Strike Force Red

by C T Glatte

  In order, the pilots responded. MaryAnn pulled her goggles from the helmet and flexed her gloved fingers on the stick. She pictured each woman as they called out their callsign and readiness. At the same time, she adjusted her throttle, called out the still open cockpit window, “Clear the prop,” and started the engine. It cranked with a plume of white smoke, but quickly settled into a steady purr. She held the brakes as she listened to the countdown coming closer. The roar of engines increased as the leads started moving toward the end of the runway. She pulled the canopy closed and latched it shut. Then it was her turn. “Mustang twenty-one confirmed and ready for taxi to three-two, over.” She listened as the last remaining three aircraft responded.

  She watched Sergeant Callahan holding her fist up, then she nodded and dropped her arm. MaryAnn released the brakes and goosed the throttle until she felt her plane move, then tamped it down and started taxiing toward the main runway. In order to see over the raised nose, she worked the rudder pedals, turning to the right, then the left, snaking her way along. She concentrated on the P-51 in front of her, 2nd Lieutenant Blaine. She’d form up on her starboard side and they’d take off in echelon.

  Before she knew it she was airborne. No matter how many times she did it, taking off in this powerful machine always made her whoop. She stayed on Blaine’s wing and climbed until they formed up with the rest of the squadron. They broke up into three flights of eight.

  She marked up the map, strapped to her kneeboard, making notes in a small notebook, as she listened intently to Colonel Culling relaying their course and waypoints. She kept her eyes up as often as possible, searching the sky in segments, keeping her wing steady in echelon with the other pilots.

  They steadily climbed through the morning clouds, finally topping out at twenty-thousand feet. She had her mask on and she could smell the rubber of the tubes the oxygen flowed through. They flew up the Washington coast until they hit their first turning waypoint, Bellingham. She glanced down, seeing the earth’s patchwork of colors through occasional breaks in the clouds. She wondered if Jimmy was down there somewhere, looking up at the droning of aircraft and wondering if it was friend or foe.

  She put him out of her mind when she heard her squadron leader, Captain Perkins. “Turning to 270 degrees on my mark…mark.” MaryAnn put slight pressure on the stick and felt the immediate and smooth response of the ailerons dipping her left wing and bringing the graceful aircraft around to two-seventy. She kept her wingman in her peripheral vision, keeping up with her steady turn. She steadied her own turn and shot out over the coast at four-hundred miles per hour.

  She licked her lips. They were heading due west, straight out to sea. Straight toward a Russian carrier group with ill intent. She felt her breathing increase and forced herself to calm down.

  After thirty minutes Captain Perkins broke the silence. “Ok ladies, switch over to 120.3.”

  The sudden voice made MaryAnn jump in her seat. The past half hour they’d been on strict radio silence. The fact they were breaking it now meant only one thing; the attack squadrons had found the Russians and were engaged.

  She flicked the radio dial, feeling it click through the frequencies. When she got to 120.3 her radio seemed to come to life. There was a steady flow of voices, most calm, some clearly panicked and others jubilant. MaryAnn felt herself flush with a cold sweat. Those men are in combat. People are dying.

  She tried to ignore the chatter, but it was impossible. It was like listening in on her parents during a heated argument. She knew she wasn’t supposed to, but she couldn’t stop listening. ‘Get him off me.’ ‘I can’t shake him.’ You’ve got one on your tail.’ I got the bastard.’ The sounds of combat were terrifying yet intoxicating.

  The Captain came on again. “Take a look below, ladies. Contact.”

  MaryAnn leaned over and looked past her wing. Through a break in the clouds she could see the blue ocean streaked with white lines. There seemed to be dozens of them, each indicating the path of a Russian ship. “Combat spread. Flight one drop to five-thousand, flight two, eight-thousand, flight three maintain racetrack at current elevation and keep them off us.”

  MaryAnn’s lead, Lieutenant Withers acknowledged. She called the other seven pilots in her group, “You heard the captain. Spread out and keep your eyes peeled.” There were radio clicks in response.

