Strike Force Red

by C T Glatte

  The thrill of the kill was short-lived. She swiveled her head, searching for Lt. Ski’s plane, but it was impossible to distinguish one from another. P-51s tangled with Russian fighters everywhere. A sudden explosion off her right wing got her attention and she saw a plummeting Russian fighter engulfed in flames. She pulled hard left, swiveling her head looking for new targets. She suddenly heard radio chatter and realized it had been there all along, but her mind had sifted the distraction out as she concentrated on killing her target.

  Now she listened. There was a panicked voice, “I can’t shake him, I can’t shake him!” MaryAnn swiveled and saw a Mustang wildly swinging side to side, trying to shake two Russian fighters. She snapped tigress toward the fight and went to full power. She gave her instruments a glance, all good, then streaked toward the fight. She was behind the two Russians. She saw the lead plane fire streaking tracers, narrowly missing the Mustang. She had to make this quick, her comrade had seconds to live. She rolled, bringing herself into a better position.

  She was closing the distance, the Russians having to slow down in order to stay on the gyrating P-51. She concentrated on her pipper, bringing the closest fighter into view. She strained to see the Mustang’s call sign, but couldn’t, so she radioed, “Pilot trying to lose the two fighters, I’m coming up behind. Need you to turn hard left on my signal.”

  “I can’t shake them,” MaryAnn could hear the raw panic in the pilot’s voice and she suddenly recognized it was Lt. Withers, call sign snake.

  MaryAnn wanted to take the shot, but she knew she’d likely shoot Mandy’s plane down in the process. “Snake, break left now!”

  Lieutenant Wither’s training broke through her fear and she snapped her fighter left and dove. The Russian’s mimicked her move, but now Mandy was clear and MaryAnn depressed the trigger and held it down. Her bullets shredded the nearest fighter and he spun out of control. She continued firing, putting her shots onto the lead Russian. She saw a chunk of fuselage break off and tumble away. The Russian fighter pulled straight up and gained speed.

  MaryAnn matched his climb, grunting with the sudden G-load. She desperately tried to line him up, but he scissored first left then right. MaryAnn couldn’t line up the shot and the fighter was pulling away, despite flying straight up. Her controls were getting mushy and she could sense her fighter was about to stall, so she pulled the stick into her gut, looping and turning her Mustang back toward Mother Earth. As her speed increased, she pulled the throttle back and felt her controls getting tighter.

  She whirled around and saw the Russian fighter was just coming around to follow her. She felt fear lance through her body. Oh shit. She pushed the throttle and picked up speed, still diving. She used her small mirrors and saw the Russian coming fast. Her altimeter unwound at an alarming rate. When she passed through five-thousand, she pulled back on the stick and grunted through another G-load.

  The Russian’s speed was too much and he flashed past her. MaryAnn flipped her mustang onto its back and pulled, reversing her direction but losing elevation. Now she was heading directly at the Russian, who’d pulled out of his dive. The enemy fighter grew large in her windscreen her K-14 pipper finally adjusted and centered. She thumbed the trigger but didn’t have time to fire. She broke hard left and prayed the Russian had the good sense to do the same.

  She involuntarily closed her eyes and when there wasn’t a shattering crash, reopened them and looked in her mirrors. She saw a smudge of black smoke. What the hell? She turned her mustang hard and confirmed the burning fighter streaking toward the ocean. She wondered what happened but didn’t have time to dwell on it.

  Over the radio Snake’s business as usual voice, “Thanks for the help, Tigress.”

  MaryAnn searched the sky and could see contrails and sooty streaks and the occasional flash of a silver mustang or of Russian glass. She pulled up into a steady climb. In her mirror she caught a flash of silver and noticed a Mustang on her tail. She grinned beneath her mask and waggled her wings, “that you, Snake?” She slowed and the fighter pulled up alongside her and she was thrilled to see her wingman giving her the thumbs up. MaryAnn radioed, “Thought I lost you somewhere along the way.” Ski shook her head and gave the signal that her radio was out. MaryAnn nodded and gave her the thumbs up. She realized what must’ve happened to the Russian she saw spiraling to its death. Chalk one up for Ski.

