Code Name: Infamy (Aviator Book 4)

by Shanle, Leland

  Atsugi was frantic. He did not see the flames that blocked his path, only the faces of his family. Denied at every turn, he became engulfed in the conflagration. He ran down the center of one of the few wide streets. His clothes began to smolder. He could smell the woolen tunic he held over his head begin to burn. Its brass buttons singed his skin whenever they made contact. Oxygen was being consumed at such a rate it created a wind that raged into a firestorm.

  He was dying. He had failed his wife and little girls. The river. I must make the river, was his only cogent thought. Running wildly for two more blocks, he realized the only thing keeping him alive was the air being sucked into the fire over the wide boulevard. Atsugi knew this street led to the Emperor’s Bridge. In his youth he had crossed it many times with his grandparents. Four wooden arches sat on top of stone abutments. Ten meters wide, with centuries of dirt ground into the oak planks, it should be resistant to fire.

  Looking ahead he could see the arches of the bridge. Its rails were already ablaze. It was then he noticed bodies of the succumbed littering the street. A child shrieked, still clinging to his mother as her kimono erupted in flame. Atsugi swept him up as he sprinted by. Cradling the child, he ran up the stone steps of the first arch. With the rails fully engulfed, his options were running out. At the apex of the first section he looked down the back side and saw the stone pillar had shielded the upwind railing. He bolted over the rail and into the water below. At its edge, the water was warmer than any tub he had ever been in. He moved deeper and away from the bridge, which now began to burn. Beyond belief, the firestorm only intensified. He had to continually submerge with the boy to wet their hair or it would combust.

  The child stared at him with wide eyes, too terrified to cry. Stagnant water at the edges began to boil. The few survivors who had reached the river stayed submerged as long as possible. The immolation went on for hours, endless mind-numbing hours. Eventually, the city burned itself out. There was no more fuel to feed the fire. Yokohama had been consumed. Still holding the boy, Atsugi climbed a set of rock steps that descended into the river. It wasn’t until he got to the top of the stairs that he realized the boy was dead. A night in hell was beyond the innocent’s ability to endure. With the toddler still in his arms, Atsugi looked around in the dim light of smoldering red embers. Nothing was left of Yokohama but the streets. He hung his head and wept.

  00:29 Local, 1 July, 1945 (15:29 GMT, 30JUN)

  Iwo Jima

  Spike held the barrel of the .45 and nudged Irish, who instinctively grabbed the weapon. “Irish, wake up.”

  His head cleared enough to recognize Spike’s voice.

  “Damn it, Spike—”

  “Hey, I tried from the door. You were doing the sleep of the living dead.”

  “Man, two beers and that pool … what time is it?”

  “Time to go. It’s half past midnight.” Irish pulled on his boots and a shirt as Spike waited.

  “I still don’t see why we can’t just wait it out here.”

  “First off, if we approach from Iwo, they will scramble an intercept and shoot our asses down. If we come up the mainland, we can start low enough to hide and then mix in with Japanese traffic. Besides, it is a little nosy around here.”

  “And we all know how you spies hate that.”

  Hass-man was already in the briefing room with another crew. After exchanging navigation coordinates and radio frequencies, he addressed the entire flight. “Okay, gents, listen up. Irish, you take off first and turn on course, max cruise. You’ll have the nav lead. Don’t worry about us, we will run you down in radar trail.”

  “Sammy?” Hass turned to his wing-man.

  “Sir.”

  “You’re the guard. I’m the shooter if any bogeys come nosing around.”

  “Roger that, Skipper.”

  “Dawn landing on Okinawa, at Naha Air Field. That’s it, let’s walk.”

  Total blackness, violated only by the soft red glow of the instruments, was all Hass-man could see. Absolute darkness that only an overcast night at sea can produce. It stretched to infinity in all directions, and they hung in it, as if in suspended animation over an abyss, every sense muted.

