A strong, cool wind blew down from the northwest on an otherwise unseasonably warm December morning. To the east the sky glowed red-orange with the coming of the rising sun, shining a dull orange on the remnants of the past week's snowfall. The beauty of the winter's morning betrayed the carnage that was to come.
I ran my gloved hand along the smooth metal skin of Hogan's Goat as I performed my walk-around. She was a thing of beauty to be sure: a Technowizard-modified B-17 Flying Fortress with a natural metal finish and bright red and yellow detailing that gleamed like a gem in the morning light. All this glimmer wouldn't matter when she was cloaked under a spell of invisibility, however. Once, thousands of these beasts clouded the skies. Now only a few crazy old Technowizards like myself found a reason to still fly them.
Sargent Joe Jacobsen, the little, round Crew Chief of the Goat, was in the process of servicing her as I approached. "How's she doing today, Joe?" I asked him.
"She's doin' purty good, sir," Joe responded, the wad of snuff in his lower lip slurring his speech slightly. "Most'a the holes've been patched, all fluids up to snuff, an' her magic reservoir's topped off. The shields, ejectors, an' other new equipment is checking out good, too. She's as good as new, if not better, sir."
"Glad to hear it, Joe," I replied, giving him a good pat on the back before continuing my walk-around.
As for myself, I am Colonel Lance 'Hooligan' Andrews, commanding officer and co-founder of Mad Dog squadron: a group of misfit Technowizard aviators just crazy enough to build magically-powered ancient propeller-driven aircraft and actually fly them into combat against the might of the Coalition war machine. Primarily concerned with smuggling things to and from Coalition territory, the recent Coalition siege of the magic kingdom of Tolkeen has given the Mad Dogs a reason to get a little more "up-front" in our dealings with the "Coalies".
Don't get me wrong, I'm no fan of the Tolkeen hierarchy, bunch of corrupt tyrants little better than the Coalition if you ask me (and they're certainly no fans of mine either). However, Tolkeen doesn't execute mages like myself on sight the way the Coalition does. Given the choice between two evils I invariably chose the lesser of the two. Besides, Tolkeen makes a good staging area for the Mad Dogs' smuggling raids and I'd hate to lose it.
With the current stalemate of the last year or so our mission has become one of recon and intelligence. We investigate Coalie positions and plans and distribute them (for a fee, of course; gotta pay the bills) to the various forces and mercenary organizations engaged on the Tolkeen side of the conflict. We also smuggle spies to and from Coalition territory and occasionally (like on today's mission) we even drop a little "hot love" on the Coalies in bombing raids, just to keep 'em honest. Today's mission, however, is special: a Christmas surprise for a certain forward interceptor base. A few weeks ago, during a routine recon mission, a couple of their fighters caught us in the open by surprise. Two Mad Dogs were lost in the ensuing conflict including Benjamin "Bert" Ernie, my tail-gunner, and Col. Alex "Albatross" Crane, my friend since Technowizard School and co-founder of the Mad Dogs. Today, we pay the Coalie bastards back, with interest.
After making my way around the Goat checking for leaks, loose hardware, or other potential flight hazards I gave one last pat on her nose art (for "good luck") before grabbing the edge of the small forward entry hatch and hoisting myself in. Once inside the entry hatch it was close quarters; these beasts were made for war, not comfort. The entry hatch led directly into the crawlspace below the pilots' seats. To the front of the crawlspace was the nose section where Spike the bombardier and Spook the navigator worked while to the rear was the pilots' compartment.
Lieutenant First Class Spike, the bombardier, is a fugitive Coalition 'dog boy' of the wolf variety. He not only has full human color vision but, due to a chance in the genetic engineering that created him, has superhuman vision as well; as good as an eagle's. This makes him damned effective with the Goat's 'Mystic Norden' bombsight, which he was in the process of giving an operational checkout. The Mystic Norden bombsight, brainchild of poor old Albatross (may he rest in peace), is a technologically and magically enhanced version of the famous Norden bombsight used in the original B-17. In addition to superior visual sighting the Mystic Norden utilizes integrated laser, infrared, and magical targeting systems that are visually and telepathically linked to the bombardier for real-time analysis of the target area. The ancient designers of the original Norden claimed their bombsight could drop a bomb into a pickle barrel from 10,000 feet, an exaggeration at best. With our "Mystic" version that claim is a lot more realistic. In fact, I might bet on dropping one in that barrel with our Mystic Norden from 30,000 feet! On this mission, however, it was doubtful Spike would need that kind of accuracy.
