When told the mothership was fleeing the bogies, the irritation in Pruitt’s voice cut through the airwaves like a knife. “Negative, Almighty, negative. Your bogies are friendly. Repeat, friendly. And you might have noticed by now they’re not tracking you, either.”
The radio operator had this to add: “I’ve got the escort leader on hailing freq, sir. They had to switch over for a minute. Says we’ve got nothing to worry about.”
“Oh, yeah?” Wheatley replied. “Just where the hell are they, then?”
“On station at angels twenty, sir. It’s so damn bright out we probably won’t even see them way up there unless the sun glints off them. But they can see us real good…and they can see those jugs passing us going the other way, too.”
“Almighty, this is Gadget Blue. Can I drop this hellfire now, before I run out of gas boring holes in the sky up here?” Even the harsh filtering of aircraft radios could not distill the annoyance from Colonel Pruitt’s voice.
Wheatley probably didn’t intend to broadcast his next comment to the whole world, but his mic was keyed as he said, “Ahh, this is all fucked up.”
His voice no less annoyed than a moment ago, Colonel Pruitt replied, “Not all of it, son. And not all of us, either.”
Lieutenant Wheatley began the slow turn that would bring the mothership back toward the target area. He told his crew, “Resuming mission.” He sounded as if saying those words was some sort of imposition on him.
Dandridge said, “Might as well tell the colonel to drop the napalm, sir. I’m ready to dive as soon as he marks the target.”
Pruitt had one request: “You mind if I drop all three canisters at once? I won’t have enough gas to do this twice.”
Tommy asked Dandridge, “That okay with you?”
“Yes, sir. That’s how we’re going to do it on the fort, right? I can make sure the fire’s not so bright it makes the video bloom. And how come the colonel’s always complaining about how much gas he’s burning?”
“Fuel’s pretty tight in these parts, Sergeant. We can’t afford to top off the tanks for local training missions like this one, especially when we need so much for this four-engined beast here.”
Since the mothership was still some distance from the target zone, those who could see forward in the CQ-17 had a spectacular view of Pruitt’s dive from start to finish. It was breathtaking to watch the stubby fighter plummet like a projectile yet still be under perfect control.
“You weren’t kidding about this crosswind,” Pruitt said casually as the jug was halfway down to the release point.
But crosswind or not, the colonel dropped the three canisters of napalm squarely on target. “Okay, boys, that’s the best I can do. See you back home.”
“Like I told you, he can put it right where we want it,” Tommy said. “Now let’s see you do it, Sergeant.”
Dandridge proceeded to do exactly that.
With the Culver dispatched to her fiery but productive demise, the mothership flew over A-90. The crew could see the BQ-7—the baby—being run up on Zebra Ramp. Dandridge said, “We’ve got to use ship’s power for the operational tests of the video and Castor gear.”
“How come?” Tommy asked. “What’s wrong with using ground power units instead of wasting all that gas?”
“We’ve gotten some strange results with them, sir. For final checks, it’s SOP to use nothing but ship’s power. We’ve got to run her engines up to cruise RPM, too, to make sure the generators are stabilized.” As if to confirm what Dandridge had just said, the ground crew reported they were coming up to cruise power, the signal that the testing of the video and remote-control equipment could begin.
Tommy glanced down at the BQ-7 through binoculars. The only personnel and equipment around her were two mechanics acting as fire guards and the large, wheeled fire bottles they were manning at a safe distance in front of the whirling props. Everyone else involved in the testing would be on board, Dandridge told him.
“Pretty funny,” Tommy said, “but if we ran up a jug like that on the ramp, we’d have about ten guys sitting on her tail to shift her CG way back, hanging on for dear life in the prop blast, just to keep her from nosing over from all that thrust. Doesn’t look like the baby is in any danger of going on her nose, though. Not as big and heavy as she is.”
“And even though she’s lightened up a lot for the mission,” Dandridge added, “that tail still stays glued to the ground, even at high power.”
