“I’ll take out of you in kind, later…” she assured, winking as she patted his shoulder in an act that did nothing to calm his currently overactive libido.
Oh for fuck’s sake, can you two just get a room…?
“Jealous, much…?” Thorne muttered back with a smug grin, shaking his head at Eileen and Alec in indication that what he’d just said was of no consequence.
“So, we got the Sabre project up and running then…” he continued, nodding his approval.
“Actually, based on the details blueprint sets Hindsight was able to provide, the F-7A Sabre – as we’re calling it – is actually more derived from the navy’s FJ-4 Fury; hence the heavier landing gear, increased tankage and the tail-hook. As with the gunships, we’ve fitted a 25mm cannon as standard with plenty of rounds. The nose only carries a gun-ranging radar at the moment but it’ll come in handy once we have more effective electronics developed: we expect the two-seat trainers should convert nicely into an all-weather interceptor.”
“It’s like front row at a Star Trek convention,” Thorne whispered softly, receiving a faint giggle from Eileen over the good-natured ribbing. “This is brilliant though, Alec… you guys have excelled yourselves here.”
“An RAF squadron’s taken the first batch off our lines so far – the only ones we have so far – but North American Aviation have been more than happy to pick up the American-side of things and we expect hundreds to start rolling out in a few months.” Trumbull beamed as he turned his head and called out to ground crew milling about around the nearest fighter. “Sergeant…! Have both aircraft prepped and ready for take-off, if you please!”
“What are you up to?” Thorne enquired suspiciously, his eyes narrowing as he realised some other game was afoot.
“Just step this way, ladies and gentlemen, if you please…” Alec requested, not giving away a thing as he extended an arm toward the central and largest of the ARDU hangars.
You seriously need to get this guy laid…!
“Ya think…?” Thorne whispered back, falling slightly behind the others as he answered the voice in his own head. “He can’t even say it… how and I supposed to get him to actually do it…?”
“Am I interrupting…?” Eileen asked softly with a questioning expression, noting his internal discussion.
“Just talking to myself,” Thorne answered dismissively, forcing a grin and deciding to conceal the greater truth with selective honesty. “It’s only a problem when you start getting answers back…”
“Aye…” Eileen agreed cryptically, giving him a glance that lingered just a little too long for comfort. “That’s what I’m concerned about, too!”
Any response Thorne might have given to that quite unexpected remark was lost completely the moment they stepped through the open doors into that largest of the three hangars. The sight they were presented with left both completely speechless with mouths agape, exactly the reaction Trumbull had been expecting.
“Fuck me…!” Thorne breathed softly in awe, his own subconscious deciding he was well overdue for a good swear at that point.
“I think I’ll have to second that…” Eileen agreed as she shook her head in wondrous appreciation of the aircraft standing before them.
“This was definitely not on the short-term development program we discussed…” Thorne continued, finding his voice again. “Not that I’m complaining, mind…” he added quickly, a beaming smile of his own spreading from ear to ear.
“Jack Northrop is an exceptionally gifted fellow…” Trumbull observed casually, referring to the founder of the American aviation corporation of the same name.
“So it appears,” Thorne nodded slowly, not finding that fact difficult to believe considering all he personally knew of the man’s innovative genius. “Alec… this…” he paused a moment to collect his thoughts… “This actually flies, right? This isn’t a mock-up you’re teasing me with here?”
“XB-42 Boomerang…” Alec explained cheerfully, mightily pleased to have accomplished the difficult feat of leaving his friend speechless. “One of only two fully-operational prototypes, the second of which is currently undergoing testing at the Northrop plant in California…”
“We were expecting Superfortresses…” Thorne blurted, still stunned. “How…?”
“Well, the production lines at General Electric have been so efficient that we were left with a small surplus of J34 turbofans following the first run of Bushrangers out of Fairchild, and after spending so much time working through all these blueprints you brought back with you, it occurred to me that the output of four of those jets would be better that the eight turbojets fitted to Northrop’s original YB-49 design, along with improved fuel economy that’s almost doubled the effective range.