Charlie "Spook" Spencer, the navigator, was in the process of running up and programming the Goat's navigational equipment. As a Psi-Sensitive with an intuitive sense of danger, Spook had warned me not to go ahead with the last mission; I should have taken his advice. Ever since he was a kid he has been able to see spirits and apparitions of all sorts As a result he is jumpy and nervous, "spooking" at the slightest provocation. These nervous tendencies, in addition to his pasty-white skin, earned him his nickname. In addition to standard navigational avionics the Goat's navigational equipment features a Technowizard direction finder created using, among other spells, a "magic pigeon" spell. The spell's flawless 'homing' abilities all but guaranteed faultless navigation. However, like all pilots and navigators in the Mad Dogs, Spook is trained in old-fashioned 'dead reckoning' navigation as well, just in case the equipment is damaged.
I gave Spike and Spook a quick wave before sliding myself backward through the crawlspace and into the small recess that held the cockpit and the top turret. Once on my feet I greeted Genghis, who was in the turret, with a slap on the shoulder. "Morning, sir," he said, looking up from checking out the guns, sights, and motors of the turret. Sargent Thomas "Genghis" Kahn was a Coalition Grunt who fled the Coalition when his newly discovered psychic powers (and sympathies) guaranteed a freeze in his promotion potential. Learning the extent of Emperor Prosec's evil certainly helped as well, I'm sure. We have since been training him as an operator as he shows a potential for Telemechanics. His position on Hogan's Goat is as Flight Engineer, which makes him the top-turret gunner as well.
I returned Genghis' greeting before maneuvering my way into the pilot's seat next to Bear.
"Mornin' Lance," grunted Bear, whose girth barely fit in the Goat's co-pilot's seat. Officially he was Major Jerry R. Clause, but we called him "Bear" because he was big, gruff, and husky. His bear-like temperament certainly helped as well. "How's the ol' Colonel doing today?" he continued.
"Not bad, Bear," I replied. "Looking forward to dispensing a little 'indiscriminant justice' on those Coalition bastards, if you catch my drift."
"Hear ya there compadre," Bear replied, "Paybacks a bitch!"
Our short conversation was soon interrupted by Voodoo, who snuck in through the door to the bomb bay. "Hey boss!" he called, "we got us a slight problem back in the tail. Seems Jerky is having a bad morning and taking it out on the new kid." Voodoo, the radioman (Lieutenant, First Class, Jonathan T. Driver actually), is a Psi-Mystic with a sense of adventure and an uncharacteristic (for a Mystic) love for technology.
"Great," I sighed, pulling myself out of the seat to go straighten out this untimely dispute.
"Want me to take care of it, Lance?" asked Bear.
"Nah, I can handle it," I said, hoisting myself back out of the confined cockpit, "you finish up the preflight and get this crate ready for takeoff."
"That's a big roger there, Colonel," he grunted.
"So what's gotten into old Jerky today?" I asked Voodoo as we went back through the door and onto the tiny beam that served as a walkway through the fully loaded bomb bay.
"Dunno, Colonel," he replied, ducking through one of the bomb rack support frames that ran along the walkway, "He just started screaming at the big ol' goof the second they boarded the plane. Guess he's pissed off it ain't Bert back there no more. They were pretty close, him and Bert. Jerky's just lucky ol' Brick is too dim to know what Jerky's been sayin', else he'd squash the little grease-ball like a grape."
We squeezed through the last rack frame and passed through the rear door of the bomb bay into Voodoo's Radio room, which was still crowded (though cavernous compared to the confines of the bomb bay). "You go ahead and take your post," I told Voodoo, "I'll handle Jerky."
"Yes, sir," he replied, taking a seat at the radio desk. In addition to manning the radio equipment, which functioned both as a standard UHF radio and as a Technowizard (TW) "magical" radio using mystic transmission waves, Voodoo also manned the Goat's formidable electronic countermeasures systems.
Leaving Voodoo, I passed through the rear door of the radio room and into the waist section that held the ball turret and the staggered "waist gun" positions. There, Butch and Red worked feverishly to keep an enraged Jerky off of a befuddled Brick, who happened to be twice Jerky's size. "Damn it all, you lugs!" I yelled, causing all four to stop and look over at me, "I don't care who started it or why it started; just end it already! In case you ladies were wondering we do have a mission to fly, and an important one at that!"