The mothership quickly acquired the television signal from the baby. With a clear view of her instrument panel now, Dandridge took over her controls. He told Lieutenant Wheatley, “Toggle is complete, sir. Ready to run the operational tests.”
Each check of the baby’s controls worked perfectly. As the testing progressed, the mothership put more distance between herself and A-90, flying higher and farther north. At nearly twenty miles straight-line distance, the television signal from the baby was finally lost.
“Well, that all passes with flying colors,” Dandridge said. “As long as we’re more than ten miles from the baby when we lose contact, we’re good. I think twenty miles is some sort of record, though. And no sign of interference, either, even with weak signals.”
Ahead in the distance, they could see Fort Driant and the city of Metz just beyond. It was Dandridge who made the suggestion, even though Tommy was thinking the same thing: “Let’s have one last look at that fort before we try to blow it up.”
Lieutenant Wheatley didn’t think much of that idea. “I’ll do one pass,” he said, “but that’s it. And we’re not going any lower, so don’t even ask.”
Tommy wedged himself into the nose dome for a bird’s-eye view of what, if anything, was going on below. He didn’t need the binoculars to see the clouds of dust rising south and west of the fort: a sure sign American columns were on the move. With the binocs, he could identify American tanks, half-tracks, and trucks advancing toward Driant.
Shit, they’re going to attack that damn fort again, Tommy told himself. I’ll bet that’s why all those leaves got cancelled. But they’d better capture it real quick this time or get the hell out of there, because the day after tomorrow, the baby’s going to be dropping in for a surprise visit…
And my brother—and all his buddies—better be miles away from Fort Driant.
His thoughts were interrupted by the radio operator’s voice in his headphones, passing along a message. It was a code word; Tommy had no idea what it meant.
Dandridge unraveled the mystery: “It means the guys on the ground have a big problem.”
Back on the ground at A-90, the crew of the mothership assembled in the Bucket operations tent for the mission debrief. They didn’t have much to talk about: their end of both the Culver practice run and the baby’s checkout had gone according to plan. The ground team, however, had a much different and very troubling report.
“It’s going to blow up, plain and simple,” Tech Sergeant Rocco Inzetta said. The chief electrician’s voice was choked with emotion, his pleading eyes welling with tears. “We’ve got stray voltage in the Torpex igniter wiring when it’s under remote control, more than enough to set off the explosives. There shouldn’t be a milliamp of current there until it impacts the target. It’ll detonate just like that Navy baby that blew itself and its pilots to bits.”
Major Staunton shook his head and replied, “We’ve been through this a dozen times before, Sergeant Inzetta. We just need better grounding for the transmitter’s power supply. Once your men burnish and reconnect the leads to the ship’s grounding bus bar, everything will be fine.”
Dandridge whispered to Tommy, “Here we go again, sir. Remember what I was saying about the old reseat the connectors fix?” He motioned to the two pilots whose job it would be to get the baby airborne and then bail out once it was under remote control. “I don’t think those two gentlemen are buying it, either. If they clamp their jaws any tighter, they’re going to be breaking off teeth and spitting them out.”
Tommy had been watching Staunton intently as he delivered his textbook solution. He’d sounded confident enough—And who knows? Maybe he is right—but Tommy was pretty sure he’d caught just a hint of uncertainty in his face. It seemed to him like Staunton was trying to convince himself along with everyone else.
One of the baby’s pilots, a captain named Pym, whose hair was graying well before its time, asked, “Of course, Major, we will keep testing the system until we’re absolutely positive there’s no loose voltage on those wires, right?”
“Absolutely, Captain Pym,” Staunton replied, his voice full of confidence.
But Tommy was sure he caught that hint of uncertainty in the major’s face once again.
And Sergeant Inzetta’s face had the disbelieving look of a man who’d just been told that up was down.
“This Navy baby,” Tommy said to Dandridge. “What’s he talking about?”
