by M L Maki
“And, if I don’t, sir?”
“Oh hell, Altman. If you don’t, I’ll clap you in irons and you will face your crimes.”
“Crimes, sir. What crimes?”
“Dereliction of duty. Disobeying a direct order. That, and treason. Hell of an end to a career, Altman. Now, sign the fucking letter.”
Altman takes the pen and writes his signature, his hands shaking.
Eisenhower looks at him sadly, “There’s a transport leaving RAF Kenley in three hours. These gentlemen will escort you and make sure you’re on it. Pack your bags and get on it.”
GENERAL WEBER’S HQ, OCCUPIED FRANCE
1255, 25 September, 1942 (1155 GMT)
Weber studies a map of England. He can see the positions of the German armored units and what is known of the Allied forces. “I need to know what airfield the ant-tank jets far flying from.”
“Yes, General.”
“The British fleet are no longer in the North Sea. They appear to have retreated. They’re not in Scapa, Portsmouth, or Plymouth. In the short term, they are no longer a factor.”
“Yes, sir. The Fuhrer wants the port facilities destroyed.”
“True. But the priority must be destroying the American jet fighters. When they are gone, we can destroy everything else at our leisure.”
“What should we do?”
“We use the enemy’s strength against them.”
GENERAL MOTORS PLANT, DETROIT, MICHIGAN
0615, 25 September, 1942 (1215 GMT)
LTJG James Maki stands in the rain as a Marine tank comes to a stop. With him are Admiral Klindt, a Marine brigadier general and several civilian engineers, but they all look at him. SGT Thompson and his men climb out of the tank. Maki shakes his head, “Sorry, General, but it’s a steaming pile of shit. It’s too slow, too unstable, poorly armored, and the 37mm gun is pathetic.”
The brigadier glares at him, “Lieutenant, you can do better?”
“Sir, I need guidelines. First, what kind of fuel. Gasoline is way more flammable than diesel Do you still want gas?”
“Yes, everything else we have runs on gasoline. The tank should, too.”
“Yes, sir. What’s the biggest gun made today that uses a single shell and powder charge?”
“The 75mm in the Sherman is one piece.”
“Too small, sir. The German ‘88’s would eat you up. The M-60 used a 105. Are we making a 105 today?”
“We’re making a low velocity Howitzer near that size.”
Maki sighs, “Sir, it needs to be high velocity if it’s going to be accurate and penetrate armor.”
Vice Admiral Klindt says, “I’ll get you a gun with fixed ammunition, high velocity, and at least 100mm. What else do you need.”
Maki is silent, then, “The undercarriage is critical. If it rides well, it shoots well. I’ll work on it with the GM people. I’ll start mocking up an interior right away so we know what shape it should be. I know the army was using composite armor in 1990, but I’ve no idea how it works. I’ll start building sample armor so the Marines can test it, until we have something that works. We’ll mock up the undercarriage to see how easy it is to work on. Sir, I need money, and the characteristics of the gun. Also, any intel we can get on the German tanks.”
“Not worried about Japanese tanks?”
“It’s a different kind of war in the Pacific. If the tank holds up to Hitler, it will hold up to Tojo.”
Klindt smiles, “Okay, Maki, I’ll assign someone to handle the bills. I’ll have gun characteristics in no more than two weeks and a prototype gun in a month to five weeks. Give me a prototype in two months.”
Maki, “Yes, sir.”
A GM manager asks, “Admiral, how many do you want?”
Klindt turns to the brigadier, “How many for the Corps, and say, half the Army?”
The Brigadier says, “Gentlemen, we can give you a firm number in a week or so. For the Corps, we need at least two thousand tanks. The Army will need ten times that number. The order is contingent on testing.” He turns, “Maki, that means it’s contingent on you.”
Maki salutes, “Yes, sir.”
The flag officers walk to their waiting car. The brigadier asks Klindt, “Do you think a lieutenant can actually build a tank?”
“He’s smart. He figured out how to shoe horn two turrets into the space for one on the Long Beach. He can do this, and his dad served in the army.”
“If he messes this up?”
“Then, you’ll still have the piece of shit you’ve already bought. Send a smart marine to help him, but don’t forget, I put him in charge.”
