But his colleagues were not joining in his enthusiasm. Something was troubling them. Something that could override the encouraging battle reports from Europe.
“What is it my friends?” he asked them. “What has happened?”
Y sat down and Z slid a deep red envelope over to him. Red was the highest security level. Furthermore, the envelope was sealed with both green and red wax. This elevated it to Level 42 Security—the highest within the OSS realm.
The wax seals had already been broken however.
“And this is?” Y asked simply.
“The end of the world,” Z replied.
X lit another cigarette and blew the smoke all around the dimly lit room.
“One week ago,” he began, “a Sea Marine patrol on Block Island found the body of a dead German officer washed up on the beach. He was wearing the uniform of a German Air Force intelligence officer, but papers he was carrying identified him as a liaison officer with the German Navy.”
Y reached inside the envelope and pulled out a photo of a man in a German uniform, laying dead on the beach. His mouth and nose were stuffed with sand.
“He may have been a courier of some sort,” X continued. “He was carrying some very sensitive documents with him.”
Y pulled out a three-page briefing paper. “Sensitive?” he asked. “How sensitive?”
X looked at Z and then back at Y. “Would you believe the entire plan for a German invasion of the United States?”
Y just stared back at them. “Are these documents real? Have they been authenticated?”
“They’ve passed all the chemical tests, the printware analysis, everything the Main/AC could come up with as far as purity,” Z said. “These things are real. We think…”
Y quickly read the document.
This is what it said: the Germans were planning to land 62 paratroop divisions along the eastern coast of the U.S. sometime within the next 30 days. They planned to concentrate on the Mid-Atlantic states. After establishing a beachhead there, they would drive inland, swing north, and capture Washington D.C.
At the same time, five major U.S. cities would be bombed—New York, Boston, Baltimore, Miami, and Atlanta—by high-flying Focke-Wulf 911s, carrying a new secret weapon, or by apparently enormous missiles, called DG-42s, which would be launched from Germany itself.
All this would be coordinated with an attack on Texas, New Mexico, Arizona, and southern California by German special unit troops infiltrated into Mexico from previous secret landings in Central America.
There would also be a seaborne attack on northern New England by some of Germany’s numerous Scandinavian allies.
In the second phase of this invasion, another wave of German paratroop forces would come right over the North Pole, over Canada and land around the Great Lakes. A third phase called for a similar over-the-top attack on the midsection of the United States.
The Germans would be able to move all these troops and drop all these bombs and attack so many American cities due to a wide array of secret weapons that they’d apparently been building for almost a year. These included monstrous airplanes—bombers and troop carriers—that had somehow mastered the art of aerial refueling, and this prolonged their range.
Y stopped right there. At least that would explain the strange reports they’d been getting lately about mysterious groups of large airplanes seen flying odd formations way out at sea.
He began reading again. The first step in this invasion plan was actually scheduled to take place 24 hours before the main thrust hit. This preinvasion action involved a lightning attack on the island of Bermuda. Once they’d captured this island, and its several airports, the Germans would have the perfect staging area for the big attack on the American mainland. In all, the invasion was expected to last less than a month.
Y was staggered by the report.
“Really, what are the chances any of this is true?” he asked Z.
The man just shrugged. “It’s either all true or total bullshit,” he replied.
“But we have to consider how we found this information,” Y said. “Putting fake plans on a corpse and having it wash up on the beach is the oldest trick in the book.”
“That is correct,” Z said. “But I think we have to go on the assumption that it’s all true, simply because to ignore it, and guess wrong, would be fatal.”
Y looked at the calendar. The attack was supposed to go off in just 30 days. There was absolutely no way they could muster up any kind of effective defensive plan, not with the woeful state of the U.S. military these days. There could be no throw-em-back-into-the-sea strategy either. They didn’t even have time to dream one up, never mind assemble the defensive troops needed to fight 62 divisions and have them fortify the coastline.
“Simply put,” X said, “we are doomed.”
Z numbly agreed with him.
But Y wasn’t so sure.
“If this is still a month away, that might mean the enemy troops are still in their staging areas,” he told them. “And because they are hiding the equivalent of a million men somewhere, I’ve got to believe those staging areas are in Europe. And if those troops are still at home, then we at least have some chance of interdicting them, stalling them, or maybe stopping them altogether.”
X and Z just looked at him. Then they laughed.
“Always the optimist,” Z said derisively.
“Well, we have to do something,” Y shot back at them. “You said it yourself.”
“That’s right,” Z countered. “I’m going to do something. I’m going to pack up the wife and the girlfriend, get my ass out to the Northwest Coast. Seattle sounds very nice at the moment. Or maybe the deep woods of Oregon. It’s the only place the Huns don’t intend to invade any time soon.”
“You’ll be at the head of a very large stampede,” X said, leaning back to light a cigarette. “When word gets out about this, whew, boy…”
“All the more reason to leave sooner,” Z said.
Y’s face flushed red. It was obvious even in the darkened room. He turned on Z.
“If you leave now,” he told his colleague through gritted teeth, “I’ll track you down and kill you.”