“The Navy flies these things, too, sir. A couple of months back, one of them blew up in midair, right after control passed to the remote operator. Nobody knows for sure, but they think it happened as soon as the pilots armed the explosives, which is the last thing they do before bailing out.”
“So if there’s already voltage in the wiring, the Torpex will blow as soon as it’s armed?”
Dandridge replied with a somber nod.
“And this stray voltage problem has been seen before?” Tommy asked.
“Yeah, we’ve seen it from time to time, sir. It’s like a phantom. Sometimes it goes away without us doing anything, so we’re not real sure what the positive fix is. But the big brains are convinced that cleaning up the bus bar grounding connections takes care of everything.”
“And nobody’s got proof of that?”
“Correct, sir. I suggested months ago that we replace the bus bar, which is thin, flat aluminum, with something much more solid, like a copper rod or something, that wouldn’t flex and arc with changes in temperature and pressure altitude. The Air Force wouldn’t buy it, though…not without extensive testing back in the States. It would be like recertifying the design of the whole electrical system.”
Tommy asked, “Are they doing that testing?”
He knew what the look of frustrated helplessness that came over Dandridge’s face meant. It was the same look he’d seen a hundred times before on the faces of highly experienced NCOs, men who were expected to execute the policies of the military but despite their considerable expertise had no input in the making of those policies.
“Your guess is as good as mine, sir.”
As Tommy and Dandridge emerged from the operations tent, they walked right into Lieutenant Wheatley reading the riot act to his flight engineer. His tone nasty and threatening, the pilot was dressing down his senior, most experienced enlisted crewman for embarrassing him when he called out those bogus bogies. It was like listening to a self-obsessed parent scolding a child for having the temerity to breathe.
Tommy grabbed Wheatley by the arm and ushered him around the corner of the tent, the much bigger man struggling to pull away the whole time. But he couldn’t shake Tommy’s vise-like grip.
“Get your fucking hands off me, Moon, or I’ll have your ass court-martialed so fast your head will spin.”
“Yeah, sure you will, Paul,” Tommy replied. “Now shut up and listen. You might want to show that sergeant a little respect. Right or wrong, he was just doing his job. You were the one who made a horse’s ass out of yourself by jumping to the wrong conclusion.”
“Fuck you, Moon. And fuck all you fighter jockeys who think you’re all such hot shit.”
“Just out of curiosity, Paul, how many combat missions have you logged, anyway?”
Wheatley glared down at Tommy as if he was regarding a lower life form. That was all it took for Tommy Moon to understand Paul Wheatley:
He’s one of those boys from the world of privilege who has always lived by a different set of rules than the rest of us poor slobs. And those jacked-up rules have followed him right into the service, too.
“Let me guess, Paul. Your daddy’s a general or a rich man, right? Or maybe a congressman?”
Wheatley’s head jerked back, as if the truth was a blow as effective as a punch.
Then Tommy added, “Only someone who’s been told his whole life that the sun rises out of his asshole would treat a valued non-com like dirt. Especially the non-com who keeps your ship airworthy.”
Wheatley’s dismissiveness didn’t soften a bit as he wheeled and strutted away. His only words in parting: “Go fuck yourself, dwarf.”
Tommy found Dandridge and the flight engineer lurking around the corner of the tent.
The engineer said, “Thanks for sticking up for me, Lieutenant. We could sure use a little more of that around here.”
Dandridge added, “Boy, you hit that one right on the head, sir.”
“Oh yeah? Which part?”
“All the parts. But especially the one about his daddy being a congressman. He actually is a congressman from Missouri, you know.”
“No shit,” Tommy replied. “And here I was, throwing things against the wall to see what stuck. Wait a minute…how much of that did you guys hear?”
“Probably all of it, sir,” Dandridge replied. “I know we weren’t supposed to be listening, but it was too good to miss. I loved when you asked him about how many combat missions he has. We can tell you the answer. It’s two.”
“Two? That’s all? He must’ve made a real mess of things. Or he went crying to his daddy.”