“But… but…” Thorne continued, staring up in awe at the huge, black flying wing filling the hangar before them. “There were problems with the original design… major issues with yaw and a bunch of other stuff…”
“We discussed all of that with Northrop and came up with a number of novel work-arounds…” Trumbull explained. “The massive yaw problems we mostly managed to take care of by fitting a new design of autopilot from Honeywell – one fitted with yaw damping – and backed that up by adding those winglets you can see there: ones quite similar to those many of the airliners from your time have as standard, I believe. Combine that with an extremely small, vestigial rudder mounted above the slightly elongated tail section, and we’ve basically managed to cure that problem altogether. We’re working through the other issues – nothing that can’t be handled.”
“Better range, you say?” Eileen queried, automatically recalling everything she knew of the YB-49. “What sort of specs are we talking about…?”
“Nearly five hundred knots at altitude, thirty-two thousand pound bombload, and a combat radius of almost four thousand miles with full load… ferry range of thirteen thousand without offensive load, and a service ceiling in excess of forty-five thousand feet. We know Jerry already has their own version of the Superfortress in operation and has done for a number of years: it would be folly to believe anything other than that the Nazis must already be working on a truly strategic replacement, and the rest of the crew and I decided it made more sense to try skipping ahead a generation rather than playing catch-up, just as we’re doing with tanks, as you of course already know.”
“Don’t remind me…!” Thorne growled sourly, the memories of their recent, disastrous foray into North Africa to test those very same tanks still far too fresh and painful in his mind. “How the hell have you kept this one quiet?”
“Oh, this old girl doesn’t usually live here… none of them do…” Alec explained quickly. “We usually keep them up at Carson’s, well away from prying eyes: we’ve only had them down here for a few weeks as part of a display being run for some general staff and a few select politicians. They’re going back up in a few days. So there you are, Max: the latest and greatest from 1ARDU. We probably won’t see the bulk of them in service for six months or so, but we’re well on the way to keeping two or three steps ahead of Jerry in the air, if the reports I have are accurate.”
“You’re a genius, what can I say…?” Thorne conceded, always happy to give credit when it was due.
“And on that note, I think it’s well overdue for you taking me for a joyride, mister!” Eileen cut in unexpectedly. “Alec’s been kind enough to get two of his best jets ready for us… how about you take us up for a spin?”
“You want what with the what now…?” he shot back immediately in response to a remark that had come directly out of left field.
“You’ve had nothing but work, work, work for as long as anyone can remember, Old Chap, and it must be at least a year since you’ve actually flown anything… Eileen and I thought perhaps a little jaunt might be just the thing to blow out the cobwebs and freshen you up a little…”
“The Sabres…? I’m not even qualified…” Thorne backpedalled, suddenly feeling like he’d
been put under spotlight. “And besides… we don’t have flight suits…”
“I had yours run up here earlier this morning,” Eileen interrupted at that point, trying to sound as innocent as she could manage, “and Alec’s been kind enough to find one for me that should fit well enough.”
“‘This morning’…?” He growled, flashing her a stare through narrowing eyes and trying not to smile over being so easily set up. “You knew, you cheeky bloody… thing…!” He finished finally, thinking better of his first choice of phrase. “And you made a bet with me anyway…!”
“Och, you can keep your five quid,” she assured, laughing out loud. “It was worth it to see the look on your face right now! Let’s go and get suited up... if these buggers have an autopilot, maybe you can show me the ‘mile high’ club…!” And with a wink and that parting remark, she patted him lightly on the shoulder, turned on her heels and headed back in the same direction they’d entered.
“Oh, come on…!” Thorne called plaintively, feeling incredibly conflicted. “Seriously…?”
“‘Mile high’…?” Trumbull asked innocently, completely without a clue as to the phrase’s colloquial meaning.
“Don’t… ask…!” Thorne shot back with a glare and a pointed finger that dared him to respond, sure he could sense a snigger in the back of his mind.