"But, damn it, Colonel!" screamed Sgt. Salvatore "Jerky" Bosco, the Goat's right waist gunner and seeming instigator of this brawl, "The bastard was talking like he was better than Bert!"
"All I…uh…said was…uh…I think I can do as good a job as…uh…Bert did," Corporal Jimmy "Brick" Conners, the newbee of the crew, rebutted. He was taking over as tail gunner of Hogan's Goat now that Bert was KIA. We called him Brick because he was as strong, tough, durable, dependable, and intelligent as a brick. This was Brick's first combat mission, but I was sure he would do well.
"I said I don't care what, who, or why!" I repeated. Sometimes you had to talk to these screwballs like they were three-year-olds, which for Brick was no stretch. "Just end it already and get back to your posts," I continued, "or else the both of you'll be scrubbing down all the planes in the squadron with a toothbrush, got it?"
"Yea, ye…ah, yes, sir," Jerky griped, trudging back to his swivel-mounted waist gun. His gun, like all others aboard the Goat, was an ancient 50-caliber machine gun magically modified to do as much damage as a modern energy weapon. The guns used a concentrated telekinetic (TK) boost (focused along their barrels) to accelerate the standard 50 caliber slugs to rail gun like speeds. While not quiet or stealthy like standard "TK machine guns", they did more damage for a lot less magical energy.
Brick, after standing around looking confused for a while, managed to somehow squeeze himself past the tail landing gear assembly and back to the controls of his twin 50-cal tail guns.
"Thanks for the help, Colonel," Sgt. Danny "Red" O'Malley replied, taking up his position across from Jerky at the identical left waist gun. Jerky and Red were best friends. You could tell by the way they constantly yelled at and insulted one another yet were never apart. The "Dynamic Duo" as Genghis called them, much to their annoyance, fought like a single person behind their individual swivel-mounted 50 caliber guns. Both were street punks before I found them whose psychic potential had gone unnoticed.
Sargent Butch, a bulldog-variety dog boy and the ball turret gunner, nodded with a grunt before walking up to check on the tiny enclosed ball turret that would be his home for the next few hours. The turret housed two 50 caliber TK-enhanced guns and was lowered below the airplane via a motor and pulley system, where it could swivel 360 degrees to fend off attacks. Butch's small stature, aggressive nature, and quick reflexes have made him a deadly and effective ball turret gunner with two confirmed (and three shared) kills.
With a temporary cease-fire established in the waist I turned around and headed back to the cockpit, squeezing once again through the bomb bay and into the pilot's seat beside Bear. "Everything work out?" Bear asked.
"For the moment," I replied, putting on my pilot's headset. "We'll see if it lasts."
"Like it ever would!" Bear chuckled.
Bear and I ran quickly through the preflight checklists, as timing was crucial with this mission. From outside the aircraft Joe, the crew chief, gave me the signal for number one engine start. The Magicorp 'Mystic Cyclone' engine (designed by old Albatross and myself) slowly came to life with a cough. Once engine one was up and running I started the Goat's internal power system and got the intercom system up. I then called for crew check-in One by one the nine members of the crew of Hogan's Goat reported in, proving the intercom was fully serviceable. The number two engine coughed to life as Voodoo reported in that the radio was up and running. A similar announcement came from Spook regarding the navigational equipment. Soon engines number three and four were on-line, and Bear and I were completing our start-up checks on the Goat. With a "go ahead" signal given from Joe, I lowered the flaps and pushed forward the throttle on all four engines. With a groan Hogan's Goat inched forward, accelerating. When clearance was granted from the tower I steered her on to the runway and jammed the throttles full forward. Slowly, with a great effort, she sped-up faster and faster until her mighty wings started to lift her, tentatively at first, then strongly, like a homesick angel heading into the wild blue yonder she called her home. Behind us the rest of the squadron was lined up for takeoff.
"So this is it," Bear said to me over the intercom, "Our last takeoff together in the Goat."
"Better not be," I retorted, "Just because you're getting your own bird doesn't mean you and I can't take a spin in the Goat for old time's sake, does it?"
"Guess not," he acknowledged. We had just about finished work on the new B-29 Superfortress and Bear was set to become her pilot. "So," he continued, "who you got replacing me?" he continued.
"Spaz"
"That Freak?!"