“Mostly, I hear it was the real mess he made, sir. I don’t know any of the details, but they pretty much drummed him out of a bomb wing.”
“And he ended up flying motherships? From what I’ve heard, you get bounced to transports if you can’t cut it. Or you just get grounded, period.”
The flight engineer chimed in: “Well, that brings us to the part about crying to his daddy, sir…”
Chapter Twenty-Five
As far as Sean Moon was concerned, the operations order for this latest attack on Fort Driant was proving too optimistic: Having the plans to this place is great and all, but it’s still a shitstorm. We’re getting cut up by Krauts we can’t even see, just like before.
But the plans had taught the Americans some useful things about the fort, such as the locations of concealed entrances to the tunnel system that connected most of Driant’s structures. While the broad attack order featured multiple simultaneous prods into the tunnel system at various points of access, the assignment for Sean’s platoon was more compact: protect the engineers who were to blow the steel door at a hidden tunnel entrance between Bunkers 3 and 4. They’d be bypassing those bunkers—and their kill zones—to exploit and conquer the tunnel system beneath them.
This involved first covering the approach of the engineers’ two armored half-tracks and then suppressing any German fire that might interfere with the demolition work. One infantry company would follow the engineers and storm the tunnel once it was opened. Another company of infantry would provide protection for the tanks and half-tracks from sappers. Per the ops order, these four attacking elements were to enter the fort in a close, mutually supporting column.
Sean’s platoon should’ve had four tanks, but one had already broken down with transmission problems moving out of the assembly area to begin the attack. His remaining three tanks, with the engineers’ half-tracks nestled among them, passed through the same breach in the barbed wire perimeter they’d used in the last attack. They would’ve been in position at their objective—the tunnel door—in just a few minutes, even with the slow pace necessary to not outrun the infantry. But in the face of withering fire, the infantry had slowed to a literal crawl. With the usual poor-to-nonexistent communications between buttoned-up tanks and foot soldiers, coupled with the self-preservation instincts of the tankers telling them not to stand still, the vehicles had soon gotten far ahead of the GIs on foot.
As they rolled up to their objective, which was down in a n
arrow trench below ground level, Sean could sense his tanks and the engineer half-tracks were without infantry support. “Circle the wagons,” Sean called over the radio to the other two tanks in his platoon. “The corn plaster commandos didn’t show. It’s gonna be up to us to keep the Krauts off our asses. And try not to run over any of our own guys while you’re at it.”
The sound of bullets large and small bouncing off the hull and turret was maddening. “Kowalski,” Sean called to his driver, “pull her up another ten yards, and make it snappy. We’ll use the old girl to make a wall the engineers can hide their asses behind.”
A burst of heavy machine gun bullets struck the tank like the rapid chattering of teeth, each round making a dull THUNK as it ricocheted off an unyielding piece of steel. “Better our paint job takes a licking than those poor bastard engineers,” Sean said.
Circling the wagons put Sean’s platoon in a rough triangle around the trench where the engineers worked, their bows pointing outward. The bow machine gun of each tank covered a narrow arc of the perimeter they’d formed around the engineers. The coaxial machine gun that traversed with each turret’s main gun would have to provide cover from infantry attacks for the rest of the perimeter’s circumference. If a major threat popped up, like an anti-tank gun, an exposed strongpoint, or—however unlikely—another tank, the main guns of the Shermans would be brought to bear.
Fabiano, Sean’s gunner, was glued to his gunsight as he traversed the turret, looking for a target he could actually see instead of just the blast-pocked moonscape of the fort’s earthen roof. Meanwhile, Sean tried to correlate the defensive positions marked on his sketch of Driant’s plans to the incoming fire they were receiving. He could hear the main guns of his other tanks firing intermittently, but when questioned, they didn’t seem very sure of what, if anything, they were shooting at. Through his periscope, he had a limited view of the engineers working behind his tank as they moved explosives into position against the tunnel door.
Fortress Falling (Moon Brothers WWII Adventure Series Book 2) Page 22
