by Kacey Ezell
Fighters! Three o’clock low!
That was Logan in the ball turret. Evelyn felt him as he spun his turret around and began to fire the twin Browning AN/M2 .50 caliber machine guns at the sinister dark shapes rising up to meet them with fire.
Got ‘em, Bobby Fritsche replied, from his position in the right waist. He, too, opened up with his own .50 caliber machine gun, tracking the barrel forward of the nose of the fighter formation, in order to “lead” their flight and not shoot behind them.
Evelyn blinked, then hastily relayed the call to the other girls in the formation net. She felt their acknowledgement, though it was almost an absentminded thing as each of the girls were focusing mostly on the communication between the men in their individual crews.
Got you, you Kraut sonofabitch! Logan exulted. Evelyn looked through his eyes and couldn’t help but feel a twist of pity for the pilot of the German fighter as he spiraled toward the ground, one wing completely gone. She carefully kept that emotion from Logan, however, as he was concentrating on trying to take out the other three fighters who’d been in the initial attacking wedge. One fell victim to Bobby’s relentless fire as he threw out a curtain of lead that couldn’t be avoided.
Two back to you, tail, Bobby said, his mind carrying an even calm, devoid of Logan’s adrenaline-fueled exultation.
Yup, Rico Martinez answered as he visually acquired the two remaining targets and opened fire. He was aided by fire from the aircraft flying off their right wing, the Nagging Natasha. She fired from her left waist and tail, and the two remaining fighters faltered and tumbled through the resulting crossfire. Evelyn watched through Rico’s eyes as the ugly black smoke trailed the wreckage down.
Fighters! Twelve high!
Fighters! Two high!
The calls were simultaneous, coming from Sean in his top turret and Les on the left side. Evelyn took a deep breath and did her best to split her attention between the two of them, keeping the net strong and open. Sean and Les opened fire, their respective weapons adding a cacophony of pops to the ever-present thrum of the engines.
Flak! That was Carl, up front. Evelyn felt him take hold of the controls, helping the lieutenant to maintain his position in the formation as the Nazi anti-aircraft guns began to send up 20mm shells that blossomed into dark clouds that pocked the sky. One exploded right in front of Pretty Cass’ nose. Evelyn felt the bottom drop out of her stomach as the aircraft heaved first up and then down. She held on grimly and passed on the wordless knowledge the pilots had no choice but to fly through the debris and shrapnel that resulted.
In the meantime, the gunners continued their rapid fire response to the enemy fighters’ attempt to break up the formation. Evelyn took that knowledge—that the Luftwaffe was trying to isolate one of the Forts, make her vulnerable—and passed it along the looser formation net.
Shit! They got Liberty Belle! Logan called out then, from his view in the ball turret. Evelyn looked through his angry eyes, feeling his sudden spike of despair as they watched the crippled Fort fall back, two of her four engines smoking. Instantly, the enemy fighters swarmed like so many insects, and Evelyn watched as the aircraft yawed over and began to spin down and out of control.
A few agonizing heartbeats later, first one, then three more parachutes fluttered open far below. Evelyn felt Logan’s bitter knowledge that there had been six other men on board that aircraft. Liberty Belle was one of the few birds flying without a psychic on board, and Evelyn suppressed a small, wicked feeling of relief that she hadn’t just lost one of her friends.
Fighters! Twelve o’clock level! Paul called out from his bombardier compartment in the nose. His smaller .30 caliber machine guns sang out, joining the chaos of lead and noise, and the acrid, burnt smell of flak and hot brass. Evelyn took a deep breath of her oxygen and tried to focus on her job: maintaining the net and keeping in touch with the other crews.
Stay tight on ‘em, Carl thought to Bob. Look, you can kinda feel what they’re going to do, through Evie’s net. See?
Evelyn ignored the sounds of combat all around her, ignored the knowledge that another Fort in the formation had been shot out of the sky, and focused on the copilot. She fed him the inputs she got from Alice, who got them, in turn, from the pilot on the controls in Teacher’s Pet.
Light ripped through her mind as shards of glass flew everywhere, little bee stings that faded into insignificance beside the piercing pain that raked across her (his?) chest. Evelyn screamed and heard Bob echoing the sound up front as he felt the bullets that ripped the Pet’s pilots to shreds.
