To Slip the Surly Bonds

by Chris Kennedy

  “Fucking shit!” he exclaimed. Taking a look at his navigational system, he saw there was no way the glide bombs could circle back towards his target.

  Well at least it would land somewhere in Britain, he thought. Hopefully either a military target, or at worse some fields.

  If he’d been able to see where his bombs headed to, Komissarov would have lost all of his briefly flickering faith in a higher power. Rather than an open field or even a distant military outpost, the unshakeable laws of ballistics took the two bombs to possibly one of the worst destinations they could reach—the Freeman Hospital. Like all other NHS hospitals, the facility had thankfully been cleared of all non-essential patients in expectation of being needed for war casualties. Unfortunately, that still left a fair number of staff from the night shift, transplant patients, cancer sufferers and, of course, their visiting family members.

  The effects of two bombs, each containing over 200-kilograms of high explosives, on the hospital were catastrophic.

  * * *

  Komissarov knew nothing of what had happened behind him, as he finally turned his big fighter for home.

  I have to run a gauntlet to the tanker, he thought, thinking of the SAMs and fighters between his current location and home base. There was suddenly a cough from somewhere aft that caused the MiG-25RBsh to shudder violently. He urgently checked his heads down display; to his horror he could see that the temperature of the right-hand engine was rising rapidly. It had just reached the red band when the FIRE light came on, followed by the MASTER CAUTION warning along with several urgent audible alarms.

  Shit! Shit! Shit! Komissarov thought, shutting down the right-hand engine as he punched the fire extinguisher button. Fear ran through him as the engine’s temperature continued to rise despite the engine’s RPM dropping down to almost nothing. There was only one explanation—he had an uncontained fire in the aft fuselage.

  I do not feel like going for a swim today, he thought angrily, banking his burning fighter back towards land. He had no desire to be taken prisoner but bailing out over the North Sea would probably just lead to the question of whether he froze to death or drowned.

  The MiG-25 was slowly losing both height and speed, making it vulnerable to interception. Although the MASTER CAUTION and fire warning had now been stilled, they were quickly replaced by increasingly strident tones from the radar warning receiver.

  Well, looks like I’m about to get a Tornado pilot a medal, Komissarov thought angrily, noting he was being illuminated by a Foxhunter radar. Very soon the Tornado F.3 it belonged to would be able to engage him, but likely not until after he had made a considerable distance inland.

  The thirty seconds passed quickly. As the Tornado closed into the outer edges of its envelope, Komissarov tightened the straps on his harness, checked that there were no loose objects in the cockpit, and paused for a moment. It was often a difficult decision for a pilot to choose to leave the relative comfort and warmth of the cockpit.

  It is time to go. With a sigh, he pulled the ejection seat handle.

  * * *

  Detective Sergeant Freddie Spicer stopped his car as he spotted the figure under a descending parachute. He had been driving to the Freeman Hospital to offer what help he could with crowd control. Like a lot of Northumbria Police’s detectives, Spicer was also pulling uniform duty, something that most CID officers had a great deal of distaste for.

  Well, time to figure out if this is a Russian or one of our lot, Spicer thought, getting out of the car. He was keenly aware of being unarmed, but so far, no Russians had attempted to shoot it out after dropping into Great Britain.

  Three hots and a cot will go far to making the other side come along peacefully, Spicer thought, placing on his peaked cap. He walked towards the pilot as the man stumbled to his feet, then began gathering up his parachute.

  “You one of ours, or one of theirs, bonny lad?” Spicer asked.

  “I am Captain Komissarov of the Soviet Air Force, officer. I wish to surrender,” the pilot said, handing Spicer his pistol.

  “Well, you’d better come wi’ me then,” Spicer said, gesturing back towards his car. The pilot dutifully got into the vehicle’s rear seat.

  “Control, I have a Soviet pilot in custody on Freeman Road by the tennis courts,” Spicer reported. “I’m going to drive him back to the station. Can you let the military know please, over?”

  What does this bloody lot want? the Detective Sergeant thought, looking at a crowd that was beginning to head his way. People had begun to congregate shortly after the hospital had been bombed and had continued to watch the fire. Rumours were already spreading as to how many people had been killed, and he’d heard the reports that the Maggie’s Centre had been destroyed along with its cancer patients. The mood of the local population was already very black.

  “That’s a bloody Russian!” someone shouted, pointing at Spicer’s car.

  Oh shit.

  “Control, I’m going to need back-up. I’ve a crowd turning nasty here, over,” Spicer radioed urgently. He turned in the seat.

  “You’re not a bomber pilot are you, lad?”