Z stared back at him with some astonishment. “When the hell did you grow such a big pair of balls?”
“It’s our country, you fool!” Y bellowed at him. “And we’ve got to do our job.”
X raised his hands, playing the peacemaker once again.
“OK,” he said turning to Y. “How do you suggest we attempt to counter this massive operation, with all its weapons, and huge aircraft, and missiles that can travel ten thousand miles? Do you have a plan in mind? Something that can be implemented quickly, but also with just a very small number of people involved?”
Z sat back in his chair smugly. Y could hardly see his face for the low light and cigarette smoke.
“So? Do you have a plan of this caliber?” he mocked Y. “Great mind that you are?”
Y flushed with anger again—but then suddenly, a strange calm came over him. They needed a big operation quick, performed by someone who could both do the job and be trusted.
Maybe that wasn’t such an impossible request after all. “Yes,” Z went on, joining sides with X. “Do you have a magic rabbit you can pull out of your hat?”
Y just glowered back at them both. “Maybe I do,” he said finally.
Chapter 25
Over the North Sea
One week later
IT HAPPENED AS HUNTER was returning from the 21st air strike over Germany.
Hamburg, Hannover, Frankfurt, and of course, Berlin had been firebombed again this day. Only three bombers had been lost, all to Natters. Two other bombers had been damaged though, lucky flak bursts had caught them at the tail end of the Berlin run. As the rest of the Wing headed back for the safe haven of Iceland, Hunter stayed behind to guard the stragglers.
It was usually during this last stretch that Hunter settled back to do his daily breathing ex
ercises. As always, he loosened his chin strap and his seat harness and began taking the long deep breaths of oxygen.
But suddenly, on his third breath, his body began vibrating.
He sat up immediately and began looking all around him. This feeling he’d come to associate with impending trouble was running through him very strongly now. Were enemy fighters approaching? Were they jets or rocket-planes? He scanned the sky above him, below him, behind him and to both sides—and saw nothing.
But still the feeling would not go away. He checked his position on the homing TV. He was exactly where he thought he was—just passing over the Faeroe Islands and now some 200 miles from the nearest enemy territory. He’d never encountered any German aircraft way out here. Yet his entire body was almost shaking at this point.
What was going on?
He radioed ahead to the stragglers that he was dumping some altitude and that he’d catch up with them. Then he put the nose of the Mustang-5 straight down and began to plunge.
Through 45,000, through 40, then 35,000 feet. The feeling became stronger with each mile he dropped. Finally, instinct told him to pull up at 22,500 feet. He did so and looked around him again.
And that’s when he saw it.
It was an enormous jet-powered seaplane, about 20 miles off to his right. It was going very fast and flying very low. It was painted in polar disbursement camouflage, with large Iron Crosses hidden on its wings and tail.
Hunter had never seen an enemy airplane like this one. Its size was astonishing. It was at least twice the size of the biggest American SuperBomber. Maybe even three times as big. From the back of his skull came a flash of an ancient German seaplane called the Dornier Do.X. It had been enormous for its day, with a long top-mounted wing and no less than six propeller engines.
This flying behemoth he was now looking at had been built on the same principal, except there were no fewer than 28 jet engines adorning its wing. And he guessed it was at least five times the size of its very distant cousin. It was so big, it looked for all the world like a flying battleship.
Hunter had to take the next moment to think about what he should do, exactly. It appeared the giant seajet was heading right for Iceland. But no matter what direction it was going, the enemy plane had to be shot down. The problem was, the fighter group was already 100 miles ahead of him, and probably none of Sarah’s Mustangs had enough fuel to double back, help him kill the beast, and then reach Iceland with the fuel remaining.
Plus, at the speed the seajet was flying, there was a possibility it would get away while Hunter was waiting for some help.
The question was then, could he do it alone?
He had taken out two AA sites, a flak train, five Natters, and a Horton Flying Devil today, so he was about half full on machine gun ammunition. And though Hunter had yet to use his cannon in any of his combat flights so far, the bulky weapon still had its requisite 25 shells in place.
So did he have enough ammo to take on this giant or not? He wasn’t sure. But perhaps more important, did he have enough fuel?
He didn’t know the answer to that question either. But either way, he had to try. One more deep breath, then he yanked on his control stick and dove on the huge airplane.
The enemy plane saw him coming from about a mile out. This did not surprise him. The giant airship had dozens of windows and glass blisters all over its fuselage. There must have been at least a hundred portholes on her. There were no side or top guns that he could see though, just a large gun station in the rear. But he was sure that with so many windows, someone had spotted him coming down out of the clouds.
It really made no difference whether they saw him or not. Hunter simply kicked in his double-reheat burner and bumped his speed up to 850 knots. The airplane’s rear gunners began firing almost immediately, but he was moving way too fast for them to get a bead on him.
He flew under and then over and then back along the length of the thing, marveling at its enormity. The plane which had circled him the day he was plucked from the Atlantic looked like a glider compared to this craft.
Hunter looped again and placed himself on the plane’s six o’clock. He pulled back his weapons safeties and did a system check. His four mgs were ready to fire, as was the dormant cannon. A quick look at the homing TV told him he was beginning the engagement 178 miles southeast of the tip of Iceland. It was exactly 1100 hours when he opened up.
On his first pass, he tried to find a vulnerable place under the big wing, where his bullets might hit a fuel tank. Some of his initial hits did produce telltale wisps of vapor, but nothing big enough to ignite. He looped and went around again. This time he threw some shells into the last two starboard engines. His bullets simply bounced off. The engine cowlings were obviously made of heavy duty steel.
Another loop. Another pass at the engines. Again, no hits to speak off. He tried the underwing fuel tanks again. Nothing. He tried pumping bullets into the underside of the giant fuselage itself, hoping to find a soft spot. But again, nothing. His bullets either bounced off, or had no affect on what they did penetrate. He was now down to half his remaining bullet load.
He made six more passes, again to little affect. He tried a pair of head-on strafing runs, zeroing in on the plane’s bulbous cockpit—it had more glass than a skyscraper. But he saw most of his shots bounce off the thick, hardened glass. Even firing directly into the engine intakes had no noticeable affect. The air-suckers were obviously protected by heavy-duty screens inside the cowlings.
All this shooting and diving and looping was burning fuel and time. Hunter attacked the big plane for no less than 15 minutes, and other than making the pilots change course slightly to avoid him, he had not altered the big plane’s progress at all, never mind shooting it down. It was like trying to stab a whale to death with a pocketknife. No matter what he did, the big plane simply continued plowing through the increasingly frigid air, its destination known only to those within.
The galling thing about the attack was that he had an audience. There were many faces pressed up against the numerous porthole blisters, watching him in an almost leisurely fashion as he broke his nuts trying to bring the flying giant down. He even detected some of the enemy airmen looking out and laughing at him, so sure they were that his attempt would be futile.
He did four more passes, all of them at the under-wing fuel tanks. And finally he saw a continuous stream of vapor leaking from at least one perforation. But no sooner had he started this leak, when his four machine guns went dry.
They were now 110 miles from the Icelandic coast, and it was obvious the plane was heading in that direction. Hunter began wondering exactly what the big Dornier might be carrying inside. It wasn’t a bomber, it had no bomb bays. Could it be a troop carrier? A maritime spy plane?
He didn’t know. But it was clear it was heading for American-held territory and that it was up to no good and that Hunter had to somehow knock it down.
He was desperate now. He looped again, got back on the big plane’s tail and gingerly keyed his cannon’s safety switch. He knew the backwash from the huge airplane would make it almost impossible for him to get close enough for a clear shot with the low-velocity cannon, but he was running out of tricks to try.
So he increased speed and opened up with the cannon for the first time ever. Immediately he heard an ungodly noise and the Mustang-5 began shaking so violently he thought it was coming apart of the seams. The nose-mounted cannon produced a cloud of smoke so thick, Hunter couldn’t see for several hair-raising moments. And when it did clear, the first thing he saw was a gang of enemy airmen in porthole bubbles still laughing and pointing at him.
But the 25-shot cannon barrage had paid off. It had taken a chunk off the big plane’s tail wing before running dry. Hunter was now out of ammo and almost out of gas. But he’d scored a little wound on his target—and this gave him a rather desperate idea.
Hunter knew that as big as the plane was, like all planes, it needed all its critical sur
faces to fly. And like all planes, it needed a tail wing to stay airborne.
Something in the back of his skull told him of a tactic the Russians used way, way back in some other place and time. When they were out of ammo, they would simply ram their opponent. Hunter decided he would do the same.
He pushed the throttle ahead, his engine sucked up a load of gas and he rocketed right into the left-side tail wing. The big Mustang-5 sort of bounced off, its nose crunched in, but it took a small chunk out of the extremely huge tail wing in the process.
Hunter dropped back, got steady, increased throttle and rammed the tail again. Another chunk flew off, producing another big dent in the Mustang’s nose. He hit the huge seaplane again, and another piece of the tail broke off. He hit it again, and again. And again. The coast of Iceland was now in sight. The blisters were still full of faces looking out at him, but no one was laughing now. These faces were etched in confusion and horror as they watched the mad American pilot continuously ram their airborne ocean liner, picking away at their unsinkable flying ship, one piece at a time.
It took another 20 long minutes. But at last, more than half the tail section had been knocked away.
And finally, the big plane started to go down.
The Mustang-5 was on fire as it approached Dreamland base.
Its nose and right wing were smoking heavily. From mid-fuselage on back was totally engulfed in flames. The engine was scoring very high. Its screech sounded like it was going to explode at any moment.
Yet as the small crowd of concerned colleagues looked on, Hunter brought the huge fighter in low, wheels up, gunning his engine with the last of his gas, and succeeding in blowing the fire off his fuselage.
He turned again, intentionally draining off his airspeed and lined up on the far runway. He came in shallow, waiting for the last moment to pop his gear down. It was on fire too. The Mustang hit the frozen runway a few seconds later, bounced up, came back down heavily on its right wing, bounced again, and came down hard again.
Sky Ghost Page 22
