“And if you’re happy with the picture, you’ll try to crash a Culver right on it?”
“Yes, sir…we’d like to see how well we can do that, too. This steep dive-angle attack is something new to the drone guys. I think it’s going to work, though, just as long as we have a good aiming point.”
“What time will the drone fly today?” Pruitt asked.
“We don’t plan on taking off until after 1200 hours, sir,” Tommy replied. “We want to practice under the same conditions as the actual attack, with the sun behind us so we don’t get glare in the camera. Any Kraut flak trying to take a shot at us will be looking into the sun, too.”
“Excellent,” Pruitt said. “That gives me half the day to get ready. By the way, I’m taking real good care of your ship.”
“So I heard, sir. Thanks.”
Thirty minutes later, Tommy walked into Zebra Ramp’s operations tent. It was strangely quiet, the tension in the air akin to a roomful of errant schoolboys waiting to be paddled for their transgressions. Each man went about his work silently, head down, as if raising it would single him out for punishment.
Major Staunton’s voice broke the silence, a tirade booming from the far end of the tent: “IS THERE ANYONE IN THIS ENTIRE GODDAMNED ARMY CAPABLE OF COORDINATING EVEN THE SIMPLEST OF PLANS? HOW HARD COULD IT BE TO GET FOUR TRUCKLOADS OF EXPLOSIVES ACROSS THE CHANNEL AND THEN DRIVE IT THREE HUNDRED AND SIXTY-FOUR MILES ACROSS FRANCE? IF A FUCKUP OF THIS MAGNITUDE HAPPENED IN THE CIVILIAN WORLD, HEADS WOULD ROLL.”
It didn’t take a genius to figure out what this fuckup was: the Torpex had been delayed. Maybe even lost. Or maybe it had never left England.
Whatever the reason, one thing was obvious: they wouldn’t be trying to blow up Fort Driant on the thirteenth of October. Then, the window of good flying weather would probably close on them until who-knows-when.
Sergeant Dandridge approached Tommy and said softly, “Let’s you and me be someplace else for a while, sir.”
They walked over to the adjacent mess tent to grab some coffee. It wasn’t a field kitchen, just a small circus tent with a serving table and a few picnic tables, all scrounged locally. The MPs brought the food over from the kitchen at the 301st each mealtime. It was strictly self-serve; no unauthorized personnel—such as cooks and KPs—were allowed on Zebra Ramp. From the looks of the scraps left in the marmite cans, everyone had already eaten. There was barely enough coffee left for two half-cups.
Tommy asked, “So what’s the whole story with the Torpex?”
“Some SNAFU with paperwork once they kicked it off a boat in Normandy, sir. The supply people couldn’t figure out what kind of explosive it was, so they didn’t know which rules for trucking it across France applied. And get this: the fastest way to get it here is straight through the outskirts of Paris. Can you imagine the flap if that stuff were to blow up anywhere near there? If it didn’t have EXPEDITE-SHAEF HIGHEST PRIORITY stamped all over it, they might have just pushed it off into a corner of some ammo dump and forgotten about it.”
Tommy asked, “Any idea how long we’re going to have to wait for it, then?”
“Eighth Air Force G4 is estimating it won’t show up now until the thirteenth—a day late.”
“And right into the teeth of more crummy weather,” Tommy added. “Anyway, I’ve got the practice napalm lined up for today. We’re still flying at 1200 hours, right?”
“Yes, sir. That’s the plan. What do you think…should we crash one of the Culvers today?”
“Let’s see how it goes,” Tommy replied. “The jug will be carrying three napalm bombs. We can start with one and see how good that fire looks on television. If it doesn’t show up real well, we’ll drop the other two and see if that makes it any easier to see. And if we’re happy with it, I guess then we can plant the Culver.”
“I’m really looking forward to doing that, sir,” Dandridge replied.
At 3rd Army Headquarters, George Patton had just gotten the word that Operation Bucket would be delayed another day beyond 13 October, possibly longer. He considered the news a mixed blessing. While he had high hopes that Tooey Spaatz’s flying bomb would end the vicious headache of Metz in one fell swoop, he had no intention of putting all his eggs in one basket. He’d continue to wage ground actions against the forts—especially that prime obstacle Fort Driant—right up to that twenty-four-hour deadline Bradley had imposed on him to get his troops well out of the way.
