England Expects el-1

by Charles S. Jackson

  Warrant Officer Harold Clarke lay against the inside wall of the command bunker as Kransky, Drews and two SAS troopers — one of them Corporal Evan Lloyd — stood there no more than five minutes later, surveying the scene in stunned silence. Neither Clarke nor the two guards lying on the floor beside him could tell the others what had happened, but they gave silent evidence well enough in death. A pair of dark, bloody bullet holes in each man’s forehead made the situation clear enough. Clark’s issue Browning pistol lay secure in its holster, and the guards submachine guns were unfired: it was clear there’d been no warning whatsoever.

  “The radar controller’s been shot full of holes…!” Lloyd observed as he hurriedly went through the process of connecting a second, laptop-like console to the incoming network feeds and forced himself to ignore the corpses lying nearby. “I grabbed this back up unit out of storage.”

  “One of the guards at the Tor Ness emplacement raised the alarm when they couldn’t raise Doghouse for a scheduled status check.” Drews explained quickly as Lloyd brought the spare unit back online. “They reported it to me, so I came down to investigate and found this…” The tone of his voice made it clear he’d been rattled by the discovery, and no one could blame the man in the slightest for that. “That’s when I came to get you, sir.”

  “Getting a reading on multiple bogies,” Lloyd called with breathless excitement as the control unit finally powered up, confirming exactly what Kransky had feared. An aerial attack was the only possible reason there could’ve been for bringing the system down so comprehensively. “Picking up fifty-plus in three distinct formations to the east, but the distance is still too great to get a clear number… range about than one-fifty klicks, and they’re at very high altitude: close to ten thousand metres.” Lloyd turned and fixed Kransky with a deadly stare. “We’ve got fuckin’ heavies coming in!”

  Kransky was already lifting the collar-mounted speaker/mike to his lips. “Max — this is Richard… come in please!” He’d set the radio to a frequency that could only be picked up by Thorne, but he received no answer whatsoever. A second call was to no avail, and elicited the same response. Although he couldn’t know for certain, he had a fair idea why there was no reply: the radio was in Thorne’s quarters, and the Hindsight CO would no doubt still be in the Officers Mess, probably drunk and/or passed out.

  “Neil, get everyone to their posts: we’ve got a major raid coming in!” He ordered as he disengaged the portable radio set from his belt webbing and handed it to Lloyd. “Find out where the fuck Merrill is as well: I want to know where my fucking second-in-command’s been hiding with his dick in his hand while someone’s been doing such a swell job of fucking over our security! Evan… you’re in charge here… you know this equipment better than most, and you’re one of the few I can actually trust. Stay alert and keep us informed.” He turned his attention to the second armed SAS trooper standing by the doorway with Kalashnikov rifle in hand. “Dicko… make sure no one comes in here… those are my specific orders! Unless it’s me or Max Thorne, they stay out — got it?”

  “Got it, sir!” The private assured with the characteristically relaxed professionalism he’d become accustomed to receiving from the Australian soldiers. The man’s first name was Richard also, but preferred the unlikely nickname of ‘Dicko’ — something which suited Kransky and kept things simple as far as identification was concerned.

  “Anyone else tries to get past you, shoot them!” The stare was enough to convince the SAS trooper of Kransky’s seriousness, and the young man simply nodded in recognition.

  Kransky turned in an instant, pausing by the bunker entrance only to slam his fist against the alarm switch mounted on the near wall before ducking out into the trench beyond and clambering up onto the open ground, leaving his pack but taking the huge sniper rifle with him.

  Klein hadn’t found Thorne in his quarters as should’ve been the case that early in the morning, and the discovery — or lack thereof — had created some significant consternation and irritation in his mind. He knew there’d only be a window of mere minutes before the impending air raid was detected and the alarm was raised, and in that short space of time he was expected to kill Max Thorne and disable both fighters if possible. Logic suggested the jets should have been the higher priority, but his last received orders had stressed how important it was to the Oberkommando der Wehrmacht that Thorne be taken care of.