  MaryAnn eased Tigress away and back from 2nd Lt. Blaine’s sparkling silver P-51. She matched her slow turn while searching the sky through her clear bubble canopy. She craned her neck and looked behind her, seeing the flash of more P-51s following.

  The chatter intensified on the radio and MaryAnn was startled to hear the first female voice. “Flight of four corsairs heading 180 degrees at four thousand, bogeys closing on your six.” There was a split second silence as the new female voice entered the battle, then the chaos resumed.

  Blaine’s lilting high voice came over the flight’s radio, “That’s Captain Perkins. They’re engaged.”

  They listened as they pictured their leader easing her Mustang in for the kill. MaryAnn remembered her plane was named, Viper. Suddenly the radio crackled with Perkin’s calm voice, “Taking the shot.” Seconds later, “He’s breaking up, going down.”

  MaryAnn couldn’t keep the yelp of joy from erupting. She noticed 2nd Lieutenant Blaine’s fist pumping up and down.

  A male voice cut in, “Keep on ‘em honey, they’re turning away. Be careful, they can turn and climb like crazy.”

  Captain Perkin’s voice filled the airwaves again. MaryAnn could hear the strain as she turned with the Russian fighter and took a heavy G-load. “Keep on ‘em girls, they ain’t so tough.”

  The section’s radio came to life, “Chalk up the fighting 4th’s first kill.” It was 2nd Lieutenant Yancy and her voice was jubilant.

  Lieutenant Withers broke in, “Knock off the chatter and keep your eyes peeled.”

  Over the main channel a female voice from the second group, cruising at eight-thousand called out. “Bogeys coming from the sun. Break!”

  MaryAnn’s throat clenched and she suddenly had the worst case of dry mouth she’d ever experienced. Seconds later Withers was on the airwaves. “I see them, there’s four of them. Follow me ladies, time to earn our pay.” MaryAnn watched as the lead plane arced left, diving down through the high clouds.

  One after another they peeled until it was her turn. She rolled left, feeling herself drop. The P-51 purred and felt like a part of her body. It seemed she only needed to think about turning and it would react instantly.

  She easily kept Blaine’s P-51 in sight as she sliced through the layer of clouds. She searched for the targets, but couldn’t see anything but empty sky. Then her eye was pulled to the right. There were streaks of smoke, some white some black. She noticed the tiny outlines of planes darting in every direction. She noticed more smoke below and realized it had to be a smoking ship. They’d at least scored a hit on one of the Russian ships.

  The radio crackled to life. It was Withers. “I see ‘em, coming onto their six.” MaryAnn craned her neck, straining to find a target. Suddenly there were planes everywhere. She could see P-51s breaking left and right, some diving, some climbing. Then she saw the dark outlines of the enemy. The enemy fighters were dark and had red splotches on their wings. Russian stars, no doubt. She uttered to herself, “I see them, I see them. Oh my God, here we go.”

  Withers lilting high voice again, “Engaging them now.”

  MaryAnn could see the lead aircraft easing up behind a Russian fighter who was trying to line up another P-51. Suddenly the Russian fighter sparkled as tracer rounds lanced into it. MaryAnn could see chunks of the plane falling away. The fighter broke off and dove, spewing smoke from the engine. Wither’s voice again, “Got one!”

  The rest of the Russian fighters arced upward. At first, MaryAnn thought they were making a critical error, slowing themselves and making fat targets, but she soon realized they hardly lost any speed at all. Blaine pulled her nose up,
following the upward move and MaryAnn matched her. Withers came on the radio again, “Fire at will, ladies.” MaryAnn could hear the strain in her voice as she pulled up to follow the Russians.

  Blaine addressed MaryAnn, “Two coming up, you take right I’ll take left.”

  MaryAnn panicked for a second. She couldn’t see the target, then she nearly lost her breath when she saw the two fighters climbing through a cloud bank. They were climbing fast, much faster than she thought possible. The gap was closing fast. She did a quick internal calculation and realized she wasn’t leading them enough. She pulled the stick back and watched her reticle pass through the target. She depressed the trigger and continued to pull through the target, then eased the back pressure and searched for the results. Her windscreen suddenly filled with the underside of the fighter and she could clearly see the bright red star on the wing.