"Yep," I replied, matter-of-factly, "That freak." Spaz was a Phaeton Juicer: hell of a pilot, but a bit out of control. Either I'd settle her down, or she'd kill us in the process.
"Oh hell, Lance. She's gonna rip the Goat's wings off trying to perform a 180 degree turn, or somethin'."
"Maybe so," I continued, "But then again, she might just find a way to get away with it!" Bear responded with a hearty chuckle.
Soon all the Mad Dogs were airborne and forming up. All right, I told myself, fun's over, back to business. I got on the radio to the rest of the aircraft in the flight. "Ok, meatheads," I began, stealing a catch-phrase from an old pre-rifts TV pilot, "This is Big Daddy calling Momma and the Brats. Report in and form up. Momma forms on me, Brats take top cover."
"This is Momma, I've got your tail." That was LFC Thomas J. "Jazz" Armstrong, a new pilot who took command of the new B-25 Mitchell medium bomber he affectionately named Blue Note Baby. Like Brick, this was his (and the Baby's) first combat mission.
"Brat Five reporting, Big Daddy, I got your top!" Brat Five was Albatross' old Apprentice, Captain Thomas J. "Sugar" Jones. This was his fifth mission, and he had proven damned effective in his P-51, named Tuskeegee Queen.
"Brat Four, Colonel," echoed Jimmy "Sake" Osaka from Glorious Geisha, his A6M Zero.
"Brat Three," added Major John "Wanker" Chambers, a former British Spitfire pilot from the Second World War. He happened to have been flying over Stonehenge when the atom bomb exploded over Nagasaki, Japan. A temporal rift was opened, depositing him in our time. True to his former profession he flew a Supermarine Spitfire nicknamed Royal Bender.
"Brat Two, in," Major John W. "Mack" Mackenzie reported. He too was an old school friend of mine and charter member of the Mad Dogs. He piloted Split-tail Sally, a P-38 Lightning.
"Brat One," reported Colonel Wolfgang "Chuckles" Jaeger, my co-commander. Normally the two of us never fly on the same mission lest both of us are killed, but this mission is too important. The name 'Chuckles' referred to his utter lack of a noticeable sense of humor. He flew Fleigerwulf, the 'flying wolf': an FW-190 single engine fighter. We had barely rescued him and Wanker from the grasp of the gargoyles in Europe last summer, bringing them back to America and indoctrinating them into the Mad Dogs. "I have gotten word from Vulture Flight," Chuckles continued, "they are forming up and heading to the target area at 200mph."
"Copy, Brat One," I responded, "Ok, guys, increase speed to 275 and maintain preset course. With a little luck we'll get there right as the Coalies are suiting up. Maintain radio silence from here on out."
"Bonsai!" yelled Sake across the radio, using that damned old phrase Wanker told him Japanese pilots were supposed to use. I rolled my eyes and shook my head; Sake was born in Laslo, for God's sake. "Let's blast us some Coalies!" he continued.
"I said radio silence!" I yelled back, "That means you Sake."
"Sorry, sir."
"That's alright, Sake. Just remember you guys: timing and secrecy are the keys to this mission, so shut up, all of you."
"Come on, Lance," Sake returned, "It's not like the Coalies can detect mystic radio signals."
"No," I continued, "but any telepath or dog boy would get a headache from the signals and it could tip them off. I'm not takin' any chances, particularly after the last mission. Now everybody cloak up and shut up!"
Above me five single engine fighters blurred for a moment before fading seemingly out of existence, hidden beneath a shroud of superior invisibility that blocked all visual, auditory, and other sensory means of detection. Only a specially trained psychic or magician could see us now, and then only if they were looking. As per protocol all pilots and aircrew immediately donned goggles endowed with the ability to see the invisible, in order to avoid collisions and/or friendly fire incidents. I placed my right hand on the console of Hogan's Goat, concentrated, and focused. I felt a distinct tingle run through my body as I focused my magic abilities into the Goat. Soon the shroud of invisibility enclosed her as well. Soon the entire flight was invisible and, baring premature discovery, set to deliver one hell of a fiery surprise Christmas present to old Emperor Prosek! Ol' Joe was even kind enough to paint red bows on the bombs for him.
The flight leading up to the actual combat mission seems to last forever. As one Second World War aviator put it, this flight is "hours of sheer boredom occasionally interrupted by moments of sheer panic." As I always do during the pre-combat flight I thought back to the previous night's revelry, wondering if it would be our last together. It had been quite a riot; the nine pilots and co-pilots, fifteen aircrew, and Joker Company members going on the mission crammed around the pilot's table in our underground bar we called the "Flight Deck".
