The Dead Alone (Empires Lost Book 3)

by Charles S. Jackson

  With airspeed already dropping quickly as a result of the failed manoeuvre he’d attempted, there was now little chance of gliding the stricken jet clear of the battlefield from such low level. Even as he fought desperately with the joystick and took just a few precious seconds to take in the extent of the damage and recognise that there was nothing to be done, another blaring klaxon bleated of the imminent danger of dropping below stall speed and losing control altogether.

  Remember to tuck your feet in…

  That faint, forgotten warning came back to him now as his next course of action was brutally decided for him: the crippling engine failure caused a malfunction with sensors connected the F-35E’s auto-eject system and led them to believe that the aircraft was actually in transition from vertical to normal flight. As the aircraft fell below stall speed, the system activated automatically, and much like the airbags in a modern motor vehicle, inflatable neck and head braces suddenly inflated around him. A brace of small explosive charges blew the canopy into two shattered sections, spiralling away on either side, and the main rocket motors of the aircraft’s Martin-Baker ejection seat fired automatically a fraction of a second later, blasting huge sections out of the fuselage below his feet in the process.

  The acceleration was like nothing Thorne had ever experienced, jamming him hard into the seat itself as the entire assembly lurched upward into the air above the dying F-35. A large drogue chute deployed automatically, hauling the seat frame back and away from the still-moving aircraft and also separating him from the chair. At that point, a second chute deployed that was attached to him alone, quickly slowing his impending descent as the remnants of the chair disappeared behind him and the rest of the Lightning continued on at a rapidly slowing pace.

  It nosed over a second or two later, no longer able to sustain level flight, and began its final fall to earth, smashing into the jungle a few hundred yards away and disintegrating into a huge fireball as its remaining fuel went up. Dazed, bruised and shaken by the ordeal he’d just experienced, Thorne could do little else but cling to his own chute risers and stare vacantly down at a jungle canopy that was drawing closer with every passing second. That the cluster bombs he’d dropped at the beginning of his final attack run had managed to obliterate at least two thirds of the Zeroes below in return, along with Yanagisawa and most of the mortar crews under his command would’ve been no comfort whatsoever, had he actually been in any fit state to take in what had just occurred.

  Out over the bay itself, the first of the Bushrangers arrived on the scene, escorted now by Sabres whose pilots had already released their offensive ordnance and had returned to guard their slower, heavily-laden colleagues. Although slower than the Sabre, the A-5A was nevertheless still markedly faster than any piston-engined fighter, and their long, straight wings – when not loaded with bombs and other weaponry – also accorded them a remarkable level of manoeuvrability.

  Nachi exploded in the minutes that followed, struck repeatedly by thermobaric weapons identical to those that had already sunk Hiyō and Junyō, and as the rest of the Bushrangers howled in at low level, they wrought devastation on the remaining ships in the bay itself with bombs and with the huge, rotary cannon mounted in each aircraft’s blunt, rounded nose. Not a single pilot witnessed the demise of the F-35E, nor were any able to explain the sudden loss of contact that had followed.

  18.Divine Winds

  “We need to get out of here… now…!” Donelson shouted loudly, fighting desperately to regain her composure in the moments that followed the Germans’ departure. “Everyone…! Right now! Gather all the wounded – anyone you can find – and head for the jungle! We need to be as far away from this place as we can in…” she glanced quickly at a clock hanging awkwardly from a nail above the distant main doorway, praying it was accurate “…twenty minutes…”

  “Captain…” Langdale began softly, trying to get her attention. “Captain…” He raised a hand as if to lay it gently on her shoulder but halted at the last moment, not sure if human contact would be a good idea at that moment.

  “Need to get everyone out…” she repeated, words almost feverish in their intensity as her chest heaved with the intensity of her breathing.