Fighters! Ten o’clock high! Twelve o’clock high! They got Lead!
That was Sean again, rocking backward as he worked the controls of his top turret. Evelyn tried to gather the scattered fragments of her attention. Her crew net had held, but she’d ripped herself out of the larger formation net, and now it felt like they were flying blind. She took another deep, steadying breath of the icy oxygen in her bottle and reached out tentatively, toward Alice.
Nothing.
Parachutes from the Pet, Logan reported, his voice still and calm but with that edge of angry despair she’d tasted earlier. I count two.
Yeah, two, Les echoed.
Alice wasn’t one of them, Evelyn reported to the group, fighting down her internal trembles. She was gone. Just gone. I tried to reach her...there was just nothing there.
A long pause.
Sorry, Evie, Les said gently, even as he continued to scan for the deadly fighters. It hurts, we know.
Evelyn shook herself, physically, and ordered herself to get a grip. She took another icy breath and forced her head up, her shoulders down.
It does, but no more than losing any airman, she said. Alice did her job to the end. I’ll...try to do mine.
* * *
It was horrific. They lost five more Forts, two with psychics aboard, before they came close to the target. The whole time, enemy flak continued to pound them, rattling them about like pebbles in an old tin can. Evie came to hate the flak nearly as much as the dreaded fighters, though the chances of flak taking down a Fort were minuscule. The Luftwaffe fighters were much more deadly.
With Teacher’s Pet gone, Carl took the controls and slid into the lead spot in the formation. That made Abram, their navigator, responsible for getting the entire group of Forts to the correct target coordinates. He’d been following along during the entire flight, just in case this exact scenario happened, and Evie felt him taking refuge in the familiar tasks he’d been trained to do.
Radio, need a fix, Abram thought to John, their substitute radio operator. John acknowledged with a wordless affirmative and set to work pinging the two nearest radio transmitters. From this transmission, he’d get a distance and bearing to the station, and Abram would use the intersection of those two bits of information to “fix” their position in space. Both John and Abram worked smoothly, and Evelyn was satisfied that they’d be fine, though she could feel the added sense of responsibility heavy on them both.
There seemed to be a lull in the fighter attacks, and Evelyn used the opportunity to check in with the other psychics in the formation. They were all a bit shaken up, some more than others. Because of the tenuous formation-wide net, each one of them had felt at least an echo of the trauma of Alice’s death, as well as the deaths of the other two psychics who’d gone down with their aircraft. In each case, there had been a searing pain and then a violent ejection from that part of the net. In neither case had anyone been able to sense the psychic’s mind once the parachutes started blossoming open. Evelyn didn’t want to think about that too closely, as there was still the rest of the mission to get through, but it was definitely something they were going to have to consider back on the ground.
In any case, Evelyn took a moment to cast her mind around the formation and do, at least, a cursory check. Where she could, she tried to help the other psychics to smooth down their ragged edges. In all cases, she found a grim determination to see it out, to get t
heir crews back safely. That was the net at work again, Evelyn reflected in the private corner of her mind. The bond always worked two ways.
Two minutes to the bomb run, Abram sent to the rest of the crew. A thread of excitement ran through the net. Evelyn felt the shudder of tension through her channels and drew in a deep breath of her oxygen to keep calm. From her connection to the men, she knew that as the lead bombardier, Paul’s drop would signal all the rest of the formation to drop with them. In a very real sense, just as Abram was responsible for getting them there, Paul was responsible for getting the job done.
We’re all responsible for getting the job done, Paul replied on that tight channel. Amusement flirted with the focus and tension in his mind. Even you. Especially you. Are you linked with the other birds? You can help them drop simultaneously. This could be our tightest drop ever.
Evelyn blinked, surprised that the idea hadn’t occurred to her before now. I can do that, she replied to Paul. Then she reached out again to her fellow psychics.
Let’s open these channels a bit wider, the fighters are mostly gone now anyway, she sent, just as another blast of flak rocked her hard against her seat. She grimly held on to her seat and focused on her message. We’re about to start the bomb run. When we do, bring up your bombardiers’ channels. We’re lead, so I’ll pass my bombardier’s thoughts on. If our channels are wide open, they should all drop in near unison.
