Most of the mesas would have been next to impossible to get a gun atop of, but the Mexicans and their burros had proven able to lug heavy machinery to out of the way places that men in trucks, tanks or jeeps couldn't have achieved in a year.
As they rendezvoused with the other two airplanes, Kerrigan got a feeling something was wrong. It was that same sensation that a deer gets when it suddenly realizes hunters are nearby. While never in a battle of any more consequence than one on one before, Kerrigan thought enough of the sensation to listen to it.
He suddenly broke radio silence to command, "Go break 8."
A split second after he had made the broadcast, the two remaining members of the 187th had peeled off to the left while Kerrigan and Avery pulled back on their sticks to fly virtually straight up. Tracer fire erupted through what had so recently been their path.
Mulchahey's voice broke the radio silence to announce, "Someone knows we're here."
A voice, that of the commander of the bombing convoy, asked, "Numbers?"
"No idea sir. Could be one, could be a bunch of 'em."
"Crockett 1," the commander barked, "You and 2 take their runway and taxi area. 3 and 4, strafe the flight-line and drop as many flares as you can. Try to get an idea if any zeros are in the air. And watch for anti-aircraft fire. You know the placements." The last command was for the benefit of anyone listening in as they hadn't been able to pinpoint the AA from the aerial photos but thought it might help to make the opposition think they had.
"Roger," came back four separate voices.
"You got my six, Two," Kerrigan—Crockett 1—said to his wingman.
"Right behind you, One."
Kerrigan could see the walls of the canyon to either side—seemingly just inches beyond his wingtips in the darkness, though he knew it was a quarter of a mile wide—as he descended into it. The runway showed up as a lighter strip among the darkness in the dim moonlight. He thought he saw the shape of an airplane beginning to taxi so he let go with both guns.
Suddenly there was an explosion on the runway which was bright enough to give them a good view of the flight line. As Kerrigan continued his strafing run, dropping flares that illuminated the dark canyon well enough to help the bombers site in and gave the
people on the ground something to do besides dodge bullets, Avery reported back to command, "Looks like about a dozen zeros on the flight line and—I count two bombers. Repeat, I count two bombers" There was excitement in his voice—as in the ears of his comrades—because that meant they had a chance at getting at least that many planes before they could get airborn.
"Roger that," Command replied. "I put our ETA at just under five minutes."
"We'll try to leave you something to do."
"Negative," Command replied. "Get out of the canyon and fly patrol. We'll take care of the canyon. You just light it up for us."
"Roger," came back three disappointed voices.
The night erupted with antiaircraft fire but there was no sign of the zeros that should be in the air. Kerrigan reported as much to the commander.
"Crockett flight team!" the commander suddenly called out. "Return to base. Repeat, return to base!"
"But sir," Kerrigan objected, even as he made the turn to obey.
"I just got word that they found the rest of those zeros and the remaining bombers. They're over Marathon right now trying to do to it what they did to Crockett. See how many of them you can keep from returning home."
"Roger, Command. Crockett, form up on me and let's head back to Texas." Three voices responded in affirmative. As they sped away, they were each aware of the flames lighting up the night as the Bombers from Bowie, as they were known, filled the canyon with high explosives. From a distance, it truly looked like they were filling the canyon to the rim with fire.
There was just a hint of light on the eastern rim of the world when they contacted the zeros that were leading the formation away from Marathon. Kerrigan downed the lead zero directly over the Rio Grande before anyone knew what had happened, then suddenly they were in a dogfight.
The early morning light made it hard to tell enemy from friend, but the four Crockett fighters were able to keep tabs on one another mainly with the idea that everyone they could see was from the other side. The '34s all had that distinctive tailfin that helped ID each other moreso than if they had all be flying '38s. They cut a swath through the on-coming and surprised zero pilots with a blaze of tracer fire that added a strange illumination to the night.
The Japanese bombers were maneuverable aircraft for their size, but not maneuverable enough. As the lead bomber juked away from Avery's on-slaught, it flew right into Kerrigan's. With fire in one engine and smoke coming from the other, the big plane began its descent into the desert. Seconds later—thanks to the flying and guns of Dalmouth and Mulchahey—a second bomber followed it into the desert.
Dalmouth watched in surprise as Kerrigan flew what was looking like a suicide mission straight at one of the bombers that had somehow been cut away from the escort planes momentarily. She guessed that Kerrigan was out of ammunition—or his guns were jammed—because he didn't appear to be firing at the big plane.
The bomber lumbered away from Kerrigan with a sharp turn that had it pointing almost due west. Kerrigan juked to avoid the tail gunner but maintained his pursuit of the big plane. Afraid he was on a suicide mission and hating to see him succeed, Bronwyn banked her plane and took out a zero that had been trying to catch up with Kerrigan and the bomber it should have been escorting. Kerrigan, meanwhile, continued to pursue the bomber but didn't seem to be all that intent on catching up with it because even though the '34 was slower than the '38, it should have been faster than a big, heavy bomber like that. Even a bomber that was, presumably, light due to having left all its bombs on Marathon.
