“What do you mean?”
“We know the New Eagles bought these bloody Flankers from the Chechen Mafia, but we’ve no idea what ordnance they got with them. If they’ve got eighties-vintage AA-10 medium range missiles, then we’ve got an advantage… they’re less capable than our AMRAAMs,” he explained, using Cold War NATO codenames out of habit rather than the correct Russian designations. “If they’re got the newer AA-12s on the other hand, then we’re up against it… the ‘Adders’ are pretty-much the equal to ours, and pack a longer range… the military community even nicknamed them the ‘AMRAAMSKI’ in recognition of their similarity to the AIM-120.”
“I don’t think I’d like a career with the air forces of the future,” Trumbull growled softly, his tone vaguely bitter. “Life or death seems to revolve more around who pushes the first button than any real ability as a pilot.”
“Actually, I kind of agree with you,” Thorne replied grimly after a moment’s consideration and a slight nod. “Personally, I’d rather sort this out with guns in an all-in ‘furball’ any day.” His grimace became a thin, wry smile. “Don’t think our ‘mate’ here would agree, though.”
Flying higher and faster in Hawk-3, Schwarz loosed two of his missiles at a range of 100 kilometres, providing his opponent plenty of time to prepare countermeasures. The early launch however also put extra pressure on his enemy, and Schwarz in any case still held another pair of R-27 missiles in reserve beneath the Flanker’s fuselage, a medium-range weapon also known by the NATO codename AA-10 ‘Alamo’.
Trumbull had learned enough about flying the F-35E to pick up the approaching missiles on radar, and he was more than a little concerned as Thorne continued to do nothing other than close the distance between the two aircraft at full throttle.
“Those two new contacts are guided missiles, aren’t they…?” He asked tentatively.
“Radar-guided, far as I can tell…” Thorne confirmed, voice deadpan.
“Oh good… just… just checking…” Trumbull nodded nervously, trying to force a smile beneath his oxygen mask but not really managing.
“I can’t counter-launch yet, Alec,” Thorne explained with a thin smile. “Their missiles have better range… I need to be closer to have a chance of hitting them.” A tense silence followed as time ticked by, and with one last range check on his HDMS readouts, Thorne finally released both of Hindsight’s remaining AIM-120s at a range of seventy kilometres. They hissed away from his weapons bays like tiny meteors, and the engagement suddenly became a waiting game once more.
“We’ve got about forty seconds or so,” Thorne continued tensely, his teeth clamped together as he watched carefully for the telltale flare of the enemy missiles’ exhausts. “If he’s fired AA-10s at us, he’ll need to maintain radar lock for them to hit us…”
“But he’ll have to turn away at some point to try and avoid our missiles!” Trumbull suddenly saw the method in Thorne’s actions.
“Exactly,” the Australian confirmed, nodding. “Basically, we’re playing a bloody great game of ‘chicken’…” He managed a vaguely evil smile. “Of course, the problem for him is; from about ten miles out, our missiles can track all by themselves.”
“And if he’s fired those ‘new’ missiles at us…?”
“Then we’re probably screwed,” Thorne replied cheerfully.
“Incoming missiles just went active… they’re AMRAAMs… AMRAAMs!” Weapons Officer Hauser called out his final warning at a range of just fifteen kilometres. As the combined approach speed of missiles and aircraft was better than hypersonic, there was no time for discussion or any further comment at all… there was barely time for anything other than reflex and instinct. Schwarz hauled back on the stick and began to turn, pumping chaff into the sky behind the Flanker in an attempt to blur his radar return.
The Sukhoi was travelling faster than sound, and it was loath to change direction as a result, making it necessary to dump speed dramatically before the air rushing past around them would allow the jet to make any radical manoeuvres. The Su-30MK, although state-of-the-art by the Russian standards of its time, was nevertheless a generation behind the avionics of the F-35E, as were the aircraft’s defensive countermeasures. The pre-cut clouds of aluminium filling the air behind the turning aircraft didn’t fool the pair of AMRAAMs for a second, and the first ploughed into the climbing Sukhoi’s belly amidships after flicking upward from its original course at the last moment. The second missile detonated amid the expanding fireball and wreckage a moment later.