  Finding the Hindsight CO however was now proving to be a less simple task than Klein had originally planned, and he spent just a moment standing in the middle of the empty room with gun in hand before leaving to continue looking. Keeping the weapon and his right hand tucked inside his half-open combat jacket for concealment, he stepped out of the barracks once more and broadened his search.

  Another five minutes passed before both alarm bells and the air raid sirens rose simultaneously around the base, alerting all of impending danger. He knew then that he had no time left for this futile search, and decided instead to head immediately for the flight line in the hope there might still be a chance of disabling one or both of the jet fighters. It was as he jogged past the entrance to the Officer’s Mess that the door flew open, and a stumbling Max Thorne crashed straight into him without warning.

  The pair sprawled to the ground in opposite directions, and Thorne was about to mumble an embarrassed apology as he quickly regained his feet, but was stopped in his tracks by the sight of the silenced Walther in the man’s hand. Thorne recognised the man instantly — he knew him as Captain Merrill, Kransky’s security 2IC — and instinct told him that he was undoubtedly also staring at their suspected infiltrator.

  Klein leaped to own his feet in an instant, catlike and on edge. Just a quick glance about told him there was no one in the immediate vicinity, and as he aimed the Walther at Thorne’s head, he dared to hope he might actually make good an escape in the ensuing confusion of the air raid. His face was forming into a smug grin, finger tightening on the trigger, as the upper part of Klein’s torso exploded into a spray of crimson gore and blood. His right arm was thrown sideways, taking the pistol’s aim along with it as the PPK discharged into the ground by Thorne’s feet.

  Travelling at around three times the speed of sound, the energy of the 750-grain, fifty-calibre slug that had struck Klein wasn’t completely spent by its impact with a human body, and continued on to punch its way through the near wall of the Officers Mess. As flesh and blood spattered the wooden boards around the hole, it finally embedded itself in the stone fireplace on the far side of the room beyond, blasting a large chunk out of the mantelpiece. Klein lived just long enough before he fell to realise what had happened and stare shakily down at the huge hole where his chest had once been as the sound of the shot finally reached them. Another second and he lay dead on the gravel path, almost blown in two as Thorne, still drunk, fell to his knees once more and vomited savagely over the sudden, shocking nature of the man’s death.

  Standing more than four hundred metres away across an open expanse of grass between the main buildings and the flight line, Kransky lowered the smoking Barrett rifle from his shoulder and unfolded the bipod legs, leaving the weapon propped on the ground as he began running toward Thorne at full speed and armed men appeared from all around at the sound of the shot.

  Personnel were taking their battle stations all over the base as Kransky reached the kneeling Thorne, the Australian still recovering from his bout of retching. Davies, Donelson and Trumbull had emerged from their quarters by that stage and were also converging on Thorne’s position outside the Officers Mess.

  “We’ve got a large group of aircraft inbound from the east at high altitude,” Kransky wheezed heavily, gasping for breath after his run as Thorne finally began to struggle to his feet. He angrily kicked at Klein’s corpse. “This son of a bitch here killed WO Clarke and Privates Collins and Hamish before taking out our radar… it was only luck we picked it up as quickly as we did.”

  “He’d have done for me as we
ll, Richard,” Thorne observed shakily, unable to take his eyes away from the body for much more than a moment, but sending the American a meaningful glance all the same. “Thanks mate…”

  “No worries,” the security chief replied, using vernacular he’d picked up over the last six weeks from the Australians on the base. “My pleasure…”

  “Jesus Christ, Max — are you all right?” Eileen cried out anxiously as she reached his side ahead of the others, clutching at his shoulder and drawing a startled breath as she got a good look at what was left of Kristof Klein.

  “Thanks to Richard here, yes,” Thorne said softly, aware there was pressing business to attend to and struggling to gather his wits completely. He turned back to Kransky, his mind finally functioning a little clearer as adrenalin began to force shock and drunkenness from his thoughts. “How much time do we have?”

  “Fifteen minutes… maybe less. They were out at a hundred miles… Evan thinks they’re heavy bombers.”

