by C T Glatte
“Flight lead, control. Turn to eighty-five degrees and climb to twenty-thousand. Contacts are ten miles out.”
“Roger. Any idea how many or who they are?”
“Too many contacts to count. Speed indicates bombers mixed with fighters. The signatures aren’t Russian, so looks like the rest of Europe’s joined the fight.” There was a pause and the calm voice broke a little. “You’re weapons free. Over.”
Captain McDermott took a breath and let it out slow then addressed his squadron. “Alright, men. We’ve trained for this. Stay with your wingman. Our primary targets are bombers so call ‘em out if you see ‘em. Let’s move to combat spread and get up to twenty-thousand, staggered. Over.” No one replied, but planes moved further from one another, some dropped back, and all climbed.
Minutes later someone called out excitedly, “Contact. I see planes,” there was a pause, “lots of planes straight ahead.”
McDermott’s older eyes finally saw the growing dots on the horizon. He felt a burst of adrenaline course through his body and he felt pinpricks of sweat, despite the freezing temperatures outside his cockpit glass. He squinted and was about to call out bombers but someone beat him to it. “Bombers. I see bombers at eleven o’clock.”
McDermott keyed his mic, “That’s our target. Keep your eyes on the fighters. Get in close and let ‘em have it.”
He pushed the throttles to full power and nosed up, gaining altitude. He turned on the electronic front sight and its orange glow filled the windscreen.
The air around him was suddenly filled with flashing, darting shapes and he realized they were BF-109s. Tracer rounds flashed past his cockpit glass and he instinctively rolled away. He flung his head side-to-side trying to see where it was coming from. He saw the yellow cowling of a 109 settle on his tail.
Forgetting about the bombers, he rolled onto his back and pulled the stick into his belly. He grunted through a high G turn and was now flying one-hundred-eighty degrees the opposite direction.
There was constant radio chatter, but he ignored it as he saw the 109 match his moves easily. He saw the winking of the German’s cannon and felt, rather than heard, the impact of a heavy slug. He broke left and moved the stick in unpredictable ways, spoiling the German’s aim but he couldn’t shake him.
Suddenly there was a flash of yellow to his front and he instinctively squeezed the trigger, at the same time pushing into a steep dive. His airspeed went into the red zone and his much heavier aircraft was pulling away from the pursuing fighter. He watched the 109 pull up and level out, then dart away like a water skipper on a river.
McDermott cut power and gently pulled his Jug out of the dive, careful not to put too much strain on the wings. He’d seen wings torn off before in similar situations. The Gs finally subsided and he was able to breathe normally again.
He added power and climbed, searching for the enemy. It didn’t take long, there were white and black smoke trails crisscrossing the sky above him, as though a naughty child had used markers on a blank wall.
He was still above the ocean. He searched frantically for the bombers but could only see darting fighters. The radio chatter was still constant but he noticed it had dropped off a little and judging by some of the panicked calls he’d heard, he guessed he knew why.
He grit his teeth and climbed at full power. As he approached the fur-ball of fighters, he ducked into a cloud bank and his world instantly turned white. He watched his altimeter, guessing at the height. He leveled off and banked right until he was ninety-degrees from his old course.
He flashed out of the cloud bank at four-hundred-fifteen miles-per-hour and his senses reeled as he saw multiple targets. The nearest was flying wingman to a 109 which was trying to line up a shot on a jinking P-47.
McDermott adjusted slightly until his pipper was on the fuselage of the trailing 109. The enemy plane was growing large in his windscreen. He depressed the trigger and all eight .50 caliber machine guns opened up. The 109 sparked and chunks flew off before it rolled onto it’s back spinning out of control toward the cold Atlantic.
The second 109 was concentrating on the P-47 to his front and didn’t notice his wingman’s death spiral. McDermott chose half his guns, not wanting to spray his comrade, and when his pipper was lined up on the enemy’s tail, he fired and watched in grim fascination as the tail detached from the fuselage and fell away as though cut with an immense scythe. With no rear stabilizer the 109 pitched forward and the engine’s torque spun the plane violently.
McDermott got on the mic. “I got him off you.” He kept his speed and was soon beside the other Jug.