CONTROL, RAF ALCONBURY
1230, 25 September, 1942
Spike is reading reports as she listens to the radio and the plotters below her in the pit. Swede and Trollop are fighting FU-279s east of Newcastle and Hot Pants has scramble to meet a raid coming in from the south. She’s reviewing the status of ordered materials when she hears, “Yankee control, Navy 120 requests to land on runway 24.”
She looks up, “What’s Navy 120?”
“A transport flight, Commodore. They’re on the list.”
She picks up the mic, “Navy 120, Yankee actual, if you have fuel available advise you land at RAF Kenley.”
“Understood. I would very much prefer Yankee.”
“Acknowledged. You are cleared. Switch to 170 decimal 4 for the tower.”
“170 decimal 4, Yankee, Navy. Good day.”
She goes back to her papers, then stops, sets them down, and walks outside. She walks through a soft rain and sees the ceiling is at about 3000 feet. She goes through a hard shelter and out onto the flight line. Fluffy walks out to join her, “Spike, do we have VIPs coming?”
Looking off to the west, she answers, “I don’t know, Fluffy. The call sign is Navy 120.”
“Only an unassigned aircraft takes ‘Navy’ as a call sign.”
“I know.” She watches two aircraft, in formation, break out of the clouds. Her heart rate elevates and she tells herself they can’t be German. As they grow larger, she realizes the profiles of the F-14.
Admiral Lee sees her standing in the rain, “Einstein, make it crisp. Downwind, now. Break, now.”
Spike starts to smile. Watching the break, her smile grows larger, “New birds, Fluffy. Dixie is bringing us new birds. Look, their even painted with the Black Knight tail insignia.” The aircraft land together and roll down the runway in formation, then turn and roll onto the taxiway. As they come to stop, “Fluffy, get the guys out here to turn these birds around. We have a third flight.”
“Roger that, Spike. I’m on it.” For such a large man, Fluffy can really run.
Spike is soaked through and grinning like a fool, and she doesn’t care. Dixie finishes shutting it down and pops the canopy. “Darlin, didn’t your momma teach you to stay out of the rain?”
“Dad, you just made my day.” The ground crew runs by her and take over the new planes. They help the pilots down, and Dixie walks into her arms for a hug. “I’ve missed you, darlin.”
“I’ve missed you, too.”
Around them is chaos: the ground crews are checking the planes over after their long flight, the ordinance crew wheel out missiles and gun ammo, and a fuel truck pulls up. The crew pause just long enough to salute and get back to work. Thud, Speedy, Shotgun, and Packs walk out in their flight gear. Thud salutes, “Anything we need to know about the new birds, sir?”
Dixie laughs, “My God, it’s like you knew we were coming. You’re all ready to go. Okay, you have to dim the HUD manually, but at least you have one. The wings transition a smidge faster. These birds have air to ground and terrain following that you’ll need to be trained on. If you select ground on the target designation switch, it selects the HUD and VID to air or ground. Bomb release is available whenever the master arm is selected, but in air to ground it’s more accurate. The RIO can select ordinance as before. The cameras work the same, and on screen, he can designate and laze targets
for laser guided bombs. We don’t have the laser yet, but it’s coming. Oh, you can still fire the gun in air to ground, but the setting assumes you’re strafing.”
Thud says, “Thank you, sir.” He salutes and the four men man up the birds.
Dixie shakes his head and smiles at Spike, “That’s done. I need the head and is there coffee in our future.” He motions Einstein forward. “This is Einstein, Grumman’s test pilot and my ferry wingman. Einstein, Spike. I’m sorry, Commodore Hunt.”
Please to meet you, ma’am. The Admiral is right, though. Head?”
Spike laughs, “Absolutely. Back through here.” And guides the two men inside the hard shelter.
Later, in the officer’s mess hall with plates of bread, roast beef, beans, and carrots, and mugs of coffee, Lee asks, “How are you doing?”
“We’re preparing to evacuate, Dad. The army has no real idea where the Germans are and I’m concerned they’re heading south quickly.”
“The Warthogs helping?”
“God, yes. They’ve already shifted operations to Kenley. We’re moving people and equipment as fast as we can. Soon, we’ll be there as well.”
“You’re dodging the question, Sam.”