I like her…!
“Oh, piss off…!”
“Well, really…!” Trumbull exclaimed with indignance, privy to only one side of that conversation as Thorne took off in pursuit of Donelson’s retreating form. “A simple ‘no, thank you’ would’ve sufficed!”
“Oh god, what a rush…!” Eileen croaked hoarsely as the F-7A Sabre rotated and hurtled into the clear sky thirty minutes later, the roar of its turbofan engine making conversation impossible without the aid of the intercom fitted to her headset and oxygen mask. It was difficult enough to talk anyway with several G’s of acceleration pressing down on her chest, although her flight suit did its best to counter the effects by pumping air into constrictive pockets around her legs and lower body. “The pounding in your head, the tightness in the chest, and all that adrenalin to go with it: I can see why you boys get so worked up about it… this is almost better than sex…”
“I guess some people must see something it… even in The X-Files, someone prophesied Mulder would die of autoerotic asphyxiation…” Thorne observed with a grin over the intercom from the pilot’s seat in front of her, always ready to venture into nerd territory with pointless trivia.
“Och, that’s overrated…” She muttered to herself without thinking, leaving Thorne with something unexpected to think about, considering the subject was one he personally had no experience with. He opened his mouth as if to ask a question, paused for a long moment, decided better of it and instead simply shook his head faintly and filed the information away as something he probably didn’t need to know about.
Chickenshit… The voice in his head accused with a mental sneer, and for a change, he could only shrug silently and agree, refusing to rise to the bait and happily acknowledging that there was no chance he was going to ask the obvious question.
“If you think that was cool, just wait until we get some real manoeuvers going,” he ventured instead, still grinning awkwardly inside his own oxygen mask. “We’re still climbing at the moment… once we get enough altitude, Alec and I can show you a few tricks that will really knock your socks off.”
“I can hardly wait!” She shot back, genuinely excited.
“How is it we’ve never gotten you into a fighter jet before now?”
“No idea, but I can see it’s something I’ve really been missing out on… I think you need to teach me how to fly one of these buggers…”
“That would be an absolute pleasure!”
“Phoenix-Leader, this is Harbinger… you reading me over there…?” Alec’s voice cut through on the radio a moment later, using old call-signs that were nevertheless instantly recognisable to all concerned. As Thorne turned his head, he could see the second Sabre off his starboard wing, perhaps half a mile away and at slightly higher altitude.
“Reading you loud and clear, Harbinger…” He replied with a grin, excitement seeping into his own voice as the thrill of piloting a combat aircraft began to stir long-forgotten memories. “You ready to have a little fun, here…? I’ve just remembered we have a ‘virgin’ with us, this morning…”
“You’re so going to pay for that, mister…!” Eileen warned, repeating his own earlier phrase from the back seat as Thorne barked a mischievous laugh at his own joke.
“Ah… roger, Phoenix-Leader… understood…” Trumbull replied awkwardly after a moment, thinking about what had been said and not quite sure how to respond (which elicited another snort of evil laughter from Thorne). “Welcome aboard then, captain… we’ll try to make your ‘first time’ a memorable one…”
“Oh, you’re both going to pay for that…” filtered softly through over the intercom as Thorne continued to congratulate himself over what he’d started.
“Feel like a game of tag, mate…?” He inquired laughingly, waggling his wings slightly as the other Sabre drew in closer of his wingtip.
“Just try and keep up, Max… I’ll go easy on you… old man…”
And without giving a suddenly-indignant Thorne any chance to respond, Trumbull rolled to starboard and peeled away, banking hard right and heading for the ground at full throttle.
“Ooh, you cheeky prick…!” Thorne muttered, watching him disappear. “Hold on to your undies…!” And without another word, he jerked his stick to the right, copying Trumbull’s manoeuver and giving both their flight suits a far harder workout as the sharp turn pulled at least five G’s.