Normally it was the job of every sorry S.O.B. in the place to get so stinkin' drunk that they couldn't remember their own mother's face. However, today was a combat mission, and that meant no getting FUBAR the night before. Only one drink was allowed for all: a ceremonial shot of Sake rice wine to honor the spirit of the warriors who might well not make it back. This was a habit Jimmy, our own Sake, insisted on (Wanker told him the Japanese pilots of WW2 used to do it). Can't say as I blame him, though, its one hell of a ritual.
On the other hand Chuckles started the after-mission tradition of having a shot of Jaeger, strong-tasting schnapps liquor served ice-cold. Hermann, our bartender, makes it from an old pre-rifts recipe he discovered himself. I'm not sure of the recipe myself, but I believe deer blood is one ingredient. Chuckes says jaeger stands for "hunter". He says that what we are, jaegers! In pre-rifts Germany, fighter planes and their pilots were both called jaegers. In addition to those two traditions we also picked up afternoon tea from Wanker, but otherwise stick with good old beer and whiskey, including the smoky "Scotch" whiskey we get from northern Britain.
Despite the lack of booze, the guys didn't for one second let that stop them from one hell of a hell raising. It'll take a week for Hermann to get the mess straightened up! Oh well, boys will be boys. My own night consisted of deciding which of several lovely young ladies I wished to spend possibly my last evening with. Once again I put my telepathy and empathy to precisely the wrong reason: giving me a head up in the game of love. I haven't heard any of the ladies complain, however!
"Colonel," Voodoo interrupted, waking me from my reminiscence, "I'm receiving radio traffic from Vulture Flight. They're right in position and should soon be appearing on the Coalies' sensors"
"Good," I responded across the intercom, "Ok, guys, were ten minutes from target and right on schedule, let's give these bastards one for."
Nine "Hell yeas" echoed across the intercom. The Mad Dogs were ready! We came in on the Coalies from the southwest at 2000 feet altitude, point blank for a B-17. At the initial point (IP) I gave control to Spike to line her up for the bombing run. "She's yours, Spike," I called to the nose.
"Roj," he returned, "Hell, at this altitude, I could hit 'em with my eyes closed!"
"Use your eyes, wolfie!" I countered, "and make sure you plaster them good!"
"Roj," he repeated.
As we approached the Coalition air base it became clear we had complete surprise. As I had hoped, the Coalies were in the process of a scramble, the pilots hopping in their fighters to intercept the incoming Vulture flight to the north. Their canopies were open and the ground crew on the scene. A surprise bombing now would lead to severe casualties, and we planned to deliver it.
"Colonel!" cried Spook from the nose; "We have two Coalition Sky Cycles at ten-o'clock!"
"Do they see us?" I asked.
"Not yet, but they will when we drop our load!"
"Hell," I said, "Gunners! Prepare for a warm welcome from those cycles when we drop!"
No sooner had I finished my warning than several loud explosions reverberated around the base. Joker Company, our Special Forces unit, mostly juicers, had successfully taken out the air base's anti-aircraft defenses. The Mad Dog's would be a lot safer now that the Coalies' surface-to-air missile sites no longer posed a threat.
"Bombs away!" called Spike immediately, as Joker Company's detonations subsided into pillars of black smoke. The Goat shimmered immediately back into visibility as 9000 pounds of elementally enhanced fusion cluster bombs dropped free of the Goat's bomb bay, causing her to shudder with the sudden loss of weight. At 500 feet the bombs split open down the middle, releasing a deadly swarm of grapefruit-sized explosive clusters. On cue, Blue Note Baby behind us released her load. Over 10,000 pounds of magically enhanced fusion bomblets (between the two bombers) had now peppered the Coalition flight line like hell's own thunderstorm. The carnage was horrible, yet magnificent! Protected by only a thin layer of armor, the Coalition pilots and ground crew were decimated by the fiery inferno. Over ninety-percent casualties must have been inflicted! Those that were left would soon fall victim to the fighters.
Behind me the Brats flew over the flight line. Those planes that had bombs dropped them; those with rockets launched them. Anything left alive on the tarmac soon wasn't.
"Bonsai!" called Sake, as he released his bombs into one hangar and strafed another.