The pair of R-27 ‘Alamo’ missiles targeted on the Lightning lost lock the moment their mother aircraft turned away and then rather inconveniently exploded. Thorne and Trumbull could actually see the flare of their exhausts in the dark sky ahead by that stage as they suddenly fell from their guided flight plan and nosed downward, still in formation. Both passed just a thousand metres below the jet as they continued on below and behind, both men in the F-35E releasing sighs of relief.
“Well done, Max… well done…” Trumbull said softly, tension finally starting to ease as they flew on into a night sky that was finally safe. “Thank God that’s all over…!”
“Oh this isn’t over,” Thorne replied, his own stress and frustration still high. “There’s going to be an analysis of the damage there at that Wehrmacht HQ once the dust settles, and they’re going to find what’s left of that bomb.” He shook his head in angry displeasure. “When they do, they’ll know we have nuclear weapons that don’t fucking work!” His voice was hushed, but was also filled with renewed vehemence. “We just shot our bolt and came up well short, mate… this is far from over!”
Wehrmacht Field Hospital Unit
Amiens, Northern France
Monday
9 September, 1940
Kurt Reuters woke up in mild discomfort sometime after eleven that morning, the pain of the burns on his lower legs beginning to overcome the low levels of morphine in his system. Schiller was seated by his bedside in the private ward, and had the look of a man completely worn out, exhausted and utterly despondent, although the sight of his friend and commander regaining consciousness went some way to improving his foul mood. The Reichsmarschall was incredibly weak, and couldn’t manage much more than to raise himself slightly and stare with apprehension at the man seated beside him.
“Things are so bad as that?” He asked slowly, his voice soft and wavering slightly.
“Things are bad, Kurt… yes,” Schiller answered honestly with a grimace, “but they could’ve been far worse for all that…”
“Casualties…?”
“Nearly a hundred injured, including fifteen officers of various ranks… five of those, staff officers. Among the thirty-three dead, we lost Admirals Canaris and Raeder, Generals Von Bock and Von Brauchitsch…” He paused a moment before continuing, managing to hide the guilt and fear coursing through him. “We’ve also retrieved the bodies of Field Marshal Göring, Reichsleiter Martin Bormann, Deputy Führer Hess… and Oswald Zeigler. Direktor Strauss is missing and is also feared dead, although his body is yet to be located in the wreckage.” Schiller decided he could provide selected, ‘edited’ details regarding their deaths at a later date. He looked away as he spoke the next few sentences. “Kurt… we also lost Joachim… murdered by that Jewish bastard, Lowenstein, who made his escape during the confusion.”
“Oh Christ…!” Reuters lay his head back in disbelief and closed his eyes, equally devastated by the loss of such a group of experienced men and the painful news of the death of their friend.
“There’s more, Kurt. Both Flankers were sortied in an attempt to intercept the attacking aircraft and supporting tanker… there were two separate engagements, in which both Sukhois were also lost… no survivors. We’ve no idea whether either of the enemy jets detected also survived… or their whereabouts, if they did.”
“Thank God at least it wasn’t a nuke they threw at us… I thought we were done for when I saw that bomb come down!”
&nb
sp; “It was a nuke, Kurt,” Schiller began slowly after another pause.
“What do you mean?” The man was staring at him once more, his head turned on the pillow. “How is it then, that we’re still alive at all?”
“An investigation team went through the wreckage after the fire was extinguished. It appears the weapon didn’t function correctly, and there was no nuclear detonation as a result. Most of the damage was done by a much larger, secondary explosion originating from a fuel truck parked at the rear of the building. We believe the driver was sleeping in the cab, and was in any case killed in the blast.”