  She instinctively threw the P-51 into a roll and missed a collision by a few feet. Her heart was racing. She came level and searched for the plane. She pulled into a tight right turn and saw the fighter above her leveling out and turning left. She pushed to full throttle and the Merlin engine responded. She whipped into a left turn, coming up behind and slightly lower. The enemy fighter maintained its left turn.

  She realized he’d see her in a few more seconds. The enemy plane was growing in her windscreen as she closed the gap. She caressed the trigger on the stick. Not yet, not yet…Now! She mashed the trigger and watched as her tracers slammed into the fighter. She could see the pilot’s head snap her way, and imagined she saw fear. Her .50 caliber bullets shredded the plane and it fell toward the sea. The starboard wing detached and fluttered as the plane went into a death spin.

  The world seemed to stop for an instant. Oh my God, I’ve killed someone. She didn’t have time for much more than a fleeting thought. Her radio was alive with voices. She rolled the plane onto it’s back and searched below her, searching for her wingman’s plane. The scene was a confused blur and she understood what veterans of the first world war meant when they described air combat as a fur-ball. There were planes darting and diving in every direction. She saw P-51s, Corsairs and Russian fighters mixing. It was a jumbled mess and she didn’t think she’d ever find her wingman.

  She rolled upright and frantically searched the air around her for any immediate threats. When she didn’t see any, she glanced at her instruments, making sure everything was operating within safe parameters.

  A blur of darkness out of the corner of her eye, made her look up. An enemy fighter. She snapped Tigress to the right and pulled back. She felt her body weight increase to more than triple. The buzzing and snapping of bullets passing close made her flinch. She kept the tight turn, feeling her vision starting to blur. She felt more than saw the enemy fighter flash by beneath her. MaryAnn released pressure and spun the plane onto it’s back. She could see the enemy fighter streaking away.

  She’d scrubbed a lot of speed, but pushed the nose down, following her attacker. The Russian made a tight left turn, impossibly tight. Surely the pilot would pass out. MaryAnn realized they’d be facing each other in moments. The closing speed would be beyond either pilots reaction time. She mashed the trigger at the same instant she pushed the nose down and closed her eyes, expecting to die in a fiery collision.

  But she didn’t die. She opened her eyes and craned her neck. She could see a black puff of smoke, but other than that no sign of the fighter. She got control of her breathing and concentrated on scanning the sky. She didn’t want to be surprised like that again. She searched for the fighter she’d tangled with, but there was nothing nearby.

  The radio chatter continued blaring in her ears and she realized she’d mostly blocked it out. But now, she listened intently wanting to find her unit and more importantly, her wingman. She heard a female voice, but couldn’t decide who it was. She looked at her instruments and was surprised to see she was at nine-thousand feet. She looked above her searching for any enemy. When she didn’t see any, she realized she was one of the highest aircraft. Her friends were below.

  She pushed the plane into a shallow dive, not happy to be giving up elevation, but wanting to rejoin her squadron. She burst through a layer of clouds and was surprised to see empty ocean and empty sky. She leveled out and searched. She could still hear the voices of battle, but it was like she were on another planet listening to a radio show.

  She checked her instruments and did a quick calculation. The battle must be behind her. Her fuel was good, but she’d have to return to base in another thirty minutes. Flying at full military power, burned a lot of fuel. She eased the throttle back and turned back to 360 degrees, due north.

  MaryAnn streaked north, keeping a close eye on the sky and her instruments. She listened to the radio chatter. It was frustrating not to be there for her squadron mates and she felt physically ill every time she heard someone calling out in panic. She felt the signal was gaining strength, she was heading in the right direction. She’d dropped to five-thousand and unsnapped her oxygen mask. She itched her nose and stretched her lips and tongue. She felt like she’d been in a fist fight.

  Off to the right she saw the churned up water of a recent ship’s passage. The radio chatter was dying down as she heard more and more pilots leaving the battle and heading home to rearm and refuel. She could still hear the occasional female voice, she wondered if she should break off and head home. What would she face ahead?