  “They will be,” Thorne stated simply, his professional mind kicking in as he started to act. “This is the ‘big one’ we’ve been worried about… they won’t have sacrificed their agent here for anything less.” He turned to Eileen. “Get over to the flight line and get those crews into the transports… I want both planes up and out of the area in less than ten minutes! I also want both Tunguskas moved as far away from the base as possible: we haven’t time to get them loaded onto the Galaxy, but if we can get them somewhere safe, they may still be able to help fight off the raid. Get on that now…!”

  “Right away, Max,” she acknowledged, turning away slightly and issuing orders through the radio speaker/mike at the throat of her combat jacket.

  “Jack: get the Raptor loaded with as many AMRAAMs as you can and get airborne — you’ve got five minutes!”

  “Gotcha…!” The Texan grinned excitedly, spinning on his heels and running away toward the flight line. He was already dressed in his flight suit.

  “Alec!” Thorne snapped, turning to Trumbull as the man stepped toward him in response. “Suit up — you’re flying the Lightning.”

  “Me…?” Trumbull’s jaw dropped. “You want me to take that thing into combat…?”

  “You’re good enough and you know it,” Thorne snapped impatiently, the statement true enough. “It took you no time to pick up the shit you didn’t know already, and you’ve been flying brilliantly both in reality and on the simulator. You have to be able to fly that thing in actual combat, and this is as good a time to start as any.”

  “Max… I don’t think I’m ready for this yet… give me a Spit and I’d be up there in a flash, but…”

  “I don’t have time to fucking argue with you, Squadron Leader!” Thorne snarled angrily, reaching the end of his short tether. He jammed an outstretched finger across to the aircraft on the distant hardstands. “Get suited up and get that fucking airplane off the ground!” He’d been wearing the rank of Air Vice Marshal long enough now for the authority to carry some real weight, and the never-before-seen ferocity of his words forced Trumbull into automatic action.

  “Yes, sir…!” He snapped in curt reply, instantly turning and running in the same direction as Davies. The exchange had surprised Kransky with its ferocity, and hadn’t escaped the shocked attention of the nearby Commander Donelson, momentarily distracted by the outburst as she continued to issue orders over her radio.

  “How many aircraft…?” Thorne snapped testily, turning back to Kransky.

  “Uncertain, but Evan called it ‘fifty-plus’…”

  “Fuck…! Get on to the reserve crew at Eday, and have ‘Alternate’ made operational. We’re gonna need it if a couple of those bastards get through — and they will.” Without waiting for a reply, Thorne stormed off toward his quarters to find his uniform — the windbreaker and track pants suddenly felt both incredibly cold and inappropriate.

  Ground crew were wheeling away the access ladder as Trumbull seated himself properly and began to set his harness. The engine was already reaching full power as the cockpit canopy closed and he fixed the HMDS system over his head, connecting everything to the appropriate cockpit interfaces. A moment later, the F-35E was in the air and he was climbing sharply away, circling above the airbase to gain altitude as he turned onto an easterly heading at full throttle.

  “Yo, Harbinger — you ready to kick some ass?” That was Davies’ voice, deafeningly loud in his ears, or so it seemed to the nervous RAF pilot. “You readin’ me, Max…?” Davies asked with interest a moment later upon receiving no immediate answer.

  “Ah… Phoenix-One… this is Harbinger reading you loud and clear, over,” Trumbull began uncertainly, his normally fluid flying mind more than a little stressed. “I’m afraid Max isn’t on this flight, Captain…”

  “Is that you, Trumbull…?” The decidedly unimpressed reply came back in an instant. “Son of a bitch…!” A second, longer pause did Trumbull’s confidence no good whatsoever. “Okay, kid… this is how we’ll play it. Don’t use your missiles on the fighters: bombers take priority. Fighters’ll need to come in for a strafing run if they want to do any damage, and that’ll be close enough for the Tunguskas to take them on with cannon, but the bombers can stay well out of range. I’ll fire first… wait for mine to hit before releasing your AMRAAMs: we can’t afford to have any duplication of targets. Once we’re both out, we can go in with cannon. The Tunguska’s missiles will take over once we’re out of ammo, but they only have a slant range of about twelve miles, so we’ve gotta do what we can before the Krauts get that close…!”

