*
There were no parachutes.
“Plavitz, get us back on the run.” Farley glanced over to see how Broben was holding up and Broben looked back. Ashen-faced but okay. “Boney, you’re lead bombardier now,” Farley said. “Are we on or not?”
“The gyros won’t spin.” As ever, Boney sounded as if he could have been taking down a phone message. “It doesn’t make sense.”
“Boney—”
“Switching to manual,” said Boney. “Give me the aircraft.”
“Hold on. Plavitz?”
“My compass looks like a roulette wheel,” said Plavitz. “I got no landmarks to go by in this chimney.”
“I don’t care if you have to drop crumbs. Get us back on the run.” Farley muted his mike and glanced at Broben. “Could the Germans be doing this?”
“Knock out the compass, the radio, and the gyros?” Broben shook his head. “Brother, if they can do that, then we’re all screwed.”
“Navigator to pilot,” Plavitz broke in. “Right ten degrees.”
Farley repeated the instructions and turned the bomber. The flak grew thicker as they neared the target. The ship rocked with the concussions and the shrapnel slammed the hull.
Broben glanced at the altimeter. “Up five hundred,” he said.
Farley pulled back on the yoke. Bright red flash of bursting shell outside. The left window starred but held. Farley tried not to flinch. Flinching wouldn’t do any good. You couldn’t evade this, you couldn’t outrun this. You sat there and you took it.
“The formation’s following us,” Francis reported from the tail gunner position. “B-17 going down at six o’clock. She’s on fire. I see three parachutes. Four. I think it’s the Dollar Short.”
“Left five,” said Plavitz.
“Left five, roger,” said Farley.
“You’re on rails, captain,” the navigator said.
Farley hit the automatic pilot and flipped the controls to the bombardier station. “Pilot to bombardier. You have the aircraft, Boney.”
“Bombardier to pilot. I have the aircraft,” Boney confirmed.
In the top turret Wen saw a bomber in the flight group take a direct hit on the Number Four engine. The bomber veered, narrowly missing the front Fortress in its echelon, and dove.
“B-17 hit at six o’clock,” he said. “They’ve lost their Number Four.”
“Copilot to flight engineer. Which bomber, Wen?”
“Can’t see. She’s under control but the engine’s on fire. They’re off the run for sure. I’m heading to the bomb bay to monitor the drop.” Wen hooked his oxygen line to a walkaround tank and climbed down.
At his navigator’s table behind Boney, Plavitz looked out through the two square ports on the left side of the nose. Engines One and Two looked good. He strained to see the ground through the veil of flak smoke. Plavitz made out wooded countryside … low white concrete buildings and straight gray service roads … a railroad line to the right. He looked down at his recon map and thumbed his throat mike. “Holy moly,” he said, “we’re right on the button.”
Timpani rumbled all around them. The Morgana shuddered.
“Looks good,” said Boney. He stared through the bombsight as his left hand uncapped the red drop button. “Lining up. Opening bomb bay doors.”
In the ball turret Martin turned to twelve o’clock and watched the doors swing down in front of him. Sudden turbulence jostled him. Behind him the trailing B-17s in the flight group would be opening their bomb bay doors as well.
Martin glanced down. Through the flak smoke he saw rhythmic flashes of antiaircraft guns firing nearly five miles below. The concrete sprawl of the munitions factory just ahead. Here we go, he thought.
In the copilot seat Broben pulled the Very pistol from behind the pilot’s seat and fitted it with a fat shell. He put a hand on the right-side window and held the gun ready. “Copilot to bombardier, ready with the signal,” he said.
In the nose bubble Boney hunched over the Norden, right hand calibrating. In the sights a long white concrete building drifted into view. “I’m on the AP,” Boney reported. He turned the dial a notch and pressed the red button. “Bombs away,” he said.
Broben opened the window six inches and stuck out the flare gun and pulled the trigger. “Bomb drop signal fired,” he said.