  Then she saw a ship. It looked to be a cruiser and it was firing anti-aircraft into the sky above the carrier group. So far she hadn’t had to deal with flak and the thought of it made her armpits itch as she broke out in a cold sweat. She could see smoke trailing from the cruiser. She struggled, attack? She had plenty of ammunition, but perhaps she should veer off and head home and keep her ammo in case she ran into trouble. She was about to do just that when she thought about Jimmy Crandall and the 45th Infantry Division steaming north into the teeth of the Russian invaders. This convoy could attack them if it wasn’t destroyed.

  She licked her dry lips and settled into the comfortable seat. She dropped to four-thousand feet and angled so she was directly behind the cruiser. I’ll strafe from it’s ass to its nose, she thought wryly. She increased throttle and angled down toward her target. She could see tiny dots, men running around the decks trying to put out fires. Her Will faltered for a moment but her training took over and she readied her thumb over the guns.

  Tigress flashed through the dark smoke coming from an unseen fire beneath decks. When the ship seemed impossibly huge she mashed the trigger and watched in fascination as her bullets slammed into the hapless cruiser. Chunks flew into the air and she saw men diving, some obviously hit. She pulled up with only feet to spare and leveled off. She was below the level of the bridge and she glanced at it as she flashed by. She could see the shattered windows and smoke billowing from the compartment. Then she was beyond the ship.

  More ships appeared in the distance, but she didn’t want to tangle with them, so she turned back east and flashed across the waves. She looked back at the cruiser, there were more fires, but she also saw winking flashes and noticed meatball sized tracer rounds seeking her out. She zigzagged and watched as the 20-millimeter shells splashed harmlessly into the sea behind her.

  She climbed back to six-thousand feet, the whole time searching for enemy planes. She hoped to find her squadron. The radio chatter had nearly ceased. She keyed the mike, “This is Tigress six heading ninety-degrees at six-thousand feet. Over.”

  There was a moment of silence then the happy sound of Lieutenant Withers. “Tigress six this is Snake one. Good to hear from you. Return to base to rearm and refit. Over.”

  “Roger. Understood. Over.” She glanced at the map on her kneeboard. She was over open ocean and had no idea where she’d come onto land. She guessed she was south of base, but would need a landmark to orient herself.

  A half hour later she saw a harbor with lots of activity and realized it was Portland. She turned north whil
e still out to sea, but not before two P-51s slipped onto her tail. “P-51 turning north near Portland airspace. This is Lieutenant Smeed. We have you sighted. Picked you up on radar. You doing okay? Are you in need of assistance? Over.”

  MaryAnn spun around and waved to the two trailing fighters. They looked sleek and deadly. She answered as they came up on either side of her. “I’m in good shape. Thanks for checking. Over.” She smiled at the pilot off her starboard wing then did the same to the other off the port-side.

  The pilot pulled his goggles off and gave her plane a good look, then gripped his radio on his neck and keyed the mike. “See that boss? It’s a woman. A female pilot.”

  MaryAnn’s grin stretched ear to ear. “You’ve got good eyes, flyboy.” She responded.

  The pilot on the starboard shook his head, “Sorry ma’am, he doesn’t get out much.”

  She gave him a thumbs up. “I’m heading back to base to refit and rearm up in Stirling.”

  The starboard pilot keyed his mike. “Roger. You’ve got a little more than sixty-miles…”

  She interrupted him. “I know where I am Lieutenant Smeed, thank you.”

  He gave her a thumbs up and pointed toward her tail. “Be sure to get that hole looked at before heading back out ma’am.”

  She spun in her seat but couldn’t see what he was talking about. “I will, Lieutenant. Thanks, and good hunting.”

  Eight

  Private Jimmy Crandall and Hank Gugliani felt like sardines. They were below decks on an overcrowded troop transport. They’d been there for three full days. None of the enlisted men were allowed on deck and the confinement was starting to get to them. Jimmy threw his cards down. “How many hands can a guy lose? I’m gonna be broke before I even land on the beach.”

  Private First Class Mack Penny slapped his shoulder. “If you get killed, you don’t need to pay me back…deal?”