Sky Ghost

by Maloney, Mack;

  But that answer would never really be discerned—at least not by the crew of the B-201. As it turned out, the premonitions by the crew that the airplane would never land safely again were about to come true.

  No one on board the B-201 saw the enemy fighters coming.

  No one was looking for them. And why should they? The SuperSea was out in the middle of nowhere. Far from any airfield, and certainly out of range of fighter aircraft.

  But suddenly there were 12 of them. They were the latest German wonder weapon: the Messerschmitt BF-909, jet-assisted, dual-prop fighters built for quickness and heavy firepower—but not particularly long range. They came out of a cloud on the B-201’s left, flying line abreast. They all opened up with machine guns and rockets at precisely the same moment, at 1200 feet out. The combined fusillade tore into the SuperSea. The flight deck was hit, as were the double-heat engines and the remaining magazine stocks. The German fighters laid on the fire until 300 feet out, then they finally broke in all directions.

  Only one strafing pass would be needed. The B-201 simply blew up two seconds later. The huge airplane split in two, the front half spinning away in a ball of flame while the rear continued flying on for a few seconds before beginning the long last plunge down.

  Bodies could be seen falling from the wreckage, some with parachutes, some without. It didn’t make any difference—they were all on fire. The major part of the wreckage hit the water nearly two minutes later—it took that long for the mighty airship to come down.

  But not nearly long enough for anyone left alive onboard to radio a Mayday call. Two enemy fighters swooped down and checked the smoldering, sinking wreckage, then rejoined their comrades back up at 22,000 feet. They formed up into four chevrons of three each and together disappeared into a huge cloud bank to the south—the same place the tandem aircraft had gone just minutes before. They would quickly link up with the huge airplanes and be retrieved by them, the fighter pilots hooking onto arresting hooks carried beneath the big planes’ wings and attaching themselves there. Then together they would complete the airborne refueling exercise, once again in secret.

  No one at Atlantic Wartime Command would ever know what happened to the Navy B-201 SuperSea. And with the war effort going so badly these days, no one had the time or disposition to find out, especially since the plane disappeared inside the Demon Zone.

  In the end, the B-201 and its crew of 42 would simply be listed as “lost en route.”

  Chapter 18

  Dreamland Base

  HAWK HUNTER WOKE UP the next morning hungover, restless, and cold.

  He’d had a troubled sleep. The bombing mission over Ireland was still very fresh in his mind and it had caused him to have strange, nonsensical dreams. Of the three missions he’d flown in as many days, this was the one that haunted him the most.

  Now laying awake in his frigid bunk, he wasn’t sure why this was so. Something deep inside him ached whenever he thought back on the mission. Seeing the two bombers get hit and go in at the same time. Then their colleagues daring a tribute over their fiery graves. More Americans had certainly died during the 999th’s attack on Manchester. And more hate and disgust had built up in his soul for the cowards of the 13th during the aborted attack on the Isle of Man.

  But this last mission—it seemed very stuck to him even after another marathon drinking session at the OC. Why?

  He finally rolled out of his bunk, his feet hitting the cold, cold floor. The empty barracks was not heated very well; neither was the water. Hunter took a brisk, frozen shower, then stumbled into his clothes.

  Outside, the wind and snow were blowing so fiercely that he was certain there’d be no flying today. He checked the duty roster at the main entranceway to the barracks and saw nothing had been written on it.

  This was good, he thought.

  There were a few things he wanted to do.

  He braved the fierce wind and snow and trudged over to the OC. Here he found Major Payne.

  The officer was sitting alone, staring into a cup of coffee. He was the only one on hand for morning mess.

  “Did I miss the crowd?” Hunter asked, walking up to his table.

  Payne barely looked up.

  “What’s your beef today? You’re not flying. No one is.”

  “No beef. I just want to make a request.”

  “And that is?”

  “I want to present myself formally to the CO of the Wing,” Hunter told him. “His office is here, I understand?”

  Payne froze for a second.

  “Why would you want to do that?” he asked.

  Hunter just shrugged.

  “Don’t all new men get to shake hands with the Old Man?” he replied. “I mean, I’ve been here three days and have flown three missions, and haven’t heard anyone even mention the top guy. You do have a Wing CO right? Someone in charge of all these bases?”

  Payne sipped his coffee now, even though it was obviously ice cold. Outside, the wind and snow were howling at full throttle.

  “You know, I’ve verified your enemy kill claims,” Payne told him, changing the subject slightly. “You realize you’ve shot down more enemy fighters in three days than this entire squadron did in three months, back when we were winning this thing?”

  Hunter just shrugged again. “Lot of targets,” he said. “I just point the guns and shoot.”

  Payne glared up at him. “Don’t give me that,” he said. “You’ve shot down almost 50 aircraft, for Christ’s sake.”

  “Are you complaining?”

  Payne’s hand came down just a little too hard on the table. It made his coffee cup rattle.

  “I just think it’s weird,” he told Hunter. “I mean, this squadron was about to close up shop. We were about to go home. Me, the logistics guys, the mechanics. The weather people. We had no more pilots. We had nothing left to do. The bombers were just going to be on their own and we were going to be done with it.

  “Then you show up—from God knows where—and you start emptying the sky of Huns. If those dipshits in the War Department weren’t so busy looking for a place to hide, they’d have pinned a chestful of medals on you already.”

  “What’s your point?” Hunter asked him. “I’m just doing the job.”

  Payne’s face turned crimson red now.

  “The point is, I’ve done some checking up on you,” he said through gritted teeth. “And you didn’t come up here through regular channels. No one knows who the hell you are back at Air Corps Command. That could mean you were sent up here by the OSS. And maybe that means you’re a spy.”

  Hunter almost laughed. “A spy? For who?”

  Payne looked like he was going to burst.

  “Don’t you get it?” he asked angrily. “We were gone, me and the rest of the people in this crappy little snowball club. Gone, man. When we ran out of pilots, we were going home. Those were the orders. We didn’t even have to call ahead of time. If you hadn’t shown up, we’d be home now. Home. But then those assholes at the OSS throw you into this mix—for whatever damn reason—and we get stuck here, running this whole thing for one guy.”

  “And I can’t accommodate you by getting myself killed, is that it?” Hunter asked him, trying to stay calm.

  Payne started to agree—but caught himself.

  “I just wanted everyone to get out of here, in one piece,” he said instead, a little quieter. “You’ve seen the photos on that wall in the ops room. Can you imagine what this place was like just six months ago? We had won the damn thing. We were packing our bags and getting ready to kiss some girls in Times Square. Then we were going home to our families. And then the roof fell in. And I was getting calluses on my hands from hanging all those pictures. Standing out on the runway and waiting for a flight to come home—and no one did. Any idea what that’s like?”

  Now it was Hunter’s turn to shut up and just think. This was turning into a whole different thing here. The affect he’d had on the 2001st in just three days was rather dramati
c. Sending him up here because the Air Corps needed pilots was one thing. But how could Pegg and the people he worked for possibly know he’d shoot down so many enemy aircraft and thus become such a valuable commodity that he would put a monkey wrench into any 2001st muster-out plans?

  “I mean,” Payne went on, “you’re like a squadron all to yourself. We can’t close up shop here while you’re still around. My question is, where the hell were you six months ago?”

  Hunter felt all the air go out of him now.

  “I don’t know,” he replied simply.

  But Payne really didn’t hear him. Or he didn’t get what Hunter was really trying to say.

  “Yeah, neither do I,” the officer just murmured.

  Then he looked up at Hunter—tears were forming in the corners of his eyes.