Starting the bomb run now, autopilot on. She’s all yours, Paul, Carl thought as he made the appropriate control inputs. He kept his hands hovering near the yoke, however. Evelyn realized from the rest of the crew’s response that this was typical of their pilot. He believed very deeply in the concept of an aircraft commander, and though he trusted his bombardier implicitly, he wasn’t about to not be in position to save the crew if the situation demanded it. Keeping his hands close was Carl Peters’ version of a lucky charm.
As they made their way through the flak and smoke to the target, the crew’s tension ratcheted up higher and higher. The gunners continually checked and rechecked their weapons in between scanning out for more of the dreaded Luftwaffe fighters. Their earlier attacks had broken off as the fighters got low on fuel, but by now, enough time had passed for the Germans to get another group of the deadly little Me-109s into the air.
Bomb drop in thirty seconds, Paul relayed to everyone through Evelyn’s net. She dutifully passed it on to the other crews.
Fighters! Twelve o’clock high! The call came from Sean, directly in front of Evie. She felt the adrenaline surge through the net as Sean and Abram both opened up with their respective guns. Carl’s hands drifted closer to the controls, his gloved fingertips resting on the yoke as he yearned to take control back from the autopilot.
Down in the nose, behind Abram’s furious fire, Paul bent over his bombsight and exhaled slowly. Bomb bay doors opening, he transmitted. The level of background noise suddenly grew from the vague background hum to a deafening roar as the bomb bay doors opened.
Drop in three...two...one...
Drop! Drop! Drop!
Fighters! Two o’clock! The fighter call came from Logan in the ball turret. He spun his turret around and opened fire on the enemy silhouettes. Evelyn simultaneously transmitted the drop call and watched the bombs fall past the Messerschmitts that Logan was fighting to destroy.
Behind and below, off to the side and above, all of the Forts in their combat box formation dropped their full payload of bombs. Thousands of pounds of destruction rained down through the sky to impact the machine factories down below.
Good drop! Good drop! Paul exulted as he watched through the bombsight. Right in the bleeding pickle barrel! The whole formation dropped near simultaneously! Evie! You did it!
Right, Carl thought, relief and satisfaction in his mind. He wrapped his hands around the yoke and toggled off the autopilot. Let’s turn around and get the hell out of here. Begging your pardon, Evie.
Logan, Sean, and Abram were still firing, and enemy fighters still screamed through the sky at them. Far below, massive anti-aircraft guns continued to fire bursts of flak up at them, rocking them around in their flying tin can. But Evelyn was riding high on the backlash of exultation from Paul and the others in the formation. The job was done. It was time to go the hell home.
* * *
Unfortunately for them, no one told the fighters. The Luftwaffe Me-109s continued to arrow in at them, spitting deadly fire that raked across the formation of Forts. Like wolves harrying a herd of deer, the fighters sought to separate the weak, isolate them, and move in for the kill.
Keep that formation tight! Evie, can you pull the psychics in tighter? Carl’s mind delivered the order with the same crisp calm he had exhibited the entire time. Evelyn complied, reaching out toward the other girls with encouragement. They were tired, all of them, and it was showing. As the formation net frayed with fatigue, the Forts tended to slip out of the precise positioning they’d held on the way in. That left them vulnerable.
Come tighter, Evelyn sent to the other girls. Rely on me if you have to. We just have to get them home, and these fighters can’t beat us.
Shit! That call came from Bobby Fritsche on the right waist gun. A fighter had come at them out of the sun, and he hadn’t picked it up in time before the 109 was able to rake its fire across them. Shrapnel exploded along the fuselage, sending razor shards arrowing toward the right waist gunner.
Right?
I’m okay...Bobby thought to the crew, but Evelyn knew differently. It wasn’t pain, so much as...well...she couldn’t have said what. But he felt cold and not quite right. She felt her attention being pulled in several different directions as the other psychics drew from her in order to steady themselves and their crews, and Bobby...
Les! Check Bobby! Evelyn ordered, her mind voice ricocheting through the crew like the crack of a whip. He’s in shock and graying out.
Shit! Sorry, Evie, just...shit! That was Les, busy firing his own gun at the fighters attacking from that side. Both Sean and Logan swiveled their turrets to back him up as Evelyn gave Bobby the mental equivalent of a slap. The pain hit him full force, like someone had taken a pair of sledgehammers to both legs.
Stay with us, Bobby! Evelyn ordered, holding his increasingly slippery mind in an ironclad lock. To the other girls, she sent a quick pulse of demand, followed by the visual from Carl’s piloting up front. Then she disengaged from the formation net entirely. Bobby was going to require all of her attention for the moment. The formation tightened up obediently, and the crossfire from the other Forts’ guns started to take some of the pressure off. Les fired a final burst and then whipped around to find Bobby slumped over his gun, blood soaking through the legs of his electric suit.
Bobby’s hit in both legs! Les reported back, his mind voice savage with grief and anger. I’m not sure why he’s not dead already—
I’m holding him, Les, Evie broke in. She knew some of the strain from her efforts was leaking into her tone, but she couldn’t do anything about that. Bobby was in a lot of pain, and she was having to take some of it onto herself to keep him alive.
Evie! No! Paul called out, horror in his tone.
Left waist, get bandages on those legs! Evie, do what you can, but don’t overexert yourself! We need you, too. That was Carl, imposing his icy calm.
I’ll let him go fully unconscious once Les gets the bandages on, she promised them all, and herself. Bobby was feeling the pull of oblivion, but Evelyn was stronger. She wasn’t going to let him go under until she knew he’d come back up. The effort was tremendous, but she wasn’t the strongest psychic in her unit for nothing. She would keep him alive, she told herself. And him. And all of them.
Got it! Les announced, as he finished dumping sulfa powder in through the entrance wounds in Bobby’s suit and wrapping pressure bandages tightly over the bleeds. The spreading stain of blood on Bobby’s suit slowed, then stilled. Evelyn took a deep breath.
Go, she said to Bobby, and gave him a push t
oward delicious unconsciousness and shunted him to the back of the net. She really should disconnect him entirely, but she didn’t want to take the risk of him starting to bleed out and her not knowing about it. Bobby slumped further into Les’ arms, and his fellow waist gunner laid him down among the spent brass and empty ammo cans as gently as he could manage.
Evelyn took a deep breath and realized her entire body was trembling. Sean looked back at her with a look of concern, and she flashed him a “thumbs up” and a reassuring mental pulse. Then she reached back out to the formation net and concentrated on keeping their wingmen in position.
* * *
The flight home seemed to take longer than the flight out.
Evelyn didn’t know whether it was the aching exhaustion, the worry for her injured crewman, her grief over the aircraft and crews they’d lost, or just a malignant headwind that genuinely slowed them down, but the minutes seemed to drag by with agonizing slowness.
Abram and John used the radio to update their position and navigate them back toward the English coast. Once again, they encountered a cloud deck over the Channel, and once again, they were forced to rely on instrument flight to cross through it. Midway through the crossing, they lost two of the formation’s surviving Forts due to engine damage sustained on the bomb run. The wounded Forts couldn’t keep up and were forced lower and slower. The hope was that they could limp all the way across the Channel. More realistically, however, they’d probably have to ditch in the water. The good news was that the day wasn’t too far gone yet, so the British Air/Sea Rescue Service had a great chance of picking them up. Once it got dark, however, their chances plummeted.
Evelyn pushed that thought away and filed it under “things to be considered later, if ever.” She did take comfort in the knowledge that that one of the birds, One For The Money, had Pearl Silvers on board. Pearl was a powerful psychic from Atlanta, Georgia. She was also one of the unit’s three colored girls, which mattered not at all at this moment but stuck in Evelyn’s mind for some reason. A racially-mixed unit was unorthodox, to be sure, but then, so was a unit of psychic women flying onboard combat aircraft. The Army needed their skills, and psychics were rare enough that the Army was willing to take those it could get, regardless of their skin color. Oddly enough, few of the white psychics minded. Privately, Evelyn thought it had to do with the fact that as psychics, they were used to “feeling” people as much as they “saw” them...and to a certain extent, all human beings “felt” the same. For that reason, skin color had never mattered much to her, nor had it seemed to matter much to the others. People just “felt” like people.