The pilot looked his way, gave him a thumbs-up and keyed his mic. “Thanks, Captain.”
“That you, Thorpe?”
He nodded, “Yes, sir.”
McDermott pulled ahead and looked around the sky but it was suddenly empty. “Where are the others?” He noticed the lack of radio chatter.
“I saw at least three go down, sir. I — I don’t know who. My wingman for sure, Greeny. I mean Lieutenant Green, sir. His plane — well it just exploded. I saw some chutes but don’t know if they were theirs or ours.”
The thought of bailing out over the Atlantic in winter sent a chill up his spine. They wouldn’t last long in those icy waters. “There’s bound to be more that made it. Come on, lets head back towards land and see if we can sneak up on those bombers.” The two silver P-47s turned toward mainland America at full military power.
Lieutenant Boris Guttenberg piloted the JU-88 medium bomber toward the mainland of the United States of America. He looked up and saw multiple BF-109s turning lazily back and forth to keep from overtaking the slower bombers. He’d seen the American fighters climbing toward them earlier and been relieved when they were turned away easily. Now he had more pressing matters.
“Friedrich, update.”
Air Sergeant Gren Friedrich, the bombardier/navigator answered immediately. “Maintain heading and speed. Target twenty kilometers.” He looked at his watch. “In two minutes descend to four-thousand meters.”
Guttenberg smiled, “Remind me.”
“Jawohl,” came the answer from the no-nonsense sergeant.
Guttenberg got on the intercom again. “Come up to the front gun, Airman Stoltz.”
The Airman was barely out of puberty and his voice cracked. “Jawohl, Flight Lieutenant.”
Guttenberg pressed the radio, so only his copilot would hear. “So young, that one.” There was a sudden shuddering and a loud bang. “Sheisse. Flak.” He glanced out the canopy to either side and grimaced at the dark clouds seeming to erupt from thin air. He noticed the fighters climbing to keep out of the deadly shrapnel. Cowards, he thought with a grin but he couldn’t blame them.
The copilot, 2nd Lieutenant Spiegelman, nodded. “Surprised it took this long.”
Another loud bang and the controls jumped in Guttenberg’s hands. A near miss off the starboard wing. He noticed a hole in the wing and shredded cloth flapping in the wind. He watched the engine. It seemed to be fine. He went on the intercom. “Everyone okay?”
Sergeant Friedrich’s normally stoic voice came over the intercom in quick gasps. “There’s a hole. Oh dear God - he’s gone. Airman Stolz went out the hole.”
Guttenberg shook his head and called on the intercom. “Are you okay? Are you able to navigate?” Despite the gnawing pain of losing one of his men, especially the happy-go-lucky young gunner, the mission was the priority. He’d have time to mourn after he destroyed the target.
Friedrich’s voice returned stoic although slower. “Yes, sir. I’m uninjured and my maps and sights are intact.” Accurate flak continued to harass the bomber, bouncing them around the air, until Friedrich called. “Descend to four-thousand meters on my mark…mark.”
Guttenberg pushed the controls forward and gently descended. The flak immediately lessened, not bothering to target one bomber dropping away from the main group. Guttenberg looked through the top of the canopy and watched the bomb
ers grow smaller and smaller as he descended.
The JU-88 broke through a thin layer of clouds and Guttenberg saw endless signs of humanity living in close proximity. The view was awe-inspiring and he was momentarily transfixed. It was his first view of the North American continent and it was beautiful.
Sergeant Friedrich’s voice was tight over the intercom, “Turn to heading one-four-zero, and slow to bombing speed.” Once the turn was complete, Friedrich continued, “Target should be visible soon. Release point six kilometers.”
Guttenberg and Spiegelman scanned the horizon searching for the building, checking the picture strapped to their legs, trying to match it with the buildings sprawling out before them. The countryside had turned from close packed city to more wide-open spaces.
Guttenberg slapped Spiegelman’s shoulder and pointed. “There. There it is.”
Spiegelman stared for a moment, looked at his picture one last time and nodded. “Jawohl. I concur. Target sighted.”