It was then than Bronwyn realized Kerrigan wasn't chasing the airplane, he was herding it. He was correcting his course just enough to keep the bomber on a path directly above the river. She couldn't figure out why, when suddenly she saw Kerrigan speed up to be almost on the bombers tail, then unload a barrage of fire that quickly spelled the death knell of the big bomber.
Kerrigan pulled up and turned around as the bomber began its death dive, unable to effect any sort of control because—above all—Kerrigan's barrage had made mincemeat of the tail section. Bronwyn was so engrossed in watching the airplane crash, and trying to figure out what exactly Kerrigan had done, that she didn't realize a zero that had been watching the maneuver had finally caught up in its pursuit of her.
She looked up into the dark western sky to see the silhouette of an airplane coming at her, guns blazing. Just as she juked downward, she realized the airplane was a '34 and wasn't shooting at her. It was blasting whoever was on her tail that had sent those tracers through the space where her plane had just been. She broke radio silence just long enough to say, "Thanks, Captain."
"Pay attention to them, not me," he returned in a voice that was not unfriendly but certainly brooked no argument.
In her current flight path her attention was drawn to the dying bomber, which was nose-diving into a dark cloud that was crossing the river. As she pulled up on her stick to turn back and rejoin the battle, she realized what she was seeing. Kerrigan had herded the big bomber west until in the vicinity of where the invasion force was crossing the river then had shot it down in the hopes it would crash into its own forces. It was a one in a million ridiculous gamble—but it had worked.
As the four Crockett pilots circled around and reformed to engage the escort planes, they found them all zooming south—with no apparent regard for what had just happened to their bombers. "What?" someone asked, sounding like Avery.
"Must've just gotten word that they don't have a base to fly back to," Kerrigan answered. "Let's see if we can keep some of them from making it back home."
"Yessir!" came Avery's voice, shortly thereafter echoed by Lt. Dalmouth.
"You coming, Three?" Kerrigan asked.
"Love to," Mulchahey replied, "But I must have taken a shot to a fuel line or something. I'm running out fast. I'm going to have to head in. Get one for me, will ya, Four?"
"Roger that," Bronwyn replied as she formed up on Kerrigan in pursuit of the zeros.
They caught up with the fleeing zeros as they were engaging the returning Bowie squadron just south of the Rio Grande. One bomber was in a smoking tailspin, as was another—though the crew seemed to have been able to bale out, judging from the 'chutes in the air. Kerrigan grimaced as he saw the one bomber—with her crew probably still inside, collide with the desert floor and burst into flames. Like all battles, the small amount a triumph was being tempered with tragedy.
The sun wasn't up yet, but there was enough light in the sky to make determining the enemy far easier. For the next few minutes—which seemed like hours as they happened and seconds in retrospect—it was nip and tuck. Kerrigan downed one, then another, then a third before being shaken out of his machine-like precision when he heard Avery declare, "I'm hit!"
"Get out of there!" Kerrigan replied. He cast a glance sideways to see Avery eject from his airplane. He watched as it at first looked like Avery were tangled in his 'chute, but then breathed a sigh of relief as it opened fully. He was low and Avery may have hit hard, but at least he should be alive, Kerrigan thought to himself.
Kerrigan switched his radio over to Bronwyn's frequency and said, "Looks like it' just us, now."
"Roger, One," she replied. After a moment, she added, "No, it's just you. I've barely got enough fuel to make it back."
Their sortie was over, however. They had broken the ranks of the zeros and allowed the remaining four bombers to make it through. They were on their way to Marathon now, where he hoped there was a runway left for them to land on. Of the Bowie Escort Service, ten were still aloft, though one was smoking and it looked like he would have to either eject or ditch a long way before reaching Marathon. Lt. Dalmouth pulled up next to the sputtering plane and, with hand signals just barely seen in the dim light, got the pilot to change radio frequency. Kerrigan heard her say, "Eject 141. Your starboard engine's spewing oil—and parts."
"I can hold it—"
"Eject," she said more forcefully. "You're clear of the river."
The runway at Marathon was littered with holes and airplane parts and was unusable. Many of the buildings were still on fire, but thanks to an excellent corps of anti-aircraft gunners and an alert patrol that had been in the air at the time, the loss of life had been remarkably small considering how many people had been asleep when the attack came. So a makeshift runway had been made out of a dirt road past the bluffs on the north side of the town of Marathon.
By the time the two remaining flyers from Crockett had returned to Marathon, the Bombers from Bowie had already been refueled and returned to the air for their somber flight back to Bowie Army Air Base. It was to be a miserable flight back with one of their planes down for sure and all hands presumed lost and another bomber downed and the flight team in limbo. Recon planes and ground crews had been dispatched to pick up the downed pilots, they knew, but there was no comfort in flying without knowing their status even though they knew their mission had been a success.
It struck Jason that, from a logistical and military supply standpoint, recovering from the bombing of Crockett would be an easier thing than what Marathon Airfield was going to go through. At Crockett, it had all been a wash and only three injured people had lived to receive care. The choices for the base were bull-doze it, leave it or rebuilt it with no middle ground between options. But at Marathon there were going to be many wounded and buildings that would need to be rebuilt. That was going to take work—and manpower that just wasn't easy to come by in the middle of a war as they were.