  “Roger, Phoenix-One,” Trumbull acknowledged, speaking faster as he started to feel more comfortable with the controls and his professionalism began to take over. “Reading you loud and clear…” His mind ran through the procedures he’d learned in computer simulators, and practised many times on training flights with Thorne, switching the F-35E’s APG-81 radar system over to air search mode and arming his AIM-120D AMRAAM missiles.

  In stealthy flight modes, the Lightning II carried all its weapons internally, and on aerial combat missions could carry just two AIM-120s and two AIM-9X Sidewinders within its pair if fuselage weapons bays. The F-35 also possessed the option to carry extra ordnance in non-stealthy modes however, and possessed numerous wing and fuselage hardpoints for just such situations. The aircraft’s 25mm GAU-22/A four-barrelled rotary cannon was mounted in a stealthy pod beneath its centreline fuselage pod, while each wing was loaded with an extra five AIM-120s just as the F-35E had been at the time of the first attack three days earlier.

  “You an ace, Trumbull…?” Davies’ inquiry was short and sharp, and Trumbull finally caught sight of the Raptor far below him as it roared from the end of the Hindsight runway at full afterburner. The F-22 took longer to get into the air, but it would make up for that in very short order once actually airborne.

  “Affirmative, Phoenix-One: eighteen confirmed kills…”

  “I guess you’ll do just fine, then — just remember to keep your eyes on your altimeter and stay out of the Tunguskas’ four thousand metre ‘exclusion zone’: we’ve deactivated the safeguards on their IFF transponders after the last attack, and they’re now free to fire on anything that comes into range, friendly or otherwise. The air overhead’s gonna get real busy soon, and those boys at the fire controls will have their hands full trying to work out who’s who… better if we make sure they only have Germans to shoot at! Good luck, buddy… over and out!”

  Oberstleutnant Johann Bauer sat at the controls of his B-10A strategic bomber as the North Sea slipped past almost 10,000m below. The first twenty aircraft of Staff Flight and I/SKG1 were now just seventy kilometres from their target at Scapa Flow, flying in a three-tiered box formation that could supply excellent concentrations of massed fire against a would-be attacker from any direction. Although his crews were new and barely tested in real combat, they were nonetheless confident, well-trained and quite calm. The RAF was all but destroyed, and whatever the enemy could field
would be up against heavily armed bombers that could hit at British fighters with their heavy machine gun turrets long before the enemy was close enough for their .303 Browning machine guns to be effective.

  A few kilometres behind them, II/SKG1 followed in a similar formation, and III Gruppe behind them. The air was freezing cold at that altitude, and the moisture and condensation from the hot exhausts of the bombers’ four powerful BMW twin-row radials crystallised and formed long, streaming contrails of ice stretching back the way they’d come. Those contrails could be seen from great distances, and were a clear indicator as to the formations’ positions at any given moment.

  The Amerika Bomber was a huge aircraft, and was completely state-of-the art. Its streamlined, ‘glasshouse’ nose provided a superb view for its flight crew, while its gunners commanded their remote-controlled defensive turrets from a pressurised, heated compartment amidships. New analogue, computing gun sights produced by Carl Zeiss AG took into account aircraft speed, range and numerous other factors to produce accuracy far superior to manually aimed weapons, giving the turrets’ 13mm weapons an engagement range of almost 1,000 metres — close to double what would otherwise be possible.

  Everything about the Messerschmitt Model 264 — designated B-10A by the RLM — was new and technologically advanced. Bauer and the rest of their crews felt as if they were flying aircraft years ahead of their time. Had they been provided the same insight into the future that some others possessed, they’d have known exactly how accurate those feelings were.

  Fighters of I/- and II/JG54 circled around above the bombers in ‘finger-four’ formations, straining at the very limit of their service ceiling with pairs of 300-litre drop tanks beneath their wings. Most of the mission planners believed the bombers alone would have enough firepower to deal with whatever air threat the RAF could field, but it paid to be cautious. The fighter pilots kept a watchful eye on the skies around them — unlike their bomber colleagues, they were all hardened veterans who knew better than to take anything for granted.