  “Talk to me, Stoney.” Stoneman, Hass-man’s navigator, turned up the gain on the SCR-720 air to air radar. “I’ve got him, Boss, check right ten.” Hass-man eased in a turn ten degrees to the right. “He’s twelve o’clock, at 25, with a V sub C of 50.” His target was on the nose, twenty-five miles ahead, and they were closing on it with a 50-knot advantage. Lieutenant Stoneman continued periodic updates over the next few minutes. At a distance of one mile, Hass-man eased the throttles back on the big R-2800-65W Dual Wasp engines. He set the manifold air pressure at twenty-six inches, letting the heavy Black Widow slow to a closure speed of ten knots.

  “Half mile; V sub C of ten.”

  Hass-man eased the manifold pressure to twenty-four inches; closure dropped to five knots. “Thirty-five hundred feet; you got him?”

  “Negative,” was Hass-man’s curt response.

  “Two thousand.” Stoneman’s voice grew an edge. “One thousand feet! Is he in sight?”

  “No visual.”

  “Five hundred feet; recommend a turn away!”

  “I got him.” Hass-man got visual on the pale blue gas escaping from the Commando’s exhaust manifolds. They were suspended in the void, beckoning him forward and growing wider-spaced as he got closer. He pulled off just an inch of power, and the blue glows stabilized. He took a position and flashed his formation lights to Sammy, which let him know to take the left side as guard. He then eased onto the right side of Irish’s aircraft. Hass-man watched as Sammy flailed on the left wing. He had trained his men to embrace the dark; night was their greatest ally. VF-422 owned it. On a more practical note, he had also taught them to sneak a peek at their flight instruments when flying formation at night. It would re-cage their internal gyro.

  “Vertigo?” asked Stony from the back seat. He was also watching.

  “No doubt a raging case. He’ll be alright.” Major Hass sincerely hoped that was true. Flying next to other aircraft in the dark was not an intuitive skill. In fact it seemed pretty stupid, but such was their lot in life. Sammy began to smooth out as Hass-man dropped back into a tactical formation to cover the flight. He took position a half mile aft and stepped up a thousand feet.

  “Okay, Stoney, I’m going to work you hard tonight. I need you to maintain our half mile station and scan for bogeys when I weave toward the threat axis.”

  “Piece of cake, Skipper.”

  Since mainland Japan was off the right, that would be the threat vector. Hass-man would descend, gaining speed, and then turn thirty degrees toward the threat, allowing Stoney to sweep it with his radar. He would then use the excess airspeed to re-position above and behind Irish. He figured even if the Japanese had radar, his constant maneuvering would cloak him. They would key on the non-maneuvering pair he guarded.

  04:29 Local, 1 July, 1945 (19:29 GMT, 30JUN)

  USS Suwannee, Java Sea

  VF-40’s ready room was packed. Every chair was occupied, and most of the standing room as well. Aviators, INTEL officers, controllers and air operations were all in attendance. CAG and Stutz were in the front of the stifling hot room.

  “Attention to brief,” Kid barked loudly as the second hand marked the half hour. All murmuring and conversation stopped immediately. CAG nodded to Kid and then addressed the group.

  “Thanks, XO. Men, CAG-40 is putting every aircraft we have into the air today. We will be feet dry and expect a fight. INTEL your show.”

  Rising from a chair, the air wing intelligence officer then briefed the room, finishing with a final statement. “Gents, I know the scuttlebutt is that nothing is left of the Japanese air defense, that it’s been withdrawn to protect the mainland. But these oil fields are the last gas station for Japan, and they will not give them up without a fight. I expect a fighter presence of at least squadron strength.”

/>   “Is that all?” quipped Robbie.

  “Mister Robinson, I’d point out that makes it a one-to-one fight.”

  CAG interrupted the INTEL brief. “We’ve been up against tough odds before, but here’s the point: there will be a fight.” He let it set in with the younger men in the room. “We are going to put a classic fighter sweep over Jesselton Air Field. XO Brennan’s flight will proceed overhead the airfield and kill anything that comes up to tangle. Skipper Stutz will cover the strike group. If they stay on the ground, my Avenger flight will bomb them. I want the air threat smashed today. Today, we end it!” CAG paced back and forth for emphasis. “I don’t want a single Japanese aircraft flyable by 13:30. That’s when the Aussies hit the beach and we shift to close air support. Any questions?”

  There were none.

  “Good, let’s go break their back.”

  04:38 Local, 1 July, 1945 (19:38 GMT, 30JUN)

  Western Pacific Ocean

  The high workload for both men ensured that the hours passed quickly for both pilot and navigator. Stony maintained the NAV plot and swept the skies with the SRC-720 radar. He’d run it out to max range and then pull it back in tight to re-establish their station. Hass-man reached the apex of an eastern weave as he sipped cold coffee, trying to stay sharp. Stoney’s eyes, dry from the altitude, burned as he glared intently at the screen. A slight anomaly appeared on it, as Hass-man began to turn back.

  “Steady up.”

  Hass-man’s body flooded with adrenaline as he leveled the wings. The slight disturbance on the 720’s screen disappeared.

  “Check right twenty.”

  Hass eased the nose twenty more degrees to the right and let the heavy nose lower to gain speed. He aided gravity by pushing the propellers to 2400 RPM and the manifold pressure to 36 inches. Stony turned the gain all the way up on the Hughes SRC-720 radar set and then slewed the tilt down and back up slowly.

  “Got him!’ he declared over the intercom. “Good boy, Stoney. Track two plots—one to him and the other back to our flight.”

  “Done. Contact bears due north for seventy five miles, angels medium.”

  Major Hass waited patiently for an update as long as he could stand, then broke the silence. “What’s he doing, Stoney?”

  “Standby. Constant bearing decreasing range,” he deadpanned.

  “Shit, he’s stalking us.”

  “I concur, Skipper; must have a naval controller. There’s no INTEL on Jap airborne radar. Doesn’t matter which, he’s definitely running an intercept.”

  “Roger that. Hang on.” Hass-man jammed the props and engine throttles to the firewall and turned back to Irish.

  “Give me a snapshot to Irish.” Stoney flipped the range selector to minimum and re-acquired Irish and Sammy.

  “Half mile, closing fast.”

  “Quarter mile.”

  “Two thousand feet!’

  “Close enough,” Hass said and then rolled the big fighter inverted. Pulling four Gs, he had the Black Widow pointed straight down at the ocean. Jerking the throttles to idle, Hass-man then opened the dive brakes. Even with all the drag out, the P-61 reached red line speed rapidly, and they dropped like a rocket-assisted safe. But by going straight down, they would show no Doppler shift, no movement, and the radar would not see him. In effect, they disappeared from Japanese radar.

  At five thousand feet he began a pull out. G-force smashed him and Stoney into their seats. Throttles went back to full, and dive brakes retracted as he leveled at 500 feet.

  “Find him, Stoney.”

  “I got him suit-cased, Boss. Thirty degrees right, for sixty-two miles.”

  “Run an intercept, young man.”

  “How’s the gas, Skipper?”

  “We have enough, but we need to get him in one pass.”

  “Copy; don’t goon it.”

  “Exactly.” Hass-man laughed to himself. Stoney tilted the radar further up, but the target disappeared. He should have had to increase the tilt to keep the bogey on the screen as they closed at 300 knots.

  “He’s descending! Why is he doing that?”

  “Same reason we are, to get a better radar picture. Make a note for INTEL, he has onboard radar.”

  “Forty miles, check left two degrees. Bogey is seven to eight thousand.” Hass-man started a slight climb maintaining 300 knots.

  “What’s the plan, Skipper?”

  “I’m going to pop at one mile, zoom climb, and shoot him in the belly.” Hass-man turned the gun sight to bright. The hunter was being hunted and didn’t even know it.

  “Ten miles.”

  “What’s his angels?”

  “Estimate five thousand now, level.”

  “Five miles.” Hass-man charged his four Hispano twenty-millimeter cannons and four M2 Browning .50-caliber machine guns—a devastating punch. He briefed Stoney on the in-close attack.

  “Once I pop align the radar with the aircraft data line, I’ll guide with pitch. That’ll put our guns on.”

  “Three miles, check left one degree.”

  Hass-man toggled on the master arm switch.

  “Two miles, closure hot, one hundred plus!” Hass-man waited.

  “Pop!” Stoneman screamed into the intercom at one mile. Hass pulled four Gs trying to keep the wings level. Airspeed quickly bled off as they zoom climbed.

  “Go ADL, Stoney,” Hass grunted.

  “Three thousand feet, left five, pull harder!” Hass-man pulled.