“Oh, my god…! Better… so much better…!” Was all Eileen was able to wheeze softly, simultaneously terrified and exhilarated as the North American F-7A thundered toward the earth at close to the speed of sound.
7.Distant Thunder
Port of Ensenada
Baja California, Mexico
18 November, 1942
Wednesday
Situated just 100km or so south of Tijuana and the United States’ border, Ensenada was the only deep water port in the Mexican state of Baja California. Its geographical location and its direct access to the Pacific Ocean had therefore made it a bustling hub of maritime activity that included everything from fishing and freight movement to a destination for cruise ships filled with rich Americans on holiday. Corralled by a mountain range to the landward side, the hills sloped down to a stunning, picturesque vista of the town with the huge port and the ocean itself stretching out to the western horizon.
Ensenada had been discovered by Portuguese explorer Juan Rodríguez Cabrillo in 1542 while sailing under a Spanish flag, and had been originally named San Mateo. That name lasted just 60 years before Spanish explorer Sebastián Vizcaíno renamed it Ensenada de Todos Los Santos in 1602. The area remained largely unsettled by the Spanish or others until the discovery of gold in San Rafael in 1870 suddenly and dramatically put Baja California on the map. At that time, the accessibility of Ensenada to the ocean and its proximity to Tijuana and the United States made it a logical point for a Customs House and the development of port facilities which began to grow and flourish through the 1800s and into the 20th Century.
Hussong’s Cantina on Ruiz Avenue – no more than a few hundred yards from the port’s main freight terminal – was the oldest and most well-known in the whole of Baja California. Opened in 1892, it was a narrow-fronted building with a long bar running down one entire side and tables and chairs filling most of the rest of the space. It had been a popular place ever since for locals and visiting tourists alike, and Miguel Alejandro Ortega, of Mexican ancestry, was most definitely closer to being the latter, although his arrival in Ensenada being for reasons other than pleasure. It was still warm late into the afternoon despite it being quite close to winter, and a sky filling with cloud only served to ramp up the humidity levels
to the point of being quite uncomfortable.
Ceiling fans twirling overhead helped to provide some relief to customers, but not so much as did the cool drinks being served across the bar. Sitting close to the entrance, Ortega sipped at his margarita and savoured the taste as it slid slowly down his throat like sweet lava. The drink had become all the rage over the last year or so, right up and down the coast from Puerto Vallarta to as far north as San Diego and beyond, and it had a particular popularity there at Hussong’s, where it was claimed the drink had actually been invented.
It had been devised by one of the top bartenders there, so the story went: Don Carlos Orozco, who’d served Miguel his drinks once or twice when he’d had occasion to drop in on earlier visits. The bar’s original founder had been German by birth, and perhaps it was partially for that reason that, one day during October of 1941, Margarita Henkel, daughter of the then German Ambassador, had visited the bar for a drink.
Legend had it that Don Carlos had been experimenting with a new drink at the time – a cocktail comprised of equal parts of tequila, Controy orange liqueur, and lime that was shaken and served over ice in a salt-rimmed glass. Perhaps it was pure coincidence that Ms Henkel had been present at that moment, but it was said she was the first to taste the new concoction all the same, and Don Carlos henceforth named it the ‘Margarita’ in her honour.
A regular business traveller of the Mexican and American west coast, Ortega had heard stories in a number of places regarding similar claims by bartenders of having originally invented that same drink: created a man named Herrera in 1938, somewhere up near Tijuana; that it had been born in some bar in El Paso-Juárez. There were plenty more stories and rumours and claims and counter-claims.
Miguel didn’t particularly care. He liked the drink and he liked Hussong’s, and Don Carlos told as good a story as anyone. In the end, it was all good for business, and business was well and truly booming along with the tourist trade in the region, as wealthy Americans came south for the winter like well-heeled, migrating geese, seeking warmth and solace in sunnier climes as they drank themselves into oblivion and tried to forget about how their country seemed to be sliding inevitably toward war.
The Dead Alone (Empires Lost Book 3) Page 35