  They continued to climb and Ski pulled further away allowing MaryAnn to keep on eye on her tail while she kept on eye on hers. MaryAnn scanned the sky seeing multiple fighters but nothing close enough to attack.

  She scanned behind her, then over her instruments. She had plenty of fuel, oil pressure was good, everything checked out. She thought about her ammunition and thought she must have over half left. The radio was mostly silent, only the occasional chatter.

  It seemed the fur-ball had either dispersed or she was too far away. She pulled through fifteen-thousand and leveled out. She looked at Ski and saw her frantically waving trying to get her attention. When she saw she had it, Ski pointed down with emphasis. MaryAnn looked and saw five streaking dots, heading due east. She signaled she’d seen them and pulled her goggles back over her eyes and took a deep breath. Ski slid back to protect MaryAnn’s tail. With one final glance at her instruments she reacquired the fighters and thought, two versus five, not great odds.

  Tigress and Ski were in a perfect attack position, above and behind and they’d be coming from the sun. MaryAnn pushed the throttles and dove toward her unsespecting prey. She saw Ski in her mirrors following and moving off in order to get her own shot. She wished she could relay her plan, hit and run, but she had no way of telling her without the radio. Ski had stayed on her tail through the twisting turning dogfight before and she hoped she’d do the same on this attack. MaryAnn had no intention of sticking around after her initial attack.

  She watched her airspeed increase and her altitude drop. The little light on her K-14 sight was hardly needed. She lined up on the lead plane. It was dark green and she could clearly see the red Korth symbol on the right wing and the smaller soviet red star beside it. The enemy fighter grew in her windscreen and she held her thumb over the trigger, ready to fire her six fifty-caliber Browning machine guns. She placed the glowing pipper on the fuselage and waited until the fighter seemed to be close enough to touch. She mashed the trigger and and watched the plane disintegrate as armor piercing and incendiary shells slammed home.

  She flipped her mustang onto its back and pulled the stick into her gut until she was flying 180 degrees the opposite direction. Her speed was in the redzone, 450mph, but she kept the throttle pegged, hoping she’d be gone so fast the Russians wouldn’t know what hit them. She trimmed the plane and checked her mirrors but she couldn’t see well enough so she twisted around and looked out the back of the bubble screen. She could see the black splotch, marking her kill, but she couldn’t see any pursuing fighters. The momentary rush of getting away with it, vanished when she saw Ski’s mustang high above. Shit, she’s fighting the rest of them.

  Without another thought she pulled up in a graceful half loop. At the top, she righted her plane and was headed in the opposite direction, back toward the fight. She’d gained five-hundred feet of altitude but her airspeed had dropped by more than half. With full throttle, she was quickly gaining speed, so she angled upwards, climbing toward Ski, who was desperately trying to keep the Russians from getting a shot. MaryAnn only saw three Russians. Ski must’ve gotten her second kill. She gritted her teeth, pushing her machine hard, not wanting to be too late to help her wingman escape.

  Once again she had the advantage. The Russians had lost sight of her, if they’d ever seen her and she was approaching from below and behind. Ski’s mustang bucked side to side, throwing off the Russian’s aim but also slowing them down and keeping them focused ahead and not on their tails. She picked out the closest fighter. He was matching his own wingman’s gyrating aircraft, not paying attention to his exposed rear.

&nb
sp; MaryAnn radioed Ski, in case she could receive but not send, “Ski, I’m coming up behind them, hang in there.” The fighter grew large in her windscreen, she waited another few seconds, closing the gap, being sure of her shot. When there was nothing but green fighter in her view, she mashed the trigger. She couldn’t miss at this range and she watched the fighter spark and come apart. It went into a spin, trailing smoke and fire and plunged down and out of view.