  “Eileen…” He began again, more insistent now, and this time he broke her train of thought long enough for her to turn toward him momentarily with an expression that was equal parts frustration and bewilderment. “Eileen… what just happened…”

  “Not now, Mal…” She snapped immediately, shutting him down completely, although her softening tone suggested she at least understood where he was trying to go. “Mal… in twenty minutes from now, the bomb in that bloody raider is going to go off… and that’s assuming the timer they have on that bloody thing was set to the same time we have…”

  “Th – the bomb…?” He asked weakly, realisation beginning to spread across his falling features. “The atomic bomb...?” He added unnecessarily as she nodded her head in large, slow movements as if confirming something to an errant child.

  “Later… okay…? Whatever it is… later… Right now, we need to be at least two or three miles away from here!”

  “Everybody out, right now…!” He bellowed, breaking away from her and striding down the hallway toward the centre of the hospital with his rifle in one hand. “…On the double… everybody up and outta here!”

  The short trip back to the wharf through the main barracks area was surprisingly uneventful by comparison to their original journey through to the hospital. The sound of an intense firefight off to the north-east somewhere had drawn most of the guards and other Japanese troops in the area in that direction, there being no real reason to stay at their posts now that the few prisoners they’d held there had clearly escaped.

  The Tan Tui area itself had so far been spared from aerial attacks, however as they drew nearer to the beach, the destruction being meted out from above by the RAF aircraft quickly became clear. At least a dozen warships moored out in the bay were either sinking, burning or both, and the off to the south-west, across the water, the entire airfield area at Laha seemed to be coated in a blackened shroud, dotted here and by the flicker of red and orange flame.

  The air all around was filled with the acrid sting of smoke, burnt oil and expended ordnance, and it seemed a miracle to all concerned when the jetty finally came into view and they found the huge flying boat moored securely at the far end, apparently in one piece. One of Kormoran’s sailors stood guard at the near end of the jetty, Type-100 SMG in hand as the other two worked feverishly by the aircraft, hurriedly working to replenish it from a fuel barge tied up on the opposite side of the pier.

  “We have the aircraft, Mein Herr…!” The rating announced proudly as the group drew near, his grin seeming almost manic as it beamed out from a face stained with soot, dirt and also a few blood stains on his cheek and neck.

  “You’re hurt?” Ritter inquired quickly, in the lead and also armed with a submachine gun.

  “Not mine, sir,” he explained quickly with a shake of his head. “They were trying to refuel her for take-off… we asked ‘nicely’, but they were reluctant to part with their little toy…”

  “Very good, sailor,” Ritter nodded in return, patting the man reassuringly on the shoulder before turning and gesturing to the others. “See to the generaloberst: he is badly injured and needs assistance being taken aboard.”

  “Jawohl, Mein Herr!”

  “Three men to assist with refuelling! Schnell! Schnell!”

  “Herr Oberst…!”

  The volunteers leaped forward immediately, running on ahead as the rest gathered around to carefully escort Reuters and Schiller down the length of the wharf, four of them ultimately forced to cluster about the wheelchair and hoist it into the air after a few moments of pointlessly trying to push the thing jarringly over every bump and uneven edge of the pier’s poorly-laid wooden planks. Struggling and swearing softly under the weight, they shuffled off toward the huge aircraft, Reuters hobblin
g along behind with the assistance of Reuters and Schultz in spite of his best efforts to shoo them away and manage on his own.

  They were forced to pause for a moment or two as Schiller was carefully removed from his wheelchair and awkwardly manhandled up a short gangway into the very bowels of the huge flying boat through a rounded hatch in its nose.

  “Can you actually fly this thing?” Reuters asked in a pained growl, staring dubiously up at the towering, green fuselage and high wing above.

  “It’s no fighter,” Ritter conceded with a gulp, “but we have no choice under the circumstances. Quite frankly, Mein Herr, I’ll get out and kick this verdammt thing into the air if I have to…”

  “Good enough for me…” The Reichsmarschall nodded in return, forcing an optimistic expression as the gangway was cleared and beckoning hands reached out for him to come aboard.

  “That’s enough, boys,” Ritter called out, turning back to the men working on the barge to laboriously hand-crank fuel through thick hoses into the huge tanks deep within the aircraft’s lower hull, beneath the main flight deck. “Whatever’s in there now will have to be enough – we’ve no more time to lose!”