And if I miss that deadline by a few hours, or maybe a little more, who’s going to know? I sure as hell will not break off an engagement that promises success just because Brad wants to be overcautious. Hell, airplanes can always be called back, right up to the last damn minute.
Patton had gotten another piece of crucial news in the last hour, too: during 7th Army’s sweep north from southern France, an intelligence unit attached to that headquarters had located the architectural plans for Fort Driant in a Lyon archive. Those plans were on a courier plane to 3rd Army HQ at that very moment. They’d be in Patton’s hands in just a few hours.
And once we know where all their secret tunnels and little trap doors are, he told himself, we can hit them where they live. There will be no more surprises in store for my men at Fort Driant.
Chapter Twenty-One
By 1300, all the players in the day’s practice mission for Operation Bucket were in the air. Colonel Pruitt, flying Eclipse of the Hun II, was airborne with her load of napalm, high above the mothership and her drone.
They were using the second Culver for today’s run, and there had been a problem with her that almost aborted the mission. Before she had even left the ground, they couldn’t get a stable picture from the drone’s camera on the airborne mothership. The ground crew had hastily rectified the problem on the runway, reporting something about an antenna cable being loose at the drone’s television transmitter.
“I’m not sure I’m buying that, sir,” Dandridge shouted over the big bomber’s ambient noise, not wanting to broadcast his comments to the entire crew over the interphone. “It’s not a real good omen.”
Tommy shouted back, “But you’ve got a good picture now, right?”
“Yeah,” Dandridge replied, “but I’ve never been a big believer in the reseated connector theory of maintenance. You’ve probably run into that before, sir. That’s just a bullshit way to kick something over the fence without really finding or fixing the problem. Nobody’s touched that transmitter since we got here. Those plugs don’t come loose all by themselves.”
It bothered Tommy that he was sensing so little trust among the other members of the Operation Bucket technical team. He thought of his relationship with the mechanics who maintained his aircraft; how he always marveled at their dedication, their skill, and their belief that to let another member of the team down, be it the pilot, the crew chief, or a fellow mechanic, would betray a sacred trust. Doing something haphazard or shoddy just to launch an airplane—to kick it over the fence—was not even in the realm of possibilities. Someone’s life—most likely Tommy’s—could be at stake.
Something else occurred to Tommy, too: Maybe that’s what comes with only having to deal with disposable airplanes: not a lot of time or interest to build up a bond. I guess that’s why they refer to a drone as “it” instead of “she.”
Clearly unhappy, Dandridge added, “If there wasn’t so much pressure from upstairs for this program to succeed, I’d refuse the handoff and pull the plug on this flight right now.” His next comment was mumbled, as if talking to himself: “I could end up on some stinking jungle island on the other side of the world yet.”
“Not to make the pressure on you any worse,” Tommy said, “but I’ve got my own reason for wanting Bucket to work. I’ve got a brother—a tanker—down there butting his head against that fort. Me and my jugs haven’t been doing a damn thing to help him out. Nothing we do seems to make a dent in Driant. So that’s why I volunteered for this duty. I’m just trying to keep my brother and all the guys who fight alongside him alive
. And maybe this’ll be the way to do it.”
Dandridge nodded respectfully. “I understand, sir. That’s a shitty deal, though…for your brother, I mean, getting thrown into a meat grinder like that.” He gritted his teeth and went back to work.
While the mothership loitered at 5,000 feet, the Culver finally took to the air, piloted by the ground control team. “We’d better not let it get out of our sight,” Dandridge said, his face pressed to the video monitor’s hood. “If the video craps out again, and we’ve lost visual, we may never get it back in time to save it.”
Tommy’s eyes locked onto the little yellow bird, now climbing toward them and visible through the left side windows. “I’ve got it,” he told Dandridge.
A few minutes later, the Culver was at 2,000 feet. “Okay, start the countdown to toggle,” Dandridge told the ground controllers.
