Wingmen (9781310207280) (41 page)

Fred heard the
vector report and knew then that they would have to land after
dark. The skipper would never refuse an interception if there were
even a slim chance of making it. Night operations had never been
pushed on the new pilots, although the older squadron members
talked of flying at night before the war. Would they turn on the
lights and risk giving away the position of the ship to enemy
snoopers and subs? They wouldn’t just leave two pilots up there in
the dark to fly until they ran out of fuel….Or would they? Fred
pushed those thoughts from his mind and concentrated on the mission
at hand. He was mildly excited, although he didn’t expect anything
to come of the vector. After all, if they couldn’t find the bogey,
the bogey probably couldn’t find the task group. It sounded
simple.

Checking his
instruments, Fred figured he had enough fuel for maybe a half-hour
of fast flying. The engine was running smoothly, all indicators in
the green. The skipper was plainly visible in the gathering dusk,
but ahead and below lay only darkness. He touched his throat
mike.

“See anything,
Banger One?” he asked.

“Nothing yet.
But hang in there. We may see some action yet.”

“Righto,
Leader.” The words did nothing to cheer Fred. He didn’t want a
fight in the dark and a night landing. He remembered the words of
Brogan. “Nothing will happen to you ’cause you fly wing on the old
man and nothing ever happens to him.” He hoped Brogan was
right.

The engine
droned away. It got darker. Directly in front of him the
constellation Orion hovered over the horizon, only the brightest
stars in it showing. They were five minutes away from the original
vector report now, and nothing had appeared. It was a dud—a false
radar image most likely. Fred relaxed. Then something moved in the
corner of his eye.

It was an
aircraft. Black. Low to the water, almost invisible in the
darkness. Fred banked to the right to get a better look, assured
himself that it wasn’t an illusion, and went into a steep
right-hand turn to follow. His hand tried to reach the throat mike
but the heavy g forces plastered it to the side of the cockpit
until he leveled out. He found the mike and talked. “Tallyho.
Bandit in sight.”

The western sky
was before him now. There was still a trace of light. The plane had
disappeared into the gloom, flying toward the task group. He was
sure it was a plane, even though he had seen it for only a second.
It had to be here.

Fred pushed the
stick over and went down, knowing that if he went lower than the
unidentified plane, it would show up, outlined against the lighter
sky. He searched until his eyes ached from the strain and
concentration. He heard the skipper calling him. He was about to
answer when suddenly there it was, right in front of him,
silhouetted against the gray sky.

Single engine,
low wing. A Kate. A torpedo bomber. Fred checked his guns and found
them unarmed, flicked the switches that charged them. The electric
sight ring sprang to life. It was so bright it momentarily blinded
him, but he found the dimmer knob and turned it all the way down.
The Kate was still in front of him.

His heart
pounded in his ears. He was approaching the enemy bomber from its
right side. He was level with it and slightly to the rear. He eased
the throttle all the way to the stop and watched the target fill
the sight ring. He flew the Hellcat now as if it were a part of
himself, an extension of his body. The stick and trigger were
molded to his right hand, the rudder pedals extensions of his feet.
He thought:
Bank
slightly to the right and come in behind him
. The Hellcat
did just that. The target filled the outer ring. Fred squeezed the
trigger.

The tracers
blazed through the night sky. He hardly noticed the vibration of
the guns. Fred edged the fighter’s nose down and to the left and
watched the tracers appear to pass ahead of the target. A piece of
debris detached itself from the Kate and tumbled back over his
head. Now the Kate’s right wing sank downward, the left went up,
and the bomber began to slide toward the water. Fred was about to
follow when something else caught his attention.

A small bright
flame had sprung to life in the darkness in front of him. But it
wasn’t the first bomber. It was a second.

Suddenly the
first Kate burst into ragged flame, rolled over on its back, and
headed down. Unbelievingly, Fred continued toward the little flame
and there—yes—there was not one, but two more Kate torpedo bombers.
Fred’s Hellcat devoured the distance to the two bombers.

He was still
trying to comprehend how his gunfire had reached out and
accidentally hit a second target when something sounded in his
ears. It was the skipper’s voice, distant and far away. But Fred
couldn’t answer. He was far too busy.

The little
flame had grown, and Fred saw that it was coming from the right
wing of one of the Kates. The target filled his sight ring.
They’re making no
effort to escape
, he thought.
Why?
His finger depressed the trigger
button. Again the tracers arched out through the night, splitting
the darkness like Fourth of July fireworks, but far more deadly.
They found the enemy bomber. Fred was almost directly behind the
doomed plane, holding the trigger down. A puff of orange flame. The
Kate slanted to the right like the other one had, and Fred followed
it, still firing.

The Kate’s
right wing dipped low now, and something very strange happened. It
touched something. The water. They were at zero altitude and Fred
had not even known. He pulled back on the stick violently as the
enemy plane went in, the right wing digging in, the left coming
over, cartwheeling, exploding into a cloud of bright flames that
briefly reached out for Fred’s Hellcat but were quickly left
behind.

Another enemy
plane still was loose in front of him. Fred kicked left rudder and
pushed the stick over to take him back to where he had last seen
the Kate. He found it with no trouble.

It couldn’t
have been more than fifty feet from the white-flecked surface of
the ocean. As with the first two, Fred approached from the right
side aft, level. The sky was completely dark now, but there was no
need for light. The third and final victim lay before him.
Mechanically, swiftly, Fred closed until he could see the plane
clearly. It turned to the left. Fred followed; his speed was
obviously much higher because he continued to gain even after the
turn. The Kate turned back to the right, closer to the guns that
would tear it to pieces. Fred concentrated. He did not even see
when the enemy fired back.