  Not needing any further urging, the work detail broke ranks immediately and also headed for the gangplank, two men separating and casting off the mooring ropes at bow and stern before following their colleagues inside. Ritter was the last man to board before the plank was tossed aside and the hatch was sealed tight.

  Reuters found Schiller toward the rear of the aircraft, placed rather unceremoniously in a plain, metal seat by the navigator’s table, directly behind the cockpit. Someone had at least taken the trouble to provide him with a rolled up blanket as a pillow – an unusual kindness in the man’s opinion, considering the muggy heat of that summer morning – and he’d since been left to his own devices as the rest of the men had gone about their business readying gun positions and securing the aircraft for take-off.

  “This may get a little rough, my friend…” Reuters observed, wincing and drawing a short hiss of painful breath as he slid into a similar chair on the opposite side of the table. “Try to hang on as best you can,” he added, managing a wry smile. “We have our best man on the job…”

  “You mean our only man?” Schiller noted with similar dry wit, pointing out immediately that Ritter was then only qualified pilot present. “Let us hope he’s half the flier you always told me he was.”

  “No question…” Reuters assured, mostly confident of that statement as they all heard the cough and splutter of a radial engine turning over outside.

  “I guess we shall see either way,” the generaloberst shrugged, also wincing as he shifted his body slightly and stared out through a nearby window at the carnage beyond.

  “Your dressings…” Reuters began, and as Schiller glanced down he also noted a few small but nevertheless quite noticeable dark spots on his white singlet where blood has seeped slowly through.

  “From what the men have told me, we may all be dead in a few minutes anyway, yes…?” He countered, fixing his commanding officer with a sharp glance and making it clear he was quite aware of the reason behind the need for an urgent departure. He turned back to the window as Reuters looked away, unable to meet his gaze. “My wounds will heal…” he added softly, hardly caring. “I’ll be fine.”

  If any doubts had remained about his suspicions, they’d been completed erased as Schiller had watched that last exchange unfold between Ritter and Eileen Donelson. He was now completely certain that the man was working for Hindsight, and that meant that every secret or otherwise useful piece of information that had passed through the man’s department in the last year or more had almost certainly also made its way across the Atlantic for the benefit of American and Commonwealth intelligence services.

  Yet that same traitorous relationship had undoubtedly saved all of them during that standoff inside the Hospital, just a few minutes earlier, and right at that moment, Albert Schiller wasn’t at all sure what he wanted to do about the terrible, toxic secret he now held within his heart regarding the revered father of his own Commander-in-Chief. Releasing a long, tired, extremely frustrated sigh, he allowed his head to fall back and he stared sightlessly at the overhead bulkhead, deciding that the only decision he was likely to make that day regarding the matter was to think about it later… assuming they all survived anyway.

  “Ensign Schultz!” Ritter barked, never taking his eyes from the myriad of gauges, switches, knobs and levers that were spread across the flying boat’s instrument panel as he managed – eventually – to work out how to start one of its engines.

  “Mein Herr…?” Came a reply almost immediately as the man’s head appeared in the hatchway leading back into the main cabin area.

  “Take a seat, kamerad,” he ordered with a thin, humourless smile. “You just got ‘promoted’ to co-pilot.”

  “Mein Herr, I – I am a sailor…” Schultz stammered fearfully, almost backing out of the cockpit right there and then. “I know nothing about flying an aircraft…”

  “Do you understand that it is far more difficult to fly one of these big bastards with one pilot rather than two, ensign?” Ritter asked pointedly as he managed to start a second engine on the opposite side.

  “Ah – y-yes, I guess that makes sense, Mein Herr…”

  “Then you know one more thing now about flying than the rest of those wet-footed bastards back there, so get your arsch into that chair and take the bloody wheel! I suspect this big bitch is going to take all our strength just to get her off the water.”

  “Sir…!” Schultz snapped sharply in return, immediately slipping into the co-pilot’s seat and taking the time to strap himself in.