  The Russian hesitated, and Spicer sincerely hoped it was because he was processing the question.

  “No, I fly, how you say, reconnaissance aircraft,” the Soviet replied. “What you call the Foxbat.”

  The crowd, now a mob, was advancing on the Detective Sergeant and pilot. There was no sign as yet of the promised back-up. Spicer drew his baton and turned to Komissarov.

  “I think you’d better run, lad,” Spicer said firmly. “I’ll hold them back as long as I can.”

  * * *

  HQ, RAF Strike Command, RAF High Wycombe, Buckinghamshire.

  Air Chief Marshal Johnson reviewed the events of the past twenty-four hours as he sat down to record his final log.

  Another day of wastage that didn’t seem to move the needle at all, he thought, scribbling. The defences held up, but damned if we didn’t take some damage to the bases. He ran his hand over the stricken bases. Wick had been damaged badly enough that Air Vice Marshal Hazel had decided to temporarily relocate operations to Sumburgh Airport in Shetland. The Buncefield refinery, which produced aviation fuel, had been set on fire.

  On the plus side, losses were relatively light for us, he thought. Three Tornado F.3s, two Typhoons, and a pair of Hawks. The last two had been caught on the ground, something he was amazed had not happened to more of his fighters. A Tristar KC.1 had also been damaged on approach to Aberdeen Airport when it ran into a flock of seabirds. Although it had lost one of its RB211 engines, the tanker had landed safely.

  More importantly, we’re getting better at saving the crews that punch out, he thought. Even the enemy ones. Well, the ones in the sea, anyway. There were reports from Newcastle that a mob had hung a Soviet pilot from the nearest lamppost after blaming him for a local hospital’s bombing. The same mob had also badly beaten a police officer who had tried to protect the pilot.

  “Victoria, please ask Chief Constable of Northumberland Police if it’d be possible for me to visit the officer who was beaten today,” Johnson called out after a moment’s thought. “I’ll make a statement to the press afterwards; we don’t want this sort of thing becoming a regular occurrence.”

  “Yes, sir,” Victoria replied from the outer office.

  CINCUKAIR looked over the reports on stocks of weapons, fuel, and spare parts. They were not quite as healthy as he would have liked. Still, they were not at the stage yet of being a cause for concern. It did remind him that he was due to speak to the commander of RAF Support Command about his logistical needs in the morning.

  “Sir, you should probably head for bed,” Victoria stated from his office door. Johnson started. He looked towards his watch, only to recall taking it off in the gent’s toilet.

  “What time is it, Vicky?” Johnson asked, standing.

  “Five to midnight, sir,” she replied, having looked at the wall clock behind her boss.

 
“You really need to get some sleep, sir,” she pressed. “You’ll not be any use to anyone if you don’t get some rest.”

  “You should too, Vicky.”

  “Oh, I’m young, sir,” she replied, her voice belying her confidence. “I’ll manage for a while yet.”

  The implied suggestion that he was old made Johnson smile for the first time in several hours. It felt good, and that was a bad sign.

  “Okay, Vicky, I’ll get away to bed,” he said with a chuckle and a nod. “Wake me if something serious happens.”

  With that, Johnson took off his tie and shoes, and then climbed into the narrow cot. Within a few seconds, he was asleep.

  * * * * *

  Author’s Note:

  Readers of my ongoing online novel, The Last War, will notice that this story shares some characters and the general scenario from that work. However, it is not a TLW story. Rather, as the great Arthur C. Clarke said of his ‘Odyssey’ novels, it is from a very close parallel universe.

  * * * * *

  Jan Niemczyk Bio

  Jan Niemczyk was born and brought up in Scotland, where he currently lives. He has long had an interest in military history, aviation, naval warfare, cats and horses. He also has an interest in the Cold War. He is still amazed that anything he has written has appeared in an actual proper book. He has definitely not named a character after his cat!

  Mr Niemczyk is the author of the web novel The Last War, an alternative history where the USSR has survived into the early 21st Century (https://groups.yahoo.com/neo/groups/jans_fiction/files). He is currently employed in the public sector. He would also like to thank all those who had read his work, helped to make it better and who had bought the first book in this series.

  # # # # #

  About Chris Kennedy

  A Webster Award winner and three-time Dragon Award finalist, Chris Kennedy is a Science Fiction/Fantasy/Young Adult author, speaker, and small-press publisher who has written over 20 books and published more than 100 others. Chris’ stories include the “Occupied Seattle” military fiction duology, “The Theogony” and “Codex Regius” science fiction trilogies, stories in the “Four Horsemen” and “In Revolution Born” universes and the “War for Dominance” fantasy trilogy. Get his free book, “Shattered Crucible,” at his website, https://chriskennedypublishing.com.