His first
indication that the Kate was returning fire was an incredible
whanging crash that threw his head back into the rest and nearly
tore the stick from his hand. Then he saw them: dim, round tracers
that seemed to float motionless in front of him until he flew under
them. Then they soared overhead, snatched quickly out of sight.
Regaining control, Fred felt and heard a horrible rush of cold air,
like a hundred singing voices, surging around his face. His goggles
were up, so he pulled them down in a single logical movement, and
he could see again. The sight ring still glowed; the trigger was
still beneath his index finger. And suddenly Fred was mad. Every
Japanese bullet that was fired at him seemed to find his plane, and
if they were going to get him, by God he would take a few of them
with him. He centered the target in the sight ring and prepared to
fire.

A huge black
object bounded out of the night and passed below them. Ships. They
were over the task group. Fred jinxed quickly to the right to avoid
a destroyer, then back to the left, closed to pointblank range, and
gunned the enemy Kate from the sky.

An irrational
urge to see what was happening drove Duane Higgins out of the
claustrophobic confines of Ready Room One and made him hurry
through the hangar deck to the aft starboard gallery deck. Once
there, he pushed his way through the silent ammunition carriers and
gun crews until he could stand at the edge of the deck, lean on the
life line, and stare out to sea. But there was nothing to see or
hear, only the hissing of water far below and the dark shapes of
escorting ships. A phone talker murmured something aloud, but Duane
couldn’t make out what he said. Suddenly the forty-millimeter gun
mount next to him whined and buzzed and rotated until its twin
barrels were leveled out to sea.

Duane strained
to detect something, anything. He knew only that the skipper and
Trusteau were still up and had been vectored onto an approaching
bogey that had since disappeared from the screens. The ship was
buttoned up for general quarters and he knew he shouldn’t be here,
away from his station in the ready room. But they wouldn’t launch
more fighters after dark.

Suddenly a
bright orange light popped into being, arched downward, and flared
quickly into a raging, faraway fire. Someone, something had gone
in. Eager voices murmured about the crashing plane. The darkness
was almost complete now. Duane despaired of seeing more. He was
about to turn and leave when another flaming aircraft became
visible, and then another, further out. It was chilling. Someone
out there was having a field day. The second flamer sailed into the
sea several miles away, bounced crazily, and crashed again. A quiet
cheer went up from the sailors in the gallery deck. Duane gripped
the life line until his hands hurt. Suddenly another blossom of
flame exploded in the darkness out to sea, closer than the last,
and immediately went out. Four flamers. Duane stared in disbelief,
eager for more. He got it.

“There,”
someone said, “I got him. Holy Jesus.”

“Stand by,
stand by,” said a calm voice. The gun mount whined and the barrels
elevated, following something that Duane couldn’t see. Then he
heard it, faint at first, then gathering volume. He knew it was an
aircraft. No, not one. Two. A dark shape screamed out of the
darkness. While it was still two hundred yards away it began to
burn: Yellow streamers of fire shot out into the blackness. Behind
came a Hellcat, guns chattering, engine howling at full power. The
two planes snarled overhead, and the men around Duane instinctively
ducked. As the first plane passed over them, barely clearing the
flight deck, it exploded with a roar and a flash that lighted up
the gallery deck like daylight. Then it disappeared from sight on
the far side of the ship.

Duane stood and
gawked, flabbergasted. To have been this close to the violence of a
downed enemy plane left him breathless. He knew that the Hellcat,
now yammering away into the darkness, had to have been the skipper.
Only the skipper could have flown like that, followed the enemy
plane right into the guns of the task force, to bring it down in
plain view of the entire ship. It was thrilling, fantastic. Awed,
Duane stood there and watched for more action, but there was
none.

The ships of
the force plowed on as though nothing had happened. A sliver of
moon was just rising over the eastern horizon. The gun crew
shuffled and stamped in the dark, eager, expectant, unknowing. The
tension mounted for five minutes. Then Duane realized that they
were still up there in the dark, and would be trying to land. He
could learn nothing from down here.

Leaving the gun
deck, he made his way through the hangar to the island, and then
went up through the hatches and ladders to Primary Flight Control.
When he entered Pri-Fly, he saw men huddled anxiously over radar
repeaters and radio gear; then he heard the calm, almost playful
voices of the two who were in deep trouble.

“Banger Leader,
assume a heading of two seven zero.”

“Roger,
Rooster. How’s that?”

“Perfect. One
Four, assume a heading of zero niner zero.”

“Roger, Rooster
Base. I am coming to zero niner zero at this time.”

“Very good.
Banger Leader, One Four, our scopes are clear at this time except
for you two. However, we do recommend that you keep IFF operating
until you’re aboard.”

“Good idea,
Rooster.”

“Thank you,
Banger Leader. Thought of it myself. May we also suggest that you
rendezvous outside of the group and come in together. All ships
have been warned of your situation.”

“Sounds fine to
me, Rooster. Trusty, where’d you go back there?”

“Here and
there, Skipper. I just wish I knew where I was right now.”

“Banger Leader,
you bear zero one zero from our position at this time. One Four, we
have you three miles from Banger Leader on an approximate heading
of two seven zero. How is your fuel situation, gentlemen?”

“As well as can
be expected, Rooster. How about you, Trusty?”

“Enough for a
pass or two, if it’s within the next ten minutes.”