The handover went without a hitch. As the mothership climbed to 7,000 feet, the drone was climbed to 5,000.
“Do you have any checks you need to do before the target run?” Tommy asked.
“I’m already doing them, sir. Everything seems okay.” If you went by the apprehensive tone of Dandridge’s voice, though, everything was not okay as far as he was concerned.
“You’ve still got good video, right?”
“Yes, sir. Still got it. Control of the drone’s good, too.”
Then Dandridge got an idea. “Hey, sir, would you like to handle the sticks for a little while?”
He offered the remote-control box to Tommy.
This is some quick change of heart, Tommy thought. First he’s convinced she’s got problems, and then he wants to drop her in the hands of a raw rookie.
Or maybe he just wants someone else to take the fall when everything goes haywire.
Sensing Tommy’s reluctance to take the box, Dandridge said, “Really, sir, it’ll be fine. I’ve got good visual on the Culver. If it starts acting funny, I’ll just take the box back.”
That helped Tommy’s reluctance a little. But not enough.
Dandridge added, “I really think it would be a good idea if you got to see what it’s like through the camera, sir…before the whole thing goes to hell.”
Then he added, “Besides, I don’t buy the story Major Staunton’s putting out on why real pilots don’t fly the drones. The way I heard it, it was strictly a manpower decision. They weren’t any worse than an enlisted man at doing it. They just couldn’t waste trained aviators flying drones, that’s all. Hell, if I could learn to do it, anyone could.”
Tommy took the box and peered into the video monitor.
“Hey, it’s just like being in the cockpit,” he said, happily surprised. “I just can’t turn my head.”
“There you go,” Dandridge replied. “Why don’t you put it through a few fighter maneuvers?”
Tommy complied with a barrel roll, an Immelmann turn, and then a wing-over to get back on the same heading as the mothership. He found the Culver responsive and very easy to control. He had little trouble adapting to the realm of remote control.
“Try the stall and dive,” Dandridge said. “Just remember to pull out at 3,000 feet.”
“You sure you’d rather not be getting the practice, Sergeant?”
“I’ll get a couple more chances, sir. Go ahead…get the feel of it. After all, it was your idea.”
“Okay,” Tommy replied, “but tell Gadget Blue Six to stand clear. Don’t want the colonel to think we’re starting the show without him.”
Dandridge made the call to Pruitt.
“Roger, Almighty Four-One,” the colonel replied. “Gadget Blue standing by. Don’t want to hurry you boys or anything, but be advised I’m burning gas like crazy up here. Can’t hang around forever.”
“Tell him we understand,” Tommy said. “Then tell him we’ll do one dive for practice, and right after that, we’ll need him to light that fire.”
Dandridge made the transmission. Pruitt’s reply: “That’s what I’m here for, Almighty.”
As Tommy maneuvered the Culver into position to begin the dive, Dandridge asked, “How come he’s flying your plane, sir? Doesn’t he have one of his own?”
“He’s waiting on a new one. His old ship got retired. She’d been through the wringer…had more patches on her than original skin. Even something as sturdy as a jug doesn’t last long when it keeps taking ground fire. At least they tend to get you home, though.”
Tommy leveled the Culver at 5,000 feet, cut the throttle, and held her nose up. When she started to mush, he waggled her wings to bring on the stall. Just like all the times before, she began to plummet nose down toward the target.
Dandridge asked, “Can you see the intersection okay in the monitor, sir?”
“Yeah…not very distinct…but I’ve got it.”
Then he announced, “I’m going to let her get down to two thousand before I pull out.”
Eyes glued to the video scope, he couldn’t see the panicked look on Dandridge’s face.
“You sure you want to go that low, sir?” Dandridge asked, more a plea than a question. “I thought we agreed on three thousand.”
“Relax, Sergeant. It’ll be all right.”
“I sure as hell hope so, sir. By the way, aren’t you aiming a little short? You sure you’ve got the right target identified?”
Then Dandridge noticed Tommy’s fingers weren’t even on the control stick.
