Wingmen (9781310207280) (33 page)

It was easier
than he had anticipated. Even the enemy wing leader with the orange
band had shown a fatal ignorance when he tried to escape by diving.
And his two wingmen were obviously quite new, untrained. They
hadn’t been nearly as good as his own wingman—and, goddamn, had he
been
good.
He had executed the simple trap maneuver as if they had practiced
it specifically for this mission. Jack vowed to himself that when
they got back he would corner Fred and compliment him on his
flying….

“That was
terrific shooting there, Brad.”

“Jimbo got two
of the bastards. You should’ve seen it.”

“You all right,
Fritzi? I lost you in that last turn.”

The voices of
his scattered pilots reached Jack’s earphones and he waited for a
quiet moment. “All Banger aircraft rendezvous.” It irritated him to
lose control over the squadron like this, but it appeared as if
they had done the job they were supposed to do. No enemy planes
were in sight. Jack checked his instruments, his fuel, decided they
had maybe fifteen minutes of time remaining over the target. A mile
or so away a pair of Hellcats climbed through the clouds and headed
in their direction. Another one appeared by itself behind them. In
ten minutes they could be headed back for the ship.

“Banger Leader,
this is Turkey Trot, over.” The transmission surprised Jack
somewhat as it was the first time home base had communicated with
him since the launch nearly two hours ago.

“Turkey Trot,
this is Banger Leader. Go ahead.”

“Banger Leader,
we have a buddy down off the arrow head. Can you lend a hand?”

Jack looked
around at his arriving pilots. Seven or eight had shown up. He knew
they would have to postpone the rendezvous for a few minutes. The
first pair of Hellcats were quite close now, and he recognized
Brogan and Jacobs.

“That’s a
Roger, Turkey Trot. On my way.”

“Very well,
Banger. Give ’em hell.”

“Two Three,
this is Banger Leader.” Jack waggled his wings.

“That you,
Skipper?” Brogan circled in, joined up in a loose division
formation.

“Follow me
down, Two Three.”

“Roger Doger,”
said Brogan.

Jack pushed his
stick forward and the four fighters cut through the clouds.

The main island
of Wake was churning with activity. Gnatlike aircraft swooped and
circled; black spots of antiaircraft explosions dirtied the sky.
Dense, billowing clouds of black smoke poured up from burning
buildings and wrecked planes. Jack oriented himself, headed for the
southeast corner of the island. As they drew close, what was
happening there became apparent.

An Avenger was
down several hundred yards from the beach, the tail assembly and
one wing sticking crazily out of the water. Two survivors in tiny
rafts were rowing away from the wreck, followed at a distance by a
small, very Japanese, boat. Shells splashed in the sea; an
occasional airburst splattered handfuls of shrapnel around them.
Jack searched the beach and the foliage near the crash site and saw
a puff of smoke and flame from a concealed gun. Seconds later a
shell exploded in the air over the rafts. Jack took a deep breath.
He hated attacking gun installations like this. But the poor guys
down there needed the help. If they could get out of range of the
beach, they might even be picked up.

“Stand by for a
target,” Jack said.

“Ready when you
are,” said Brogan.

The four
fighters began a wide, sweeping turn out to sea. As they came
around, Jack saw two Hellcats make a run on the Japanese boat; the
splashes caused by their fifty-calibers washed over the small craft
and nearly obscured it.

“Take the
beach,” said Jack, “the first line of bushes there. Trusty and I
will take the big gun.”

“Roger Doger,”
said Brogan, and the two Hellcats pulled up loosely abreast of Jack
and Fred. Ahead of them the two fighters which had strafed the boat
circled out to sea; the boat was stopped. As they drew closer, Jack
noticed small waves breaking over the sides. The little deck house
was charred and blasted. Pulling his attention back to the beach,
he lined up the area of undergrowth where he had spotted the muzzle
blast of the gun. They were close. The breakers on the beach, then
the line of undergrowth swept under them, and Jack opened fire.

The tracers
disappeared into and were absorbed by the green, bushy trees. He
had thought the island was covered with jungle, but from up close
it was apparent that the foliage was not nearly so thick. Bare,
sandy places showed through quite clearly, and Jack saw a dark pit
nearly covered with sandbags and netting. The gun barrel protruded
over the top edge of the sandbags. A clump of branches and leaves
was fastened to the snout. The bullets from his guns churned the
sand into a haze, tossed up bits of greenery and chunks of wood,
sparkled like fireflies on the metal of the gun.

Then they were
over it, crossing the surf and tearing back over the blue ocean.
Jack pulled up slightly and began a turn to the left. Glancing
back, he caught sight of the three Hellcats that had made the run
with him, still in line abreast. Brogan and Jacobs were slightly
ahead.

“You see who
that was?” asked Brogan.

“What do you
mean?”

“That Turkey
down on the reef. Plane number double-oh. It’s the head
honcho.”

Jack felt a
strange feeling deep down in his body. “Sure it’s not from another
group?”

“Sure as
shooting, Banger Leader. It’s him all right.”

The four
fighters completed a great circle and headed back toward the
island. The gun they had attacked fired again, and the shell
exploded out over the water. CAG or not, they still needed help. It
was something they had to do.

“Go around one
more time,” Jack said. “Break off into singles and go in one at a
time. Get that gun. Trusty, you follow me.” They went around again,
tighter this time, Jack feeling driven to get the job done. He knew
without checking they could afford to spend only a few more minutes
in the area before they had to head for home. This run would have
to do the job. Jack watched Jacobs break off first and begin his
run. Seconds later Brogan followed him. Then it was Jack’s turn; as
he lined up the target once more, the first Hellcat was already
shooting and pulling up.

They were
crossing the island from the lagoon side this time and would sweep
over the gun first, then the surf, and finally the Avenger. As he
centered the gun in his sights, he noticed Brogan’s fighter swerve
to the right sharply, gunsmoke trailing from the wings. Something
was wrong.

“Holy Christ.”
It was Brogan. “There’s another—”

A black puff of
smoke burst under the right wing of the blue aircraft, then another
burst just ahead of it. Before Jack could look away, the Hellcat
flipped over on its back and dove into the beach with a sickening
explosion of orange flame and smoke. Another gun. Jack watched the
first target hurrying toward him and knew there wasn’t time to
switch. He squeezed the trigger and thought,
If there’s another, maybe it’ll get
me, too. It’s too late to do anything about it.

Something
jarred the Hellcat, pushing it up and to the left. Then he was over
the surf. The Avenger passed below him. He looked back at the death
site of Brogan. Then noticed vaguely that the end of his right wing
was shredded and broken, but he was shocked and numbed by seeing
Brogan going in; thinking was difficult. Almost automatically, he
began a right turn that would allow Trusteau to catch up and also
give him a better view of the beach. Below, the two tiny figures in
the rafts were moving further out to sea, almost out of range of
the gun. Their frantically flailing shapes might have been funny,
but Jack could not laugh. Something bright, something wrong,
fluttered through the edge of his vision. It was Trusteau. His
aircraft was on fire.

The first
explosion filled the cockpit with smoke and rattled Fred’s
instruments the way heavy turbulence did. Before they could settle,
there was another explosion, jarring the stick from his grip and
heaving him against the straps. He suddenly realized that he
couldn’t see very well; the smoke was too thick. Without thinking
he reached up, unlatched the canopy, and slid it halfway open. The
wind whipped the smoke away and he could see again. What he saw was
that he was already past the island and heading out to sea. He
tried to remember where he had seen the skipper’s plane last. He
was beginning a right turn when the last explosion came.

The sound of it
was a dull
whump.
It buffeted the Hellcat up and down and sent
more smoke pouring into the cockpit from somewhere under his feet.
When it was over, he straightened out and trimmed the aircraft,
feeling carefully for any unusual responses in the controls.
Everything seemed all right at first, but then Fred looked up and
around, and then down, and saw the flames. They were coming from
beneath his right wing and trailing out of his line of vision to
the rear. Various things flashed through his mind: the skipper, the
ship, the sub. He knew he would have to ditch—and do it quickly.
Already the controls felt sluggish. He was momentarily glad he had
trimmed the aircraft seconds before and was already so low to the
water. He had time to look around him once, but he saw nothing, not
even the island, before his sinking plane touched the crest of a
wave. He fought to keep control, to keep the nose up, but was only
partly successful. Before he was ready, the Hellcat hit again. This
time it plunged to a stop and was deluged by sea water. Smoke and
steam hissed up through the cockpit as Fred unlatched his straps.
He left the parachute behind, grabbed the seat cushion, and stepped
from the cockpit to the wing root.

The nose of the
Hellcat was low in the water. The wings were beginning to go under
as Fred walked to the end of one of them and stepped into the sea.
It was quite warm at first, so he relaxed a little and pulled the
ring on his Mae West. Reassuringly it fluffed into a bulky plastic
vest, and he bobbed up like a cork. Then he found the controls on
the seat cushion and inflated the life raft. It, too, blew itself
up with a gratifying rush of compressed air. He struggled into
it.

He looked
around. Number thirteen was gone; not even a cloud of smoke
remained to mark its passing.

The sound of
distant engines caused Fred to look up. Two fighters circled high
above him. As he watched, one peeled off and came closer, lowering
flaps to slow down. It drifted directly overhead. It was the
skipper. Fred raised his hand and waved. The Hellcat passed and
began climbing. Soon it was out of sight. Fred felt moisture on his
face and wonderingly removed his glove to wipe it away. It came
from his eyes. He was crying.

Jack raised his
flaps and increased throttle to take him and Jacobs up and away
from the crash site. Seeing Fred climb from the sinking plane had
been momentary but small comfort. He was still a hundred miles from
the carrier. Jack signaled Jacobs to join up on him, and the two
fighters circled in toward the beach where Brogan’s wreck burned
and CAG paddled furiously toward the open sea. Jack’s mind was
churning. He felt lightheaded, almost nauseous. He wanted to kill
something.

Ignoring his
temporary wingman, Jack wheeled and headed for the beach where
CAG’s Avenger still protruded from the waves. He spotted the two
rafts and their occupants below him and he passed over them at a
scant hundred feet in altitude. The beach loomed in front of him,
but the danger from the hidden enemy could not touch him. Halfway
between the rafts and the beach he turned again without decreasing
speed; it was a great up-and-over course reversal that pushed him
against the straps first one way, then the other. He leveled out,
found the rafts, swept down low, and centered them in his
gunsight.