Seven heavy bombs dropped from Fata Morgana’s belly in twin columns, waggling like mindless swimming tadpoles and whistling lewdly as gravity pulled them toward their wholesale annihilation. Farley felt the bomber lift half a foot as the payload dropped.
“Flight engineer here,” said Wen. “One bomb still in the rack. Right side.”
“Boney, free that rack up,” Farley ordered. “Plavitz, give me a secondary target.”
“Right away, captain,” Plavitz said.
Broben shook his head. Farley saw him mouth Shit.
“The railyard’s just off our current heading,” Plavitz came back. “Turn right five degrees.”
“It’ll put us out of the formation,” Broben told Farley.
“Five degrees out, five back. Unless you want to come in at Thurgood with a thousand pounds of bomb in our belly.”
“Drop it over the Channel.”
Farley looked grim. “Only if I can’t drop it here first.” He turned the bomber and pressed his mike. “Boney, what’s the status on that orphan?”
“He’s jumping up and down on it, cap,” Wen reported.
Broben rolled his eyes, and Farley couldn’t help smirking at the image of the lanky and serious bombardier stomping on the stubborn bomb like a man tamping down a dirt-filled hole.
“Roger,” Farley said. “Be sure just the bomb drops out, all right?”
*
Martin watched the area around the concrete buildings far below erupt with smoke. He strained to see if any bombs scored direct hits on the buildings themselves, but they were quickly engulfed in roiling columns of gray smoke that climbed skyward.
“Ball gunner here,” he said. “I saw hits on the Aiming Point, but that thing should have gone off like a powderkeg. I don’t think we—”
The back end of the bomber slewed to the left and Martin heard a thunderclap behind him.
“We’re hit,” Everett’s voice yelled in his headset.
*
“Tail gunner, report,” said Farley. He tried to bank right and suddenly the bomber didn’t want to go. The others were yelling on the interphone and he told them to can it and again ordered Francis to report. The tail gunner didn’t reply.
“Wen, get back there.”
“On my way,” said Wen.
Now Farley had to muscle the control wheel to keep her from veering right. That dive once started would become a giant arc that slammed into the world five miles below. Farley didn’t intend to give it the opportunity. “Jerry, give me some elbow grease here,” he said.
Broben grabbed his own control wheel. “Holy crap,” he said. “Right elevator?”
“Feels like,” said Farley.
“Jesus Christ, we’re two for two.” Broben shook his head. “What god of flying did we piss off?”
The wheel felt alive in Farley’s hands as it pushed against him. His forearms ached from the struggle. The bomber shot from that remorseless country of flak and all grew bright. Farley blinked at the sudden stinging in his eyes. He wanted to put on his Polaroids but he didn’t dare let go the wheel.
“Flight engineer to pilot,” came Wen’s tight Southern drawl. “The rear canopy took a bad hit, the whole thing’s shattered. There’s a lot of debris and I can’t get back there to see what the damage is. I don’t see how Francis could’ve made it.”
“Are we on fire?”
“Don’t look like it.”
“Roger. Shorty, get Boney out of the bay and tell him to close the doors. We’ll dump that last bomb over the—”
“Bandits, eight o’clock level,” called Garrett.
In the ball turret Martin swung to eight o’cl
ock and saw black specks in formation just above the horizon. “Confirmed,” he said. “There’s dozens of them.”
“Wen, forget the tail and get up top,” said Farley. “They’ll come at us from behind when they see the damage.” Farley glanced at the instruments. The azimuth indicator was cartwheeling. “Navigator, what’s our position?”
“Compass is still spinning like a top,” Plavitz reported. “Looking at the rail line … we’re headed southwest. Right fifteen degrees, captain.”
“Right fifteen, roger.”
“Easier said than done,” said Broben as he helped Farley manhandle the controls. Behind him Wen clambered into the top turret.
“Bombardier to pilot,” Boney said. “Closing bomb bay doors. One still in the rack.”
“Roger,” Farley said.
“What the holy hell?” came Everett’s voice. “Can you see the flak field, captain?”