  “I saw this place die,” he said. “Not just this base, but the whole Circle. They would have been writing books, making movies about us, this place, if the war had ended six months ago like it was supposed to. But now it’s turned into a bad dream. I know what you saw with the 999th that day. Those guys have been flying drunk for months. And I wasn’t surprised by what the 13th did either. They’re the biggest gang of cowards I’ve ever come across. They’ve actually institutionalized cowardice.”

  With great embarrassment, Payne wiped his eyes.

  “I just wanted to get my boys home, what was left of them,” he whispered. “That’s all.”

  Hunter stared back at him. His first impression of Payne had been the correct one. He was a good officer and probably, deep down, a good guy.

  “That’s all anyone wants to do,” he told him.

  They were quiet for a few uncomfortable moments. Outside, the wind blew and the snow fell. Payne went back to staring into his coffee. Hunter shifted from one foot to the other and wondered if it was time to retreat.

  But then Payne surprised him.

  He looked up from his coffee and said: “You know something? Maybe meeting the Old Man is exactly what you need.”

  It took them 15 minutes to walk just a quarter of a mile down the flight line. The wind was so fierce, at times it would blow Hunter back two steps for every one he managed to take.

  A couple of times Payne yelled something over to him, but Hunter couldn’t hear him. He just kept his head down and kept walking.

  They finally reached the so-called Command Hut. Appropriately enough, it was shaped like an igloo, one built out of tin sheeting and rubber insulation.

  “This was HQ for the entire Circle,” Payne yelled over to him, Hunter hearing him this time. “Everything for the twelve bases came right out of here. If they were ever going to make a movie about this place, the first shot would be right here, right at this front door. Because this is where it all used to happen.”

  Used to…Those words stayed with Hunter.

  They went inside and took two minutes to pick the ice particles from their faces, hands, and coats.

  Then they went into a huge Situation Room. This place, where all the planning, logistics, and paperwork for the entire Air Wing based at the Circle would normally be done, was empty. The desks, chairs, phones, maps, charts, everything that should have been bustling with activity, instead was covered with dust.

  They walked silently into the next room, which was supposed to be the CO’s briefing room—the place where all the big plans were supposed to be made. But this room was still and dusty too. A second lieutenant was sitting in a chair by the door to the Wing Commander’s office. He was unkempt, his uniform a mess. It looked like he hadn’t moved off his seat in years.

  He looked up at Payne and Hunter and barely nodded to them. There were no salutes.

  “He’s not too good today,” the lieutenant told Payne.

  Payne opened the CO’s office door and Hunter followed him inside. It was very dark in the office. Just a single light on a desk that was as dusty as all those outside.

  Over near the window, a man sat in a chair. He was absolutely still. The silence in the room was almost painful. Even the wind outside seemed to be dulled by it.

  They took a few steps in, then Payne closed the door behind them.

  “You see how he is right now?” Payne whispered to Hunter. “That’s the way he’s been for the past four months.”

  Hunter took a good look at the man. He was probably in his mid fifties. He was small, wiry. He looked like a fighter pilot.

  But his face was like ice. He was not moving, he seemed dead. But his eyes were open, and his chair was rocking ever so slightly.

  His name was Jones. General Seth Jones.

  “Catatonic?” Hunter asked, the word barely passing his lips. Payne just shrugged.

  “You tell me,” he said. “The docs couldn’t figure it out.”

  Hunter felt his chest tighten up. There was a strange feeling in here. It was as if the CO, this man slowly rocking in his chair, wasn’t even here.

  Payne knew what he was feeling. “Yeah, gives me the creeps too.” he said.

  With that, Payne retreated and left Hunter in the room alone. Hunter walked over to the man in the chair and saluted.

  “Flight Officer Hunter, reporting for duty, sir,” he said.

  The man did not move. Not a muscle. Hunter took a closer look. His face was creased with two channels running down from his eyes. Were these tear tracks?

  Hunter tried introducing himself again. Still nothing. He stood there for a long moment, wondering just what movie this was from. He got right up in the CO’s face. The man was breathing, he was alive at least. But he was in some kind of catatonic state.