Not to be out done, Wanker popped up and released his bombs while climbing, with a slight roll. His two wing-mounted bombs spiraled up from his Spitfire, plowing their way through the glass on the air traffic control tower. The top of the tower exploded like a torch as the 250-pound bombs detonated inside.
"Ha! Take that, you bludgers!" Wanker screamed over the radio, banking off to the right.
Our celebration was short lived, however, as the Sky Cycles soon learned of our presence and moved to intercept. Both moved towards us bombers. The Goat's sensor warning receiver screamed to life as the first cycle locked on with her mini-missiles. If both cycles fired on us it would be more than our TK force fields could take! With a roar both cycles let loose their deadly barrage of missiles! The Goat shook violently as the first wave of missiles impacted against her. The shields held, barely, and the second volley streaked past to hit the Baby. She bounced around like a cork in the ocean, but stayed aloft. The Goat's guns roared to life as the cycles screamed past, one above us and one below. From below, Butch's guns raked across the second cycle leaving a line of holes in its fuselage, but the cycle flew on.
The two Sky Cycles split up; the first was pulling hard to our right while the second pulled off to our left. The first banked around for another firing run, arcing around into a wide turn with its top towards us. Bad mistake. By doing so the pilot left himself unprotected and vulnerable atop the cycle. It was an opportunity Mack wasn't about to let slip: he lined up perfectly for the shot and fired all guns into the unsuspecting pilot of the Sky Cycle. Four TK-modified .50caliber machine guns and one TK-modified 20-millimeter cannon, all nose-mounted in his P-38, all direct forward firing, tore into the pilot in his light deadboy armor. There was hardly enough left of him above the waist to identify as a human. The uncontrolled Sky Cycle spiraled to the earth and exploded.
Not about to make the same mistake his now ex-wingman made, the second Sky Cycle performed a wing-over and headed straight towards the Goat in a second attack run. The Goat's shields held for a second, and then gave out under the concentrated laser-fire of the cycle.
"Aaigh, I'm hit!" yelled Red from the waist as the laser fire penetrated the shield and tore its way into the Goat.
"Red!" screamed Jerky in anger, "Come get some, you Coalition bastard!"
The cycle flew below and behind the Goat as it made its second pass. Brick and Butch both cut into him, their tracers intersecting on the cycle. Once on the other side Jerky joined the fight, pumping more hot TK-enhanced lead into the Sky Cycle's chassis. Smoking, the Sky Cycle spiraled towards the ground, its pilot bailing to safety.
"You alright, Red?" I called back across the intercom.
"Yea, I guess so," Red responded, shaken but alive, "Got hit, but it didn't get past my flight armor."
"Good. Guys, cease fire and prepare to cloak."
"Sir!" called Genghis, "SAMAS at three o'clock! Smilin' Jacks!" Looked like Prosek had a little more in store for us.
"Crap," I called out, "Brats, take care of our new guests, Momma, prepare to cloak with the Goat."
"Roger," called Chuckles.
"Big Daddy, this is Momma," Jazz called, "I kinda feel like testing these here nose guns out, mind if I take the Baby on a strafing run?" The B-25 had four forward firing blister-mounted .50 cals and two nose mounted .50's (firing through the nose glass), all six fired from the Baby's cockpit. Can't say as I blamed him for wanting to try 'em out. "Besides," Jazz continued, "I can draw the Jacks over into the Brat's firing arcs."
"Alright, Jazz," I replied, "Go for it. If you lose my Mitchell, though, I'll desecrate your grave."
"Roger, Colonel. Don't worry; I won't let that happen. Jazz out."
With that, Jazz banked the Baby around, conspicuously facing his 6 o'clock to the SAMAS. The Jacks didn't take the bait, however, seeing the Brats moving up towards them. Jazz strafed the living hell out of what was left of the air base as the Goat slipped under the cover of invisibility.
"Wanker, Sake, form up on me, Sake taking far point!" ordered Chuckles across the radio. "Mack, take Sugar and break right."
"Roger, Brat One, breaking right," returned Mack as the Brats took up their positions. As could be predicted, the Jacks split up to intercept both elements.
The First Jack flew aggressively towards Chuckles' element and locked on to Sake. Sake immediately flipped his highly maneuverable Zero onto its back and dove to the earth at full-throttle in a roll under. A dangerous maneuver to perform at his low altitude, but one that worked. Sake managed to break out of the Jack's sensor lock as the overly anxious Jack pilot fired his load of mini missiles, all of which scattered aