For the remaining Luftwaffe aircraft, the reprieve was momentary at best. Four of the remaining ten remaining aircraft were heavy fighters, and the closest of those decided to take on the F-35E as the jet came out of its turn pointing directly at the formation. As the J-13C banked in toward Thorne, it opened up with its nose-mounted guns and a blistering barrage of tracer roared past off the Australian’s starboard wing a second later that was far too close for comfort.
No more than a thousand metres between them, the range was far too close to be certain of a kill with a medium-range missile, but he fired two anyway, desperate to protect himself and the cargo aircraft below and making himself an ace at the same time. An AMRAAM hissed angrily from beneath each wing, instantly arcing away on divergent courses as they sought out separate targets. One dealt a direct hit to the J-13A that had fired on him, while the second detonated its 22kg proximity warhead beneath the belly of an enemy fast bomber. There was little wreckage left to fall in either case as both disappeared in clouds of flame and billowing black smoke.
The loss of those last two aircraft finally broke the will of the eight remaining pilots and the formation split apart as they all came to the same decision simultaneously and aborted the attack. Thorne drew even closer as they broke and found himself on the tail of one of the bomber for a few seconds, his gunsight pipper’s central dot aligning perfectly with the centre of the twin-engined Junkers as he pressed down his gun trigger.
There was a roar as the 25mm cannon beneath his belly hammered away with a quick burst, tracer ripping through the B-13A’s starboard engine and wing and tearing them completely from the fuselage near the root. The bomber began to spiral away out of control, the aircrew left with no time to clamber from their cockpit and in any case far too low to bail out as it dashed itself to pieces against the ground three hundred metres below, the wreckage slamming into a storage shed behind the main hangars and exploding in a large fireball.
Three of the seven remaining enemy appeared to be on a path that would take them far too close to the runway for Thorne’s liking, and he began to turn the Lightning II sharply back toward them in the hope of bringing his cannon to bear. All seven remaining attackers suddenly exploded around him in quick succession, the event occurring so fast that it seemed almost simultaneous.
Davies’ F-22A Raptor had quickly roared up to five thousand metres following take off, its powerful Pratt & Whitney turbofans on full afterburner as it reached the zenith of its climb, and it seemed to pause for a moment before flipping sharply onto its back. As it rolled through 180º, the Raptor’s nose began to once more point earthward and Davies’ acquisition radar instantly locked onto the all seven remaining enemies as they split formation below. In lightning-fast succession, Davies had released all six of the AMRAAMs carried within the Raptor’s main weapons bay.
The advanced missiles, sometimes nicknamed ‘Fido’ in the USAF (as in ‘Go get him, Fido!’), were a ‘fire-and-forget’ weapon, and each was assigned a different target by the jet’s fire control systems as they were kicked free of their mountings one by one. All six ran true, smashing what was left of the attack from the skies as Davies swooped down from the sky above in their wake, the F-22’s 20mm Vulcan cannon releasing a deadly stream of shells that obliterated the last, lone B-13A.
Wild-eyed and running on pure adrenalin, the Texan released a long whoop of elation over the radio as he roared past off Thorne’s nose at full throttle, levelling out some distance away, quite close to the earth. His flight path carried him on across the grassy slopes of Hoy Island, past Ward Hill and beyond, and out over the North Atlantic. He joyously executed a transonic victory roll that carried back to the men of the base the sound of what was for most their first sonic boom.
Alec Trumbull had watched the entire show from a slit trench close to a nearby flak emplacement and had been left dumbstruck. He’d watched the opening engagements as the Tunguskas had torn apart half of the entire attack and had been amazed. As he watched the diving streak of the F-22 release six AIM-120s and destroy as many aircraft a few seconds later to end the attack, he was left completely in awe.
In that moment following the battle, as others cheered and clapped, Trumbull shook his head in stunned, open-mouthed relief and watched the Raptor thunder away out of sight to the west, the enormity of the things he’d learned over the last month coming savagely home as he finally, truly believed what Thorne had told him. He saw the great chasm that was the ‘gap’ between the technologies of his time and the technology Thorne and Hindsight had brought with them. He saw how completely that technology could shatter forces that hugely outnumbered them... and Thorne had said that they’d actually been ill-prepared. The Australian claimed the German force opposing them – these ‘New Eagles’ – had been planning their trip back through time for possibly as long as five years. A shudder ran through him and he was suddenly very afraid: afraid for himself, afraid for his family, and afraid for The Empire as a whole.
Eoin Kelly, still ‘luxuriating’ in one of Hindsight’s security cells and due to be flown back to Ireland within days, had been allowed out of his confinement – a very kind gesture in his opinion – and had been escorted to the safety of his own slit trench. He too had been in a prime position to watch the battle overhead, although he’d have thought that descriptive term quite generous in reference to such a one-sided affair.
A month after arriving there at Hindsight, he still remained torn to some extent over the proposition Thorne had put to him upon his arrival. The demonstration of smallarms he’d viewed however had paled into insignificance compared to what he’d just seen in the sky above Hindsight that morning, and although no one had explained anything to him, he was certain that some incredible things were going on there at the base. The other idea he took away from the events of that morning was the thought that if Thorne, possessed of such powerful aircraft and technology, was still frightened of the might of Germany, perhaps the Irish also had something to fear after all. If he’d been undecided before that moment, the aerial battle and its outcome had made up his mind.
Twenty minutes later, both Thorne and Davies had landed their aircraft once more. Major problems had been uncovered in their defensive systems in a number of areas, and there were lessons that needed to be learned – quickly – as a result. Post-battle analysis revealed that the western radar unit had gone down unexpectedly just minutes before that attack, and it didn’t seem possible that could’ve been by coincidence.
“I want a full fucking investigation and I want an armed guard posted with each unit – day and fucking night!” Thorne snarled with vehemence, still wearing his flight suit as he stormed into his office with Kransky in tow. The American was now seeing the ‘bad’ side of the Australian for the first time, and he had no problem with that: the circumstances suggested foul play as clearly to him as to Thorne, and that was something that made him equally enraged and determined.
“You’ll have both immediately… and a report on your desk by six this evening.” Kransky stated with certainty as they halted by a small pot-bellied stove that was maintained with wood all day by Thorne’s batman – the same man who kept well out of the way in the outer office area upon seeing the mood the CO was in.
“There’ll have to be some pretty damned unequivocal evidence to convince me that radar outage was anything but deliberate…” Thorne growled darkly “…and if it was deliberate, it means just one of two things… either they landed someone last night, or we have someone here at Hindsight who’s not all they seem.”
“Not too many places to land on that coast up there that aren’t cliffs – and I was out that way most of the night: would’ve been hard for anyone to get past me. If it proves to be the latter?” Kransky’s question was as dark as the preceding statement in tone and intent. He could see the alternatives as well as the CO and liked them as little. Thorne’s eyes locked with his, the expression leaving him with no doubt as to the coming answer.
“If it is
the latter, the fucker lives just long enough to give us whatever information we need.” The Australian removed his flying gloves finally and warmed his hands before the stove. “Keep your radio with you at all times… I could need you at a moment’s notice, day or night. I’ll leave the necessary security issues to you… you know what needs to be done.”
Kransky nodded solemnly. “I’ll have guards posted in pairs at each unit – the chance of both being infiltrators – if that’s what we’re looking for – is that much less. I’ll also contact MI5 and have them run deeper checks into the backgrounds of all of the personnel they’ve sent up here – maybe we can find something if we look hard enough.”
“That’ll take a bloody long time, but we don’t have much choice…” Thorne mused, calming down. “With no bloody computers to do the work, I suppose there’s not much to be done about that.”
“Why now, though? Why now, and why like that?”
“That was a probing attack. They could – and would – have sent a damn site more aircraft than that if they’d wanted to take us out properly… and the bloody attack worked to all intents and purposes, even though they didn’t drop a single sodding bomb! We need those fucking fighters Dowding’s been promising us and we need them now – we have to have a constant air patrol running during daylight hours at the very least…” Lifting the handset of a phone sitting on his desk, he dialled a three digit extension and waited for the other end to answer.
“Nick? It’s Max here. I need you to get onto London immediately and tell them we’re coming down to see the Prime Minister!” There was a pause as he listened to Alpert’s quick reply. “I don’t give a flying fuck how busy Winston is… tell them there’s a meeting on at Whitehall tomorrow evening, and that’s not a request!” He hung up immediately, his tone leaving no mistaking that he expected his orders to be followed implicitly as Jack Davies poked his head through the open doorway, grinning broadly.
“Thought I might find you here, boy…!” He stated loudly, still charged on the adrenalin of combat. “Bit early to celebrate in proper fashion with some booze, but now you’re an ace and all, I think I should ‘buy’ you some breakfast down at the mess hall?”
“Err... thanks all the same, Jack, but I might give that a miss actually.” The thought of greasy mess food definitely held little appeal for Thorne’s queasy stomach. “Not really hungry, and kinda busy here in any case…”
“Suit yourself,” the American shrugged, waving his farewell and disappearing again just as quickly before the others could speak.
Davies was met by Eileen a few moments later as he made his way to the mess hall, the commander forced to jog a little to catch up with him. He nodded his greeting as they drew close and he turned to wait for her.
“Mornin’, ma’am…” he volunteered cheerily as he raised a hand to an imaginary hat, still quite buoyed by his morning’s work.
“Aye, good morning to you too, Jack,” she returned dubiously, casting a frowning glance around as if concerned someone might overhear. “You notice anything wrong with Max this morning?”
Davies shrugged. “Not really – a little tired maybe, but he’s got a lot on his plate… I wouldn’t begrudge the man that!”
“Mmm… maybe...” she mused softly.
“Why… there a problem…?”
“Oh, it’s nothin’ really…” the female commander shook her head slowly as they continued to walk. “He just looked a bit bloody shaky getting that bugger off the ground this morning.”
“Aw hell, Eileen, he’s never been that good in the Lightning if you ask me.” The Texan’s bravado and good-natured deriding of Thorne’s flying capabilities had become second nature to all in their little unit, and the source of some amusement at other times.
“No, I’m serious, Jack…” she said sternly, frowning again. “I’ve never seen him have so much trouble getting’ the F-35 airborne before… from the angle I was on it looked like he almost hit a fuel tanker as he took off…” Her intent gaze searched the American’s eyes for any hint of agreement but found nothing, and in the end she simply shrugged and pushed the incident as far out of her consciousness as she could. “No matter – probably nothing...” but the strange feeling of unease wouldn’t go away.
Later that morning, Kransky stood atop the roof of the gun emplacement at Rora Head accompanied by Captain Merrill, another member of his security team, and a pair of guards armed with Thomson submachine guns. It was clear that a man might well remain unseen by the ventilation stack from where normal guards were stationed below. He’d seen for himself how relaxed the temperament had been that morning, and it would’ve been no great effort for someone with appropriate training and nerve to sneak past them before dawn. He cursed inwardly, more annoyed with himself than the guards: he’d also been there at the moment that radar set had ceased functioning, watching from near the summit of the rise behind the emplacement, and he too had seen nothing. If there had been an infiltrator or saboteur, he was as much to blame as any… perhaps more to blame after all, for if he’d actually gone down and taken the guards to task for their inattentiveness, he might’ve detected something awry.
The first technician on the scene after the ‘all clear’ had been Eileen and she was still present, speaking to some of the gun crew who’d come on duty around the same time the system had crashed that morning. Kransky gave her a stare that was far more than a passing glance, and it hadn’t been the first of those he’d aimed in her direction over the last month. The morning was warmer now, and she wore just a light, woollen skivvy of pale blue over a T-shirt and jeans that were a little too snug-fitting to be either modest or unflattering. The informality of Hindsight and the fact that the members of the officer corps were all quite recognisable meant that they wore civilian clothing rather than issue uniforms a lot of the time.
He liked Eileen Donelson – truth be told, he liked her a lot. They’d cemented their growing friendship over the passing weeks, and although even Kransky might’ve recognised the clichéd nature of the phrase ‘if things had been different’, he would certainly have been interested in seeing that friendship go further if ‘things’ were. There were any number of arguments however that suggested he refrain from making any move in that direction.
To begin with, he was loath to get involved with anyone when business was a factor as was the case here: there was a coarse phrase he’d heard Thorne use once that spoke of ‘shitting on one’s own doorstep’, and it covered the problems involved in the potential situation as well as any. There was also the issue of impermanence – there was no telling how long the inaction around them would last, and as he’d told Thorne, he didn’t want any unnecessary complications when he did actually return to the field.
If he also wanted to be brutally honest from a physical point of view, attractive as Eileen was, he’d also have preferred her to be carrying a bit more weight, particularly in the area of her chest and hips: the jeans and tight skivvy showed off a fine figure that was quite a bit slimmer than many men from his time preferred. Kransky knew that whole rationale was more than a little shallow, but he also knew that if he really ever had a chance with Eileen, her figure certainly wouldn’t stop him. As the opportunity was never likely to present itself however, he could afford to be particular.
Kransky knew that he was using rationalisation in many forms to convince himself he wasn’t falling for Commander Eileen Donelson, and the conscious self-delusion mostly worked. That was important, for the biggest deterrent to his considering himself a chance was ultimately the fact that the better he got to know Eileen, the more he realised her heart lay with someone else, whether she was overtly aware of that fact or not. He suspected she wasn’t conscious of it and had buried the feelings deep within her subconscious: he knew people well, and that woman in particular well enough already to know that once she had her heart set on someone, she’d be unlikely to play around with anyone else. If ‘playing around’ was all that might’ve been possible, then he wa
sn’t particularly interested either, much as it surprised him to realise.
The evidence found at the gun emplacement was inconclusive at best. Eileen had discovered that the power cables appeared to have been drawn tight against the ventilation stack to the point of separating internally, although the outer insulation appeared to remain intact. There was no specific proof that the line had been severed intentionally, and as such it was certainly possible the whole thing had indeed been a rather unfortunate and incredible coincidence. The SAS troop who’d originally set up the system couldn’t recall, so many weeks later, exactly how they’d gone about the installation – although they of course insisted the work had been done properly at the time.
Yet despite finding nothing conclusive, Donelson was doubtful that coincidence was all they were talking about, and Kransky felt the same way, truth be told. As she’d examined every part of the system and found nothing else out of place, Kransky had gone over the surrounding terrain with equal zeal, utilising all his field talents, and he’d also failed to find anything conclusive. Yet neither could dispel the nagging suspicion remained that human intent lay behind it all – particularly in the face of the circumstantial but overwhelming evidence of an enemy air attack that had been far too well-timed to be a true coincidence. And as Thorne had already stated, that left just two likely possibilities… that the enemy had either landed an agent during the night by U-boat or something similar… or the Germans had indeed an infiltrated an agent into their midst. Considering how well the waters and coastline were patrolled, the latter unfortunately seemed to be the more likely of the two.
England Expects (Empires Lost) Page 47