  Called “fantastic” and “a great speaker,” he has coached hundreds of beginning authors and budding novelists on how to self-publish their stories at a variety of conferences, conventions and writing guild presentations. He is the author of the award-winning #1 bestseller, “Self-Publishing for Profit: How to Get Your Book Out of Your Head and Into the Stores,” as well as the leadership training book, “Leadership from the Darkside.”

  Chris lives in Virginia Beach, Virginia, with his wife, and is the holder of a doctorate in educational leadership and master’s degrees in both business and public administration. Follow Chris on Facebook at https://facebook.com/chriskennedypublishing.biz.

  * * * * *

  About James Young

  James Young holds a doctorate in U.S. History from Kansas State University and is a graduate of the United States Military Academy. Fiction is James’ first writing love, but he’s also dabbled in non-fiction with publications in the Journal of Military History and Proceedings to his credit. His current fiction series are the Usurper’s War (alternate history), Vergassy Chronicles (space opera), and Scythefall (apocalyptic fiction), all of which are available via Amazon. You can find him at his FB Page (https://www.facebook.com/ColfaxDen/), Twitter (@Youngblai), or by signing up for his mailing list on the front page of his blog (https://vergassy.com/).

  * * * * *

  The following is an

  Excerpt from Book One of The Psyche of War:

  Minds of Men

  ___________________

  Kacey Ezell

  Now Available from Theogony Books

  eBook, Paperback, and Audio

  Excerpt from “Minds of Men:”

  “Look sharp, everyone,” Carl said after a while. Evelyn couldn’t have said whether they’d been droning for minutes or hours in the cold, dense white of the cloud cover. “We should be overhead the French coast in about thirty seconds.”

  The men all reacted to this announcement with varying degrees of excitement and terror. Sean got up from his seat and came back to her, holding an awkward looking arrangement of fabric and straps.

  Put this on, he thought to her. It’s your flak jacket. And your parachute is just there, he said, pointing. If the captain gives the order to bail out, you go, clip this piece into your ‘chute, and jump out the biggest hole you can find. Do you understand? You do, don’t you. This psychic thing certainly makes explaining things easier, he finished with a grin.

  Evelyn gave him what she hoped was a brave smile and took the flak jacket from him. It was deceptively heavy, and she struggled a bit with getting it on. Sean gave her a smile and a thumbs up, and then headed back to his station.

  The other men were checking in and charging their weapons. A short time later, Evelyn saw through Rico’s eyes as the tail gunner watched their fighter escort waggle their wings at the formation and depart. They didn’t have the long-range fuel capability to continue all the way to the target.

  Someday, that long-range fighter escort we were promised will materialize, Carl thought. His mind felt determinedly positive, like he was trying to be strong for the crew and not let them see his fear. That, of course, was an impossibility, but the crew took it well. After all, they were afraid, too. Especially as the formation had begun its descent to the attack altitude of 20,000 feet. Evelyn became gradually aware of the way the men’s collective tension ratcheted up with every hundred feet of descent. They were entering enemy fighter territory.

  Yeah, and someday Veronica Lake will…ah. Never mind. Sorry, Evie. That was Les. Evelyn could feel the waist gunner’s not-quite-repentant grin. She had to suppress a grin of her own, but Les’ irreverence was the perfect tension breaker.

  Boys will be boys, she sent, projecting a sense of tolerance. But real men keep their private lives private. She added this last with a bit of smug superiority and felt the rest of the crew’s appreciative flare of humor at her jab. Even Les laughed, shaking his head. A warmth that had nothing to do with her electric suit enfolded Evelyn, and she started to feel like, maybe, she just might become part of the crew yet.

  Fighters! Twelve o’clock high!

  The call came from Alice. If she craned her neck to look around Sean’s body, Evelyn could just see the terrifying rain of tracer fire coming from the dark, diving silhouette of an enemy fighter. She let the call echo down her own channels and felt her men respond, turning their own weapons to cover Teacher’s Pet’s flanks. Adrenaline surges spiked through all of them, causing Evelyn’s heart to race in turn. She took a deep breath and reached out to tie her crew in closer to the Forts around them.

  She looked through Sean’s eyes as he fired from the top turret, tracking his line of bullets just in front of the attacking aircraft. His mind was oddly calm and terribly focused…as, indeed, they all were. Even young Lieutenant Bob was zeroed in on his task of keeping a tight position and making it that much harder to penetrate the deadly crossing fire of the Flying Fortress.

  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.