Farley looked past Broben. Fata Morgana was nosing down as she arced around the flak field. Farley saw other bombers in the flight group emerging from the flak in formation, some damaged, some trailing smoke, but nothing especially—no, wait. There was something odd about the flak field itself. At the bottom of the box, the smoke was being drawn down and condensing, like water down a drain.
Farley tabled it for now. They were no longer in the middle of it, so he didn’t give a damn if the flak field started dancing and playing “The Star Spangled Banner.” They had bigger fish to fry right now. “What’s the story on those bandits?” he asked.
“Still closing,” said Martin. “I’d say half a minute out. They’re—shit!”
“Ball gunner, report. You hit, Martin?”
“Something just shocked me. I’ve got some kind of short circuit here.”
“Unplug your suit,” said Broben.
“I did, but I can still feel it.”
“Well, try … out … tight.”
Farley glanced at Broben and yanked down his oxygen mask. “Your mike connection’s loose,” he told him.
Broben took a hand off the wheel and worked the throat-mike plug. “How … out … ow?”
Farley shook his head.
“Cap—” from Shorty. “There’s … prob … elec—”
Broben snatched off his headset. “Son of a bitch!” he yelled. “I got shocked.”
Farley frowned. He held the wheel with one hand and clamped the other under his arm to pull off one of his wool-lined gloves and the thin Rayon glove beneath. The cockpit air felt like ice. He tapped the throttle with a bare finger—and saw the bluewhite flash just before he felt the shock.
He glanced at the instruments as he put his gloves back on. The azimuth indicator was rolling like a hamster wheel. Every level indicator was topped—oil, manifold, fuel, batteries.
“We’re picking up some kind of static electricity,” Farley said. “Everybody keep your gloves on and be careful what you touch.”
Broben pointed to his throat and shook his head. The interphone was out.
Then Farley felt the drumming of two sets of twin .50s as Martin and Wen began to fire.
*
The interphone went dead and Martin realized that there would be no coordinating with the crew on targets. And no help getting out of the ball. He was as isolated as he could get. Procedure now was to shoot at anything that moved and spoke German. But even as he worked the range finder pedal and sighted on the closing fighters and felt his thumbs slide above the red fire buttons, he could not rid himself of the memory of the Ill Wind, of an image of the crew above him all dead at their stations, the Fata Morgana a ghost ship sailing Martin toward the landing he’d evaded once before.
For a few seconds the world dissolved. Martin had seen horses walleyed and crazed but until that moment he had not understood that blind fear could be a literal truth. And then it cleared and he was screaming as both thumbs mashed the fire button at the Bf 109 fighter closing on the bomber’s tail so straight and fast it looked like the son of a bitch was going to ram them.
Above him the bomber began to shake. The fuselage was ringing like a bell.
Martin’s tracer rounds were falling short. The bandit was still out of range. Martin’s suit was still unplugged and he couldn’t feel his feet. Frostbite would be the least of his worries if he didn’t smear this joker.
The German pilot would likely fire a one-second burst at the last possible moment and then veer off. The Messerschmitt was flying level behind the bomber because the tail gun was no longer a threat. Two others hung back in formation behind it, waiting their turn. Martin could not fire upward and Wen, in the top turret, could not fire down. The bastards were going to be hard to hit.
The yellow-nosed fighter in the lead began to glow as if some powerful spotlight were being trained on it.
The bomber shuddered so violently that Martin could not get the bandit in his sights. The ringing grew louder, and underneath it rose a deep thrumming that shook Martin’s bones. A sudden migraine throbbed in time with whatever rhythm made the bomber tremble. Bluewhite lines glowed along the turret framework. Through his little window Martin saw the single-engine fighter lined in lightning.
The bomber bucked so hard that Martin thought they had slammed into something. Martin tasted blood and heard gurgling in his oxygen mask. He yanked it down and felt warm blood turn to frost upon his face. His nose was bleeding. If it froze, it would block the hose and he would die. He eyed the closing bandit as he banged blood from his mask.