Sergeant Friedrich’s voice, “Jawohl, I’m on the sights. Angle toward target at thirty-degrees.” The floor tilted forward and Friedrich put his eye to the state-of-the-art bombsight. The forward-looking sight was marvelously clear and the magnification increments perfect. He quickly found the building and gave a curt, “Target identified. I have control.”
In the cockpit Guttenberg answered, “You have the aircraft.” He reluctantly released the column, keeping his hands hovering centimeters away, ready to take control once the bombs were away.
Doctor Lyle was hunched over the alien body, his steady hands cutting a long precision slice down the Korth’s chest. His assistant, Doctor Bartholomew watched in anticipation beside him, ready to assist in pulling back the bizarre, leathery skin.
Dr. Lyle commented for the benefit of the recorder and the other scientists and doctors observing the autopsy from the upper deck. “Skin is tougher than human skin and appears to have four distinct levels. Viscera beneath has a red hue. There’s no blood, however, the body has been dead for over twenty-four hours and I suspect there’s been some pooling.
He stopped the cut once he was halfway down the front of the torso. He put the scalpel down and clutched the skin, pulling it back slightly. “The skin is well attached.” He looked at Dr. Bartholomew, “Hold the skin. I’ll cut it away.”
Dr. Bartholomew leaned forward and clutched the section of skin with gloved fingers. Dr. Lyle clutched another, longer scalpel and cut the skin away with slow movements. Once he’d pulled back a few inches he stopped and pushed his glasses up his nose and continued speaking. “It appears there is a layer of,” he tapped the area of interest with his knuckles and it sounded like someone knocking on a stout wood door. “What I would call bone, however, there’s no sign of ribs. It appears to be a hard casing. I’d assume protecting the vital organs.”
He looked to an orderly a couple feet back from the table wearing a long lab coat and surgical mask. “I’ll need the rotary saw, please.”
The orderly nodded and walked briskly to a shiny chrome table with a power saw on top. Another orderly entered the room and helped him push it to the head of the table holding the Korth. The Korth’s unseeing eyes stared at the ceiling and it was all the orderlies could do not to look.
In one motion, they lifted the saw off the table and walked it forward until they hovered above the Korth’s chest wall. They carefully brought the four support legs down until they slipped into the holes designed to hold the saw steady. They tightened the wing-nuts beneath the table and gave the saw a pull, making sure it was secure, then stepped away.
Dr. Lyle stepped back onto the step-stool and adjusted the blade until it hovered over where he’d cut the skin. “This is a diamond-cut blade. It might be overkill, but I want to be sure I can get through the bone.”
He put earplugs in and flipped the switch. The incessant whirring noise of high-speed rotation filled the room. He adjusted his goggles and glanced back at Dr. Bartholomew who nodded back, obviously excited to see what the cut would reveal.
Dr. Lyle pulled the blade down toward the chest wall, while Dr. Bartholomew held suction, ready to vacuum the bone dust before it filled the room. The spinning blade touched the thin layer of viscera cutting through easily, but when it struck the bone, the sound increased as the blade struggled, as though cutting through hard rock.
Dr. Lyle pulled the blade off and looked at the bone. There was a cut, but much less impressive than it should have been. This same saw cut through human bone as if it were soft butter. He looked at Dr. Bartholomew who shrugged. Lyle pushed down again until he made contact then pushed hard despite the screaming saw. Sweat beaded on his forehead.
Finally the pressure subsided and he felt the saw cut deeper. He quickly stopped pushing and pulled the saw off the cut and shut it off. Dr. Bartholomew ran the suction over the cut, careful not to suck up anything except bone dust, which actually looked more like shards of glass.
Dr. Lyle motioned for the orderlies to take the saw away. They hustled over and quickly unscrewed the smoking saw and placed it back onto the table and wheeled it away. “Chest spreader,” mumbled Dr. Lyle.
Dr. Bartholomew stuffed the suction back into its slot and grabbed the archaic looking chest spreader and handed it to Dr. Lyle. Lyle carefully placed the metal edges into the cut, hooking the bones on either side. He made sure it was secure and not pushing against anything he didn’t want to crush. Satisfied, he grasped the hand crank and the multiple gears moved smoothly against one another. The spreader pushed outward against the edges, forcing the bone outward, widening the cut. The sound of rending flesh and bone sounded like gunfire.
Dr. Lyle stopped cranking and wiped his brow. “The resistance is massive. It’s like spreading metal.” He leaned over the body, looking into the body cavity. He took in a shallow breath. He quickly pushed his fogging goggles to his forehead and looked again, squinting. “What the hell is that? I need more light.”
Every person in the seats above were on their feet peering down, trying to see what caught the attention of the lead physician.
An eardrum-shattering sound suddenly filled the room, making everyone jump and look to the ceiling. The basement shook violently and chunks of concrete fell from the ceiling.
Dr. Lyle instinctively leaned over the Korth body to protect it. An instant later the ceiling exploded downward as two more five-hundred-pound bunker busting bombs pierced through and exploded among the scientists and doctors, turning them instantly to dust.
7
Jimmy Crandall and his mother, Miriam, departed the train depot, already dreading the return trip scheduled only two days from now. Jimmy was thankful he hadn’t traveled across the country by aircraft though. The flight from Anchorage to Portland, Oregon had been terrifying. On two occasions the DC-10 was forced to use clouds for cover as marauding Russian fighters from distant airfields passed nearby. He’d never seen them, nor had the pilots, however, the ever-vigilant West Coast Defense Radar Grid had.
The train ride had taken three days. His mother told him the last time she’d been on a train, before she was married, it took much longer. Since the alien invasion, transportation was seen as a vital part of the nation’s defense and there’d been great improvement in all types of transport. Highways, as well as trains and train tracks, were all new and cutting-edge technology, and there were far more of them.
Despite that, it was still three days sitting in a cramped train car. The topic of why they were taking the trip never came up. Instead, his mother talked about her new job, the new people she was meeting and the scary time when they had an actual air-raid. He’d listened and nodded at the appropriate spots. He knew she was just as confused as he was over Rex Crandall’s death, but they didn’t discuss it.
Jimmy blew warm air into his gloved hands. “It’s nearly as cold as Anchorage here. Didn’t think that was possible.”
Miriam nodded and pulled her coat’s wool closer to her chin. “Certainly colder than Portland. At l
east your uniform looks warm.”
They walked along, trying to avoid the slush piles on the sidewalk. Jimmy saw a coffee shop. “Wonder if they have real coffee? Come on, I’ll buy you a cup, get you warmed up.”
“Of course it’s real. Why not? After all, we’re in the nation’s capital.”
He nodded, “We didn’t have the real stuff on the front. Some kind of substitute that tastes like — well it’s not good.”
It was the first time he’d mentioned the front and he noticed his mother stiffen slightly. “Sure, let’s go in, only I’m buying,” she said.
The inside was warm and smelled of brewed coffee. There were a few patrons sitting at the counter, talking to a man in an apron, who kept rubbing down the counter with an off-white rag.
He smiled at them. “Welcome, have a seat anywhere. Coffee?”
Jimmy and Miriam nodded. Jimmy helped his mother out of her coat and hung it on the back of her chair, then scooted her chair in as she sat. “Always the gentleman, Jimmy. Thank you.”
He sat down across from her and mumbled, “It’s nothing ma.”
She pursed her lips and he could tell she wanted to say something but was unsure if she should. He’d noticed it a few times on the train ride too. He hoped it wasn’t something about his father.
He looked her in the eye. “What is it, Ma? Seems like you wanna ask me something.”
Her mouth upturned slightly and he noticed how much older she looked. “I — well, I guess I want to ask you about your experiences. About the front.” He continued staring and she continued. “I mean, you’re different.” He frowned and she shook her head. “Not in a bad way. I guess — I just notice you don’t smile much anymore. I mean, I know there’s not much to smile about, but you used to be quick to smile, even when angry.”
He averted his eyes and an image of Hank’s shattered body lying in the forest filled his mind. He shook his head, trying to clear the image. He took in a breath and blew it out slow, then looked at her concerned eyes. “It was bad. Really bad.” He shook his head hard. “I — I don’t think I should talk about it. It’s — well, it’s too ugly.”