  “One more to go!” Ritter grunted softly, mostly to himself as a third engine caught and he glanced – with some dismay – over the gauges he was fairly confident indicated his fuel reserves. “Scheisse! I know these bastards can fly halfway ‘round the world, but that’s not going to be enough…” He sighed, shrugged and sucked up his fears and concerns. “Enough to get us the hell away from here at least, and I suppose that will have to do. Ready to have some fun, ensign?” He added, almost giving a genuine smile as the last engine kicked over, farted out a huge cloud of smoke and sparks and then finally roared into angry life.

  “This isn’t going to be fun, is it, sir?”

  “Not in the slightest, friend, but it beats dying, and I don’t intend to do any of that today. Stick your head out and give me clearance on the hull as we come out, if you please…”

  “Sir…!”

  Schultz slid back the glass pane of his side window and craned his head down toward the pier below, recovering quickly from the initial fright of finding himself almost face-to-face with the spinning propellers of the inboard engine. As he watched for any danger or obstruction Ritter coaxed the throttles forward and the huge aircraft began to move away from its mooring, heading slowly out into the bay and the battle above.

  “I want every gun positon manned!” Ritter bellowed over his shoulder, issuing orders that had already been complied with. “We’re not going to get a second try at this: anything gets in our way, blow it to pieces! Are we clear?” He demanded, directing that last query toward Schultz.

  “We are, Mein Herr…” the ensign replied, taking that as permission to return to his seat and close the open window. “Clear of the jetty and free to manoeuvre.”

  “Very well then,” Ritter muttered through clenched teeth, concentrating deeply as he worked the rudder pedals and began to bring the aircraft around to port. “No time like the present, I suppose. Buckle in, everyone!” He added, shouting once more as he pushed the throttles higher still and the flying boat surged forward. “We’re going to go for it!”

  “Sir…” Schultz began uncertainly, staring out at the wreck-strewn, burning waters directly ahead, “there doesn’t seem to be very much room out there…”

  “I’m not entirely sure how much room you need to get one of these t
hings into the air, ensign,” he shot back curtly, concentrating now on the view ahead as they began to accelerate and the airframe began to shake as choppy water began to pass beneath the hull. “Even if I could give you an educated guess, I’d probably have to double it to take into account my own inexperience. As we don’t really have any time to ask the local traffic control for assistance however, we’re going to have to just make the best of it.” He gave another mirthless smile. “I should strap yourself back in, if I were you…”

  “Patrol boat approaching to port!” Schultz called out a sudden warning, catching sight of the approaching vessel as it appeared out of the low-lying smoke that hung across the water like a pall to the south, making detection difficult at a distance.

  Commandeered by the Japanese during the surrender at Laha, HDML 1314 had so far managed to escape the wrath of the aircraft above, mostly as a result of being too small to be of any great concern. Her armament was more than sufficient to deal with one errant flying boat, however her crew – drawn together from the survivors of the ill-fated minesweeper, W9 – had no reason to think that the men aboard the approaching flying boat were anything other than friendly.

  The German gunners manning the H8K’s dorsal and portside gun positions were quick to provide a reason to believe otherwise, wasting no time bringing their weapons to bear. Twin streams of 20mm tracer lanced out from the aircraft’s middle, arcing across the intervening distance of five hundred yards or so and tearing apart the vessel’s bow and upperworks like paper. The ammunition stores for her 40mm main gun detonated a few seconds later, her forward section completely disintegrating in the blast that followed. The H8K ‘Emily’ powered on as the wreckage began to sink, continuing her urgent acceleration toward take-off speed.

  Second-class destroyer Karukaya had already spent twenty years in service with the Imperial Japanese Navy. She’d so far spent most of the preceding ten minutes or so manoeuvring wildly around the upper reaches of Binnen Bay, trying to avoid the attention of attacking RAF fighters as many of her fellow warships had been blown up and sunk around her. She was now steaming south-west at full speed, making for the more expansive waters of the Bay of Ambon and the open sea beyond.