*
Farley and Broben saw it at the same time. Dead ahead the flak-smoke funnel Everett had spotted drained down to an abrupt ending, a shaded pencil drawing suddenly erased at its base. Colors flickered at the bottom of the truncated cone, yellow flashes and bluewhite lightning, dull reds pulsing like a wound, a glowing violet outline that was somehow dark and bright at the same time. It hurt to look at but the two men could not look away.
Farley and Broben were fighting to level the aircraft. Their arm muscles felt like they were being squeezed in a blood-pressure cuff. Crackling bluewhite outlines traced the F-shaped throttle handles, tabletop lightning that grew to filigree the cabin. Farley felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up, felt a sudden panicked urge to run, smelled sharp metal. The hull began to thrum around them like an oscillating fan thrown out of balance.
Ahead of them a hole yawned open in the sky.
Farley’s head ached with a sudden piercing migraine. Warm wetness filled his oxygen mask and quickly grew painfully cold. He whipped off his mask and banged it against the seat to knock out the bloody slush, then scraped the frost of blood from his face.
Broben was bad off. His head lolled and his eyes rolled back and bright blood crystals rimmed his rubber mask. Farley spat out blood and put his oxygen mask back on and pulled off Broben’s. He set it on Broben’s lap and slapped his face. Jerry’s head went straight and his eyes focused. He nodded at Farley and banged blood chunks out of his mask and put it back on and grabbed the controls.
Both men fought to steer the bomber but the ship would not respond. Farley tried to push the yoke to dive beneath the coruscating maw before them in the air but the yoke would not move. The bomber was a tiny bug drawn down a swirling drain.
Farley jabbed the button for the bail-out bell. Nothing happened. The thing before them pulsed with purple light that shot dull pain into Farley’s eyes. His splitting headache throbbed in time.
This is what killed the gyros. This thing fried the radio and screwed the compass. And now it wants us. Farley thought it was some kind of storm and he thought it was a weapon and he thought it was alive and he thought all three were true.
Now the yoke shook in his hands as the bomber bucked like a marlin on a hook. Farley yelled and Broben yelled, but Farley couldn’t even hear himself against the resonating thrum that felt like something pushing out within his chest.
I won’t let you kill me, Farley raged. Not me. Not my men. Not my ship.
Fata Morgana and her ten crew and one
pursuer dove into that awful gullet—
six
—and crossed over.
*
The engines died. The instruments died. The controls did not respond.
All went quiet in the cockpit.
Farley’s migraine vanished. His stomach lurched as if the ship were in a power dive. He lowered his oxygen mask and blew blood out his nose. The red spray broke apart to form bright globules that floated in the bluelit cockpit.
An arclight glow came from everywhere. There were no shadows. Beyond the windshield all was white.
The recon map floated in the air above the instrument panel.
Farley looked at Broben and jerked back in his seat. Bright-red blood crystals glinted on the copilot’s face around his oxygen mask. Above the frozen blood his eyes looked sunken and hollow and his skin was luminous. Through it Farley saw the bone of Broben’s skull.
I’ve been hit, he thought. This is what you see before the lights go out. What everyone sees who ever lived. No evading, no outrunning. You sit there and you take it. We’re all dead.
*
Squadron Commander Hauptmann Adler opened fire as the American bomber in front of him flew into the whiteout tunnel in the sky. The violet-edged opening irised shut on his Messerschmitt and sheared it in two at the instrument panel.
Adler stared stunned beyond the telling at the sudden vista before him. The front of his aircraft was gone. Propeller, cowling, engine, leading edge of both wings—simply gone.
His thumb still rested on the fire button. Freezing air screamed into a cockpit inexplicably open to the sky in front of him.
The fighter nosed up and began to spin.
Adler unbuckled himself and pushed forward and stepped out of his plane as if stepping from a city bus. Windblast knocked him backward and he tumbled. He yanked his parachute cord and then realized what he’d done.
The drag line shot up and the chute deployed. Adler was yanked like a marionette. He hung in air alive with flak and fighters and receding bombers. Freezing and without oxygen. His country five long drifting miles down below his boots.
Fata Morgana Page 7