  Finally noticing her, The rest of the Russians pulled straight up, rocketing away. MaryAnn watched them and knew from experience she wouldn’t be able to keep up. She kept her throttle pegged and chased after Ski. “Ski, I got them off you for the time being, but we gotta get outta here. If you can hear me waggle your wings.” Ski’s mustang stopped gyrating side to side, flew straight then waggled side to side. “Oh thank God,” MaryAnn muttered to herself. Then she keyed the radio, “I narrowed the odds, but we gotta get outta here, I’m getting low on ammunition. Maintain this course, and we’ll be over the mainland soon.”

  MaryAnn swiveled, searching for the enemy fighters but she couldn’t see them. She wished she could duck into a cloud bank, but there was nothing close. She loosened her distance from Ski’s mustang so they could watch each other’s tail. She kept a close watch on her gauges, knowing she was pushing her machine hard. The image of her crew chief, Sergeant Callahan scolding her for abusing ‘her’ mustang made her smile beneath her oxygen mask.

  The thought was shattered when there a bright flash from the left. She swiveled and saw the terrified face of 2nd Lieutenant Ski’s face looking back. Her mustang seemed to sparkle with bullet impacts then the engine cowling erupted in fire and swept over the cockpit. She saw Ski thrashing and struggling and then her plane plunged out of sight.

  MaryAnn turned to follow and as she did tennis ball sized tracer rounds barely missed her right wing. She cringed in her seat and pulled into a tight diving left turn. She caught a glimpse of Ski’s plane engulfed in flame and knew there was no chance she’d had time to bail out. The thought chilled her, but she didn’t have time to mourn. More near misses off her right wing filled her with urgency.

  She fought against the mounting g-load as she pulled into a tighter turn. She craned her neck, searching for her foe, but the strain was too much. She knew any second she’d feel the impacts of the Russian bullets slicing through her body.

  She pointed her nose straight down, relieving the g-load. She watched her airspeed moving past 450mph and into the red-zone. The sparkling sea was still a long ways off, but getting closer. She caught a glimpse of the pursuing fighter in her mirrors. He’s close. She pushed the stick left and her mustang flipped 90 degrees. She pulled the throttle back, and hoped the wings didn’t come off as she pulled back with everything she had. Nothing happened, the mustang continued straight toward the waiting sea. She strained and felt every muscle in her body screaming. She reached down with her left hand, keeping back pressure with her right and rotated the trim tab all the way back.

  She felt the mustang start to respond, but she knew it was going to be very close. She wondered if she’d feel anything when she hit the ocean. She hoped not, the thought of drowning terrified her. She felt as though her arm muscles would tear off the bones as she pulled with everything she had. She glanced into her mirror and couldn’t see the enemy fighter. Did he pull out?

  As the mustang slowly reacted to the controls, the g-load threatened to crush her. She grunted and squeezed, trying to keep the blood in her head. If she blacked out now, it would be over. Her vision dimmed, the bright day seeming to suddenly become dark and ominous. She felt as though she were entering an alternate world and her blood deprived brain ran with the idea.

  Her hands and arms were still pulling with every ounce of strength she had, but the pain and strain seemed to dissipate and then the darkness swept over her. Suddenly she wasn’t in the cockpit of the tigress but back on the front step of her home watching Jimmy Crandall play catch with Hank Gugliani. Jimmy looked over his shoulder at her and smiled. She smiled back but was confused by his words, “Fly the plane, MaryAnn. Fly the plane.” The scene dissipated as though a heavy fog suddenly appeared.

  Her dark world slowly lightened. She snapped her eyes open and took a desperate breath, feeling the blood and oxygen fill her brain. Diamonds of every color danced in her eyes but through it she could see the ocean only feet away. Her situation flooded back and she tried to take in all the sensory information at once. She was overwhelmed and for an instant she froze. The stick gyrated back and forth and her eyes widened. She clutched it with both hands like it was the most important thing in the world and slowly pulled it back. Tigress reacted and pulled away from the blue sea only feet away. Oh my God, I passed out!