“Yeah, I’m aiming short. But it should all work out. Remember when you were doing the diving, you had to keep some nose down pressure on the stick to stay on track? You had the target centered in the monitor, didn’t you?”
“Yes, sir, I did, but—”
“But nothing, Sergeant. Even though she’s nose down and dropping like a brick, with all that speed her wings have lift. Lots of it. And that lift is pushing her forward, toward the target.”
“So you’re saying she’s going to line up on the target all by herself?”
“You didn’t forget I do this for a living, did you, Sergeant?”
Pressed against the plexiglass of the nose dome, Dandridge nervously watched the Culver streak toward the earth. He was sure the lieutenant had already let it descend too far to pull out. But he was growing convinced of one thing: if Tommy didn’t pull out, the little yellow drone was going to plant itself perfectly in the middle of the targeted road intersection.
“Okay, coming down to two thousand,” Tommy said, and then quickly counted off, “Two thousand three…two…one.” His fingers back on the control stick, he eased her into the pullout.
From the mothership’s vantage point, the Culver, now in level flight, seemed to be just inches off the ground.
“What does the altimeter read, sir?” Dandridge asked.
“One hundred feet, give or take a couple.”
“Cutting it a little close, aren’t we?”
“Close only counts in horseshoes and hand grenades, Sergeant.”
“I’ve got to admit, sir, you just scared the living shit out of me.”
Tommy had the Culver climbing back to the start point for the dive: the IP, or initial point. “Your turn, Sergeant,” he told Dandridge. “Ready for the handoff?”
“Affirmative, sir.”
Tommy gave him the control box. “Your airplane.”
“I’ve got it,” Dandridge replied.
“That was a piece of cake,” Tommy said as he did a few quick calculations. “It’s not fair you non-coms get to have all the fun.”
Dandridge looked ready to hand the box right back. “You want to do the napalm run, too, sir?”
“Oh, no, Sergeant. Wouldn’t dream of taking your job. I’m going to get the colonel into position now.”
In less than a minute, Colonel Pruitt was ready. The jug screamed down from 8,000 feet in a near-vertical dive. The crew on the mothership didn’t even see her until she’d slashed through their altitude.
“Notice that he’s doing the same thing I did?” Tommy asked Dandridge. “He looks like h
e’s aiming short, but he’ll end up releasing the eggs right on the money.”
“How do you guys train to do that, sir?”
“Actually, the gunsight doubles as a bombsight and does all the work for you. Just keep the pipper inside the reticle and it works like magic.”
Colonel Pruitt flashed through 3,000 feet, released one napalm canister, and pulled sharply out of the dive. The canister struck the road intersection nearly dead center, spreading a ring of brilliant fire around it.
“I’m betting you’ll see those flames pretty darn good with the camera,” Tommy said.
The Culver was at the IP. “Here we go,” Dandridge said. He stalled the little drone like an expert. As her nose came down and the dive commenced, he said, “Holy cow! I’ve got no problem seeing those flames at all. Gee, it’s almost like we’re painting them in color!”
“If you want to do the dive like I did,” Tommy said, “put the target at the very top of your monitor picture.”
“Yeah, I’ve got it.”
“As you get closer, she’ll slide toward the center of frame. You’ll need just little blips of elevator to keep her on target.”
A few seconds later, Dandridge said, “Oh, brother! This is going to be so fine! Lit up like this, we could probably even bomb through light cloud cover.”
“One thing at a time, Sergeant. Just put her on the money.”
That’s exactly what Sergeant Dandridge did.
There was quiet contentment in the mothership as she winged her way back to A-90. But despite their undeniable success, a new concern had crept into Tommy’s mind.
“It just occurred to me,” he told Dandridge. “Now that we’re pretty sure we can put the baby right where we want her on top of Driant, how are we going to be sure we really knocked that fort out? Unless we set off some spectacular explosion that blows off the top of that hill, it might look just like it did before we attacked, minus a gun battery or two. I mean, everything and everybody in that damn place is underground. Suppose enough Krauts survive to keep an even damaged fort operational and deadly?”
Fortress Falling (Moon Brothers WWII Adventure Series Book 2) Page 18