“Which saves us the necessity of having him shot,” Reuters added coldly, ignoring the fact that he himself had spotted the sleeping man earlier that night and neglected doing anything about the situation.
“The weapon malfunctioned for some unknown reason… we believe it was either a B61- or B83-type thermonuclear weapon, and that it was the initial, conventional imploding charge that ignited the fuel in the tanker truck.”
“Why the hell didn’t it go off?”
“We’re not sure. We’ve salvaged a number of large fragments of what appears to be weapons-grade plutonium from the site. Only problem is, it doesn’t register on our Geiger counters. It looks, feels and weighs about the same as plutonium should… the material just isn’t radioactive.” He lowered his eyes for a moment. “I’d have preferred to have Joachim to consult with on this, but the only theory we can come up with is that the original fissile material may have been neutralised as an unexpected side effect of temporal displacement. As we had no radioactive material to bring back with us, we couldn’t have known that would happen… and that’s really just a theory…”
“Theory or not, we’re certainly still here,” Reuters observed, his mind working over that information for a moment or two, “and they didn’t know what was going to happen, either…! They thought it’d destroy us all… perhaps frighten the Führer into abandoning Seelöwe into the bargain.” He forced himself to sit up, wincing at the pain in his legs, and reeling from sudden head spins, but retaining his balance all the same. “I need to speak to The Führer, and I need to be at a command centre: we can’t afford to allow anything to hold the operation back now, regardless of our command losses.”
“I’ve already made the appropriate arrangements, and The Führer’s been informed,” Schiller reassured, leaning forward and resting a hand on his friend’s shoulder. “Suitable reassignments have been made to replace those men we’ve lost, and field promotions to match where necessary. Preparations for ‘S-day’ are going ahead as planned.”
“I knew I could count on you, Albert!” Reuters smiled genuinely for the first time. “Well done!”
“We’ve no idea where the remnants of Hindsight have holed up, and everything we’ve got’s committed to Seelöwe now anyway. This was their last gasp, Kurt, and their attempt at a nuclear deterrent has turned out to be a paper tiger.” Schiller took a breath. “The general alert and the authorization for S-Day is out, and we’re in the last week of preparations… best way we could avenge this attack is by wiping Great Britain off the map!”
“Couldn’t have said it better myself, old friend,” Reuters commended, clearly seeing a capability for command shining to the fore that Schiller had previously kept hidden, although the Reichsmarschall had known it was present nonetheless. “They wanted to slow us down… make us back off and think about what we’re doing…” A steely edge crept into his voice as he considered a new course of action. “Well, I’m thinking about what we’re doing right now, and we’re not going to slow down… we’re going to bring the schedule forward, and go in two days! We’re not giving them any more time to try anything else… we’ve been ready to go for weeks now: we’ve just been biding our time for the moon and the tides. Send the word out to all the Western Commands that we’re now officially ‘S-Minus-Two’… we’ll have plenty of time to deal with Scapa Flow or any other potential hideaway once the invasion is over.” He halted for a moment as an unrelated thought occurred. “How bizarre, Albert: we’ll be launching Seelöwe on ‘Nine-Eleven’…” He dismissed the piece of trivia a second later, then added: “Get me a phone, Albert: I really need to speak to The Führer right away…”
18. Too Many, Too Much and Too Few…
Fields near Lympne Castle
West of Hythe, County Kent
‘S-Day’
Wednesday,
September 11, 1940
Hauptmann Rudolf Witzig crouched by a short tree line and cast his eyes carefully across the open fields that lay before him in the bright moonlight. In the distance he could pick out the darker line that was Royal Military Rd and the canal beyond, running along the southern edge of the fields on its journey between Seabrook and Cliff End. West Hythe lay a short distance away on the far side of the canal, and Lympne stood perhaps a kilometre beyond the low hills to the north: it was difficult to find an open expanse of countryside in Southern England that wasn’t in close proximity to some kind of town or urban centre.
Turning his head to the east, he could already see the faint glow in the sky that warned of the impending dawn, and he checked the luminous dial of his watch for the third time in five minutes. The aircraft they awaited were due very soon, and they had to be completely ready. He gestured to his NCO and the man instantly moved to stand at his side.
“Place the LMG to provide covering fire, and get the rest of the men setting up those flares,” he whispered softly. “Make sure they’re well clear of any trees, and that the smoke’s at its ‘head’.” He didn’t really need to remind the feldwebel; they all knew their job.
“Jawohl, Mein Herr!” The man hissed in return, and he was gone in a moment, organising the placement of the two men manning the squad light machine gun before taking the other six with him out into the open.
The brightness of the flares seemed almost blinding in the darkness as they ignited, and the troop worked quickly, as much for fear of discovery at any moment as the short timetable they were working to. Taking a deep breath and reaffirming his grip on the assault rifle in his left hand, Witzig gestured to another NCO who was carrying the unit’s backpack radio. The man was beside him in an instant and held out the handset, which the officer accepted and lifted to his face.
“Nighthawk, this is Badger: come in please…”
The reply was almost instantaneous. “Badger, this is Nighthawk… we read you loud and clear. How is your position, over?”
“Our position is secure, Nighthawk… there’s been no observable activity for several hours, and we’re activating landing flares now, over.”
“We read you, Badger — deploy your signal please, over.”
He set his rifle down and drew a leuchtpistole from a bulky holster at his waist. Cocking it laboriously with his one free hand, he raised it over his head and aimed for a break in the tree cover above. There was a soft ‘crump’ and some considerable recoil as a bright, shimmering ball of blue-white light hissed skyward, rising several hundred metres into the air.
“We see the flare, Badger… we have a blue light, over.”
“The colour is blue, Nighthawk, over.”
“Thank you, Badger… we have correct bearing onto target now… ETA of first wave approximately five minutes… Nighthawk over and out…”
Witzig took up his rifle once more and drew back the cocking handle, loading a round and then setting the safety. At twenty-four years of age, he’d already served the German military for five years, having joined the fallschirmjäger in 1938. Blessed with sharp eyes and chiselled features, Witzig was a dedicated front-line officer and a well-trained paratrooper into the bargain. As an oberleutnant, he’d participated in a glider assault on the roof of the Belgian fortress of Eben Emael in May of 1940. Part of a larger attack on the installation, the garrison had surrendered the next afternoon, and he’d been awarded Ritterkreuz for his actions.
He’d received a promotion to hauptmann since then, and now comma
nded the Ninth Parachute Company of the 1st FJ Div. The unit had dropped into Kent four hours ago, leaping at low level from a single Arado transport, the T-1A Gigant howling past at full speed, just two hundred metres above the rolling fields below. They’d subsequently spent the last three hours making a detailed reconnaissance of the area, and had determined there was no notable British activity. All that was to be done now was to await the arrival of the rest of the 1st Fallschirmjäger Division.
The 1st FJ Div was part of the XVI Army under General Busch, which in turn was under the control of Army Group A and the command of Generalfeldmarschall Von Rundstedt . It was the pre-dawn Wednesday morning of 11 September 1940, and landing craft were already underway from dozens of ports along the Dutch and French coasts enroute for the south coast of Britain. Vessels destined to land as far west as Portsmouth and The Solent had already been at sea for a day or more, chugging their way slowly across the choppy waters of The Channel.
The 1st Fallschirmjäger and other airborne forces would lead the way, and carry the first battles of the operation to the British on their own soil, something that would also present the first serious military threat to England and its sovereignty since 1066. Theirs was the most important of the initial actions, and ten thousand airborne troops would soon be dropping all over Kent, their objective to secure the southern flanks of beachheads that would be forced near Dover, Folkestone and Dungeness. The general feeling was that the only real chance the British had of resistance would be during the initial assault phase, where they might conceivably drive the Wehrmacht back into the sea. The 9th Company’s specific mission was to capture the strategically-important Lympne airfield and hold it until reinforcements could be brought in.
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