  In his lap was a pile of reports. It was as if he’d been reading them when he went into his spell.

  Though Hunter was sure it was against a couple hundred regulations, he picked up the first report and started reading it

  It was a postmission briefing report from four months earlier. It told of a particularly hazardous job the Air Wing had to perform.

  This was when the war had started turning back in the Germans’ favor. It seemed like a routine mission—maybe too routine. It was over occupied France. 416 bombers, 82 covering fighters. They were hit by 250 Natters, the first day the German rocket planes had appeared in combat.

  No one came back.

  The next day, the Wing was sent out to hit the 20 or so airfields where the Natters were based. It was a panic mission—and the Wing paid the price. One bomber out of 317 made it back. No fighters returned.

  Hunter picked up the third report. This spoke of a massive 800-plane raid that the entire Air Corps, desperate for a victory, sent against the Natter bases along the French coast.

  More than half the planes came home that day—because more than half the pilots turned around before they even crossed the coastline. Those that did were simply slaughtered by the rocket planes. Nearly 400 airplanes—both bombers and fighters—went down.

  That’s when Air Corps Command stopped all bombing missions over the Continent. They simply couldn’t take the bomber losses. Even worse, the American side had been so certain the war was winding down—again—that they’d actually started pulling bombers back to the U.S. and mustering out their crews! Now they had almost no pilots.

  The final blow came in the next report. Apparently bucking HQ’s orders, Jones, the Wing CO, had gathered some intelligence on his own and had put together a huge strike of bombers, training bombers, even cargo planes carrying bombs.

  They went off to hit a Natter assembly plant in occupied Belgium. They ran into bad weather coming in on the target and that had thrown off the aiming mechanisms in the lead airplanes. Still, the Wing unloaded 12,000 tons of bombs on what they thought was the Natter factory—but it wasn’t. They hit a hospital for POWs instead. Then, on the outbound leg, they were attacked by hordes of Natters, Me-666s, and Horton flying wings. The Wing was decimated.

  How bad was that day? One crew, it was reported, was so in the thick of it and so freaked out, they detonated their unused bombs and blew themselv
es up as well as five other planes around them.

  Once again, no airplanes returned.

  That’s when General Seth Jones sat down in his chair. He hadn’t moved since.

  Hunter took a deep breath and let it out slowly. Well, that explained a lot of the strangeness around here. Obviously the CO was a highly respected man back in the States and the last thing the Air Corps wanted to do now was sack him—morale would plummet even further. So they just let him stay up here, sitting in his chair and allowing what was left of the Wing to fly hit-or-miss missions over the UK.

  Waiting for the end.

  Hunter saw one final piece of paper in the CO’s lap. In many ways it was the most astonishing document of them all.

  It was a letter of authorization from Jones naming an officer at Wing HQ to be his Adjunct-General. Hunter read the fine print and apparently this was a position where the so-named officer would in effect take over all duties for the CO. He would run the operations. He would run the missions. He would pick the targets. Everything.

  Yet the place where the officer’s name was to be filled in was blank.

  Hunter studied the letter. It was slightly stained, slightly dog-eared. It was obvious at least one person had read it besides the CO. And if one person was aware of its contents, then the entire Wing would be.

  So to Hunter’s mind, it wasn’t that no one had seen the blank line to fill in—there simply hadn’t been any takers.

  And why should there be? No one wanted to be the Captain of the Titanic. So they were just waiting around for the patient to the.

  Now it was Hunter who sat down and became motionless in a chair. Staring out the frosted window, looking at the same view the catatonic CO had watched for nearly four months, he thought about his very strange life.

  He was from somewhere else. He wasn’t sure where, but he had to assume that if he got here from there, then maybe somehow, someday, he’d be able to get back.

  But how and when would that ever happen? He didn’t know, but deep inside he was certain it wasn’t going to happen while this screwy war was still going on.