  “Pull more!” Stony shouted, trying to get Major Hass to keep the nose on the target. When it faded he knew the nose was low.

  “Fifteen hundred. Pull!” Hass-man pulled for all he had, and his radar repeater finally showed a fire queue. He squeezed the trigger. Tracer rounds filled the sky, followed by an orange eruption. Debris banged off of the Black Widow as it departed controlled flight. Now in a full stall, the P-61 plummeted with the burning Zero to the black ocean. Blinded by the explosion, Hass-man simply let go of the controls, knowing the heavy fighter would point down and accelerate. Fumbling around the instrument panel, he finally found the thunderstorm lights and bathed the cockpit in bright white light.

  “You got it, Skipper?”

  “I got it.” Hass-man leveled the machine at one thousand feet and let it accelerate to 250 knots before starting a climb.

  “Okay Stoney, give me a vector back to Irish.”

  05:42 1 July, 1945 (20:42 GMT, 30JUN)

  Yokohama, Japan

  Dawn broke over Yokohama as it always does. As it always will. As if nothing unusual had happened the night before. Atsugi sat on top of two concrete steps that once led to his dojo. All that remained was ash. A car pulled up and stopped; its engine idled smoothly. Atsugi closed his eyes and let the rhythmic rotation pull him away. He imagined the crankshaft spinning at 700 revolutions per minute, eight rods connecting eight pistons. Each piston fed by sequencing valves that closed for compression and the ignition cycle that would drive the piston down on its power stroke. Another revolution sequenced the exhaust valve, and the cycles would continue. The cycles would continue …

  “Atsugi?” a soft voice hailed.

  He refused to surrender to reality, lost in the hypnotic churning of the engine. He sat motionless, the hair on the left side of his scalp as scorched as the tunic that hung in taters from his torso. A large gash over his eye had already coagulated.

  “Take the child from him.”

  He felt the weight of the dead child lifted from his lap. His mind remained unchanged, undisturbed, lost in the motor’s orderly sequence that he knew would run forever … until, like his city, the fuel was consumed. Finally, he opened his eyes to see the admiral’s aide gently examining his head wound.

  “Can I help you to the staff car, Commander?”

  He stood and took back the child, then placed him on the top step. He looked down on the boy for a long time. There was nothing left of his own family to mourn. Backing away slowly, he turned and met the admiral’s gaze.

/>   “Admiral-San, I will lead the attack on the East Coast of America.” His eyes burnt with the fury of the past night.

  “Very well. Get in, and we will discuss it at my quarters.”

  CHAPTER 21

  05:15 Local, 1 July, 1945 (21:15 GMT, 30JUN)

  USS Suwannee, Java Sea

  Twenty-four Hellcat propellers turned, twenty-four pilots prepared themselves for the coming fight. Behind them were nine Avengers. The air hummed with anticipation as adrenalin surged through every member of every flight crew. The entire wing was ready for the maximum effort. Kid Brennan was number one on the bow, positioned to be first to launch off the deck. He’d have a very short deck run and knew the position was reserved only for the best. He wanted to live, wanted to go home safe and sound to his wife and son, but now, at this point in the operation, he couldn’t think of them. He was locked in on the mission and getting off the deck. It was a zero sum game, pass or fail. Either the engine and propeller built enough end speed for him to fly, or it didn’t. Pass he flew, fail he crashed in the ocean and was run over by the boat.

  He had become such a part of his Hellcat that he didn’t even consider the flight control inputs that would be required to transition his crouching Hellcat to flight in such a short distance. A lit wand circled in the pre-dawn darkness in front of his left wing. Kid pressed hard on the foot brakes and ran his power up to thirty-six inches of manifold pressure. The R-2800-10W stabilized, and he checked his engine instruments. Good enough, he thought and saluted.

  Returning the salute, the flight deck officer touched the deck and ducked under Kid’s wing as he jammed the throttle to forty-eight inches of pressure and released the brakes. The three fat blades of the Hamilton Standard propeller dug into the humid air. Pressure from the massive propeller compressed the air and caused a cloud of vapor to form on the hub. As the RPM increased to maximum, the condensation trailed down the blades and off the tips swirling around the fuselage as the aircraft rolled forward.