Cooper walks in, “Spike, Cargo Britches wants permission to drop supplies to Cuddles in Scotland and Wingnut south of Durham.”
“Approved. Give her a SAM update before she leaves.”
Cooper leaves and Chief Robert ‘Bobby’ Gellar walks up, “Spike, Swede is in the air and we need to know what to do with Thud’s and Hot Pants’ birds.”
“Is Thud’s flyable?”
“Sort of. We have the engines and controls replaced. The cockpit and seats are good. The thing is, the wing swing motors went south with the actuators. The landing gear won’t even retract. We could lock everything in place for a subsonic, non-combat flight, but if they get jumped the crew is toast.”
“Set it up and arrange a flight back by chopper. I’ll fly it in a minute.”
“No, ma’am. No. I know you can fly it, but we can’t be without you.”
Einstein looks up from his food, “I’ll fly it. I can’t do combat, making me the most expendable pilot here.”
Sam makes eye contact with the test pilot and nods her head, “Approved. What about Hoolihan’s bird?”
“It’s on a truck somewhere between Darlington and RAF Dishforth. I’m worried the Germans will capture it.”
“Are we in communication with the people moving it?”
“Through the RAF, yes.”
“Order it destroyed.”
“That leaves us with four, maybe five birds, ma’am.”
“Admiral Lee just flew in two new birds. Blow it, Bobby.”
“Yes, ma’am,” and Bobby leaves.
Lee watching, “You don’t catch a break, do you?”
“Of all people, you know what it means to be in charge.”
“I asked if you are okay?”
She meets his gaze, “Dad, I don’t know that I’ll ever be all right.”
“I see that. Your eyes have that million-mile exhaustion to them. When was the last time you slept?”
“I get sleep. Swede, Thud, and Radar see to that. I’m worried, Dad.”
“The Germans?”
“Failure, Dad. It’s on the line. No one is getting enough rest. Our equipment is running down, and people are beginning to make mistakes. It’s inevitable. The German are building fighters faster than we can destroy them, and their pilots are getting better. Their new fighter is damn near parity with ours.”
“What plane is that?”
“The guys are calling it the Tiger because it looks like an F-5, but it’s larger and the engines have more thrust. It can turn with us and out climb us. We have a better roll rate, better acceleration, and better missiles. Lord knows how long that will last.”
“I’ve ordered the first twelve ‘14s to be shipped to you. If you need more, I’ll send more. We’re training pilots, but they’re flying F-1 War Eagles right now. I want them checked out on the Tomcat before I send them to you.”
She nods, “Dad, I know you’re doing all you can. I just hope it’s enough. Up until the invasion, we prevented a single bomb from landing on British soil. Now, we’ve lost most of the home fleet and several cities and ports have been hit. They really nailed Portsmouth and Plymouth. The London docks have been hit a few times, too. They’re all depending on me and I don’t know what else to do.”
“You’re doing fine. You haven’t left anything undone. I’ve no doubt the folks here are grateful.”
“Do you know about the fuck up with the device?”
“Yes, I do. Is there a place for it in Kenley?”
“Yes, it’s being dealt with. I’ll fly it down when we shift. Should we have just dropped the damn thing? Would that end the war faster?”
“Maybe, but it isn’t your decision. It’s a good thing that it isn’t.”
MI-5 HQ, LONDON, ENGLAND
1341, 25 September, 1942
Sir David Petrie sits facing Undersecretary Malcolm Cox, assistant to Deputy Prime Minister Atlee. “So, please describe to me your actions on the morning of 23, September, 1942.
Cox, squirms in his chair, then sits upright, “I was reviewing dispatches for PM Attlee, as is my assignment.”
“Is it your assignment to send dispatches?”
“No.”
“Could you please describe for me a misfiled dispatch regarding an operation called Rosebud?”
“I read so many.”
“Yes, of course you do, but…you sent only one.”
“Um…I said I wasn’t authorized…”
“Of course, you aren’t, and for a damn good reason. Now quit lying to me. Out with it. We already know exactly what you did.”
Cox deflates, slumping, “I was told to look for dirt on the Tory party to use after the war. The memo was a mission to bomb Berlin. Why wouldn’t we bomb Berlin? We’re at war.”