  She suddenly remembered the Russian fighters. She whirled around, searching but saw nothing but blue sky. Behind her she saw the disturbed sea where her plane had skimmed the water. A wave of fear swept through her as she realized how close she’d come to dying. She leveled out at 300 feet and looked over her instruments. Everything was still okay, but her oil pressure was down slightly. She looked at the compass and realized she was heading away from the mainland, streaking at 380mph directly toward the enemy fleet. She wondered how long she’d been out.

  She turned left until she was heading due east, then leveled her wings and started a slow climb. She leveled off at 2000 feet. Suddenly there was an impossibly loud thumping coming from her left wing. She looked and saw a number of large holes, streaming gas. Her brain was still foggy and she couldn’t decide what caused it, then she caught the glimpse of green in her mirror and knew she was about to die.

  Her mustang absorbed more impacts and she felt as though she were riding a mortally wounded steed. The controls went mushy in her hands and she knew she only had seconds. The steady hum of her Merlin engine suddenly went rough and black smoke started streaming from the cowling. I’ve gotta get out of here. The thought of bailing out terrified her, but her training took over and she unlatched the canopy. She noticed there was a large hole in the plexiglass and she wondered when that had happened.

  The air was like a tornado. She didn’t remember unbuckling her harness, or unhooking her oxygen and radio. She pulled her feet off the rudder pedals, and simply leaped. She glimpsed the silver tail with the pink stripe as it flashed past only inches from her helmeted head. Then she was falling, tumbling through space. She instinctively reached for the pull chord and the next thing she knew there was a harsh snap, then she was floating toward the blue sea. She felt as though she were watching herself from far away, as though watching a movie in a theater. She didn’t think it would end well for the main character.

  Fourteen

  Captain Vannt’s three bejeweled toes clicked on the wood floor as he paced at the head of the table. It was the only sound and it was having the desired effect on the delegates and especially the three Russians sitting at the far end of the table.

  Josef Stalin started to speak but was cut off abruptly with a withering glare he felt in the back of his head, like a needle had pierced his skull. He winced but tried not to show pain.

  Captain Vannt stopped pacing, gripped the back of the oversized chair with his four hands and leaned his eight-foot frame forward. Stalin and his two generals tried to maintain Vannt’s stare but it was physically painful and they were forced to lower their gazes. Vannt touched the green emerald-like medallion embedded in the side of his elongated neck and it glowed softly. The clicks and hums of his language were instantly translated into whatever Earth language was needed.

  All the delegates from the occupied lands were represented, China, Germany, Scandinavia, Africa and Russia. Russia was the object of the meeting and Captain Vannt spoke directly to them. “Your invasion of North America isn’t sticking to the timeline you promised. You are behind schedule by a full three days. Explain.”

  Stalin twisted the ends of his bushy mustache and stood. General Polst, in charge of his Army and General Putra in charge of hi
s Air Force and Navy, stayed seated. Stalin touched the translator embedded in his neck for the sake of the others at the table. “Thank you for this meeting, your excellency,” he dropped his eyes until he felt an impulse in the back of his head, telling him he could continue. He nodded and raised his eyes. The other representatives looked on like feral dogs, glad not to be the object of discussion, but eager to see Stalin squirm. “It is true, our forces have stalled in the last couple of days. The Americans reacted quicker than we thought they would and reinforced their troops with three full mechanized divisions. They have momentarily stopped our advance just outside of Anchorage Alaska.” He gestured toward General Polst sitting to his right, “General Polst has assured me his forces will break through within the next two days and push the Americans into the sea.”

  General Polst felt the urging in the back of his head and he stood clumsily, nearly knocking the chair over. He touched his translator and brought his eyes up, but only to Vannt’s chest. “Excellency, our forces are consolidating on the front, massing for a full assault. The initial battle was only the forward elements of our full force. Once all my divisions are in place, we’ll roll over them easily, especially when General Putra’s carrier group arrives in Anchorage and stops any more reinforcements.”

  General Putra glared at Polst but felt the compulsion to address Vannt. He stood, straightened his lapel and touched his translator. “My carrier group is four-hundred miles from Anchorage. We’ve been hampered by attacks from the American mainland, but continue to steam north.”