“So, you took it on yourself to forge the Prime Minister’s signature and order an American attack unit to risk itself in an attack on Berlin. The very unit that has kept us alive and in the war. Without the Yanks where would we be?”
“They survived.”
“Several did not. So, you admit your complicity in this matter?”
Cox nods his head.
Petrie slides over paper and pen, “Very well. I need it in writing, and this time sign your own signature.”
Cox looks up, “What will become of me?”
“You will stand trial in a secret court and likely spend what is left of your life in prison. That, sir, is too good an end for you, if you ask me.”
FIELD SOUTH OF DURHAM
1406, 25 September, 1942
A helicopter hovers and LT ‘Wingnut’ Urland, his arm in a sling, climbs in. “Cargo Britches, can you move me and a squad south?”
“Where?”
“Ahead of the Germans. I’ve been calling in the Warthogs.”
“I know. I brought you a new radio and supplies.”
“The German push is south of us and we need to get ahead.”
“Okay. Yogi off-load the supplies for the rest of the airborne and get Wingnut’s squad aboard.” Moments later, they lift off, barely clearing the ground, and Cargo Britches transitions to forward flight at speed. She only climbs to avoid trees and buildings.
Wingnut puts on a crew helmet. “The Germans passed us about eight hours ago. Do you know where the Brits plan to meet them?”
“Yeah, at the river Tees. We’ll be there in a bit. How bad are you hurt?”
“Fucked up my shoulder and arm. I can’t fly, but I can do this.”
“Yeah, the Warthog boys swear by you and Cuddles.”
“We got split up. Where is he?”
“Near a place called Bardon Mill. They’re facing a mix of Panzers and motorized infantry.”
NORTH OF BARDON MILL, NORTHUMBERLAND, UK
1410, 25 September, 1942
&nbs
p; LT Gus ‘Cuddles’ Grant stands on a hill watching the battle in front of him unfold. They’ve been facing the Panzer 4, a damn fine tank. Down below, the Churchill tanks of the 51st Leeds Rifles, Royal Tank Regiment have just positioned themselves on the road south. Brigadier James Noel Tetley walks up beside him, “Well, Lieutenant, you’ve seen the Hun in action. Are there any suggestions you might share?”
“Sir, the training units using the Covenanter tanks out of Penrith have been mauled. Their rounds bounce off the German tanks.”
“The Covenanter is an older tank operated by trainee crews. Our Churchills are brand new. I should hope we fare much better.”
“Sir, why did your army name a tank after the Prime Minister?”
“Oh heavens, no, good boy. It’s named after his ancestor, John Churchill, 1st Duke of Marlborough. He was quite an able leader as well.”
Cuddles nods, “I see. Well, if your tankers hold off until the Germans are close, you might be able to hit their vulnerable points.”
“And where might those be?”
“The driver and gunner’s view ports.”
“Hit a two-inch by twelve-inch spot on a moving tank? You think highly of our marksmanship.”
Cuddles looks at him, “I’ll do my best with the Warthogs, sir, but if your boys can’t precisely hit the Germans, then they’re going to die. Hitler seems to have sent his best to Britain. They are not going to miss.”
The radio operator, “Reconnaissance reports they have contact, sir.”
Tetley puts his binoculars to his eyes and looks east. “Very well.”
Cuddles turns on his new radio, “Any hog flight, Cuddles.”
“Cuddles, Dog flight 3, over.” They see a Churchill tank explode. “Dog 3, Cuddles, troops in contact. We are taking effective fire north of Bardon Mill. Grid coordinates to follow.”
CHAPTER 9
VALKYRIE 1, NEAR DARLINGTON, COUNTY DURHAM, UK
1428, 25 September, 1942
Cargo Britches keeps her SH-3 close to the deck as she flies south. As they race across a large field, small arms fire sparkles from a partly obscured vehicle. Cargo Britches, “Action, left.”
Yogi mans the 7.62mm Gatlin gun and opens up. In a buzzing roar, the vehicle explodes. Moments later they fly over a line of German tanks and Yogi takes a swipe at them, hitting a commander standing in his hatch. A minute later, they drop Wingnut and his re-supplied squad off at a farm house just north of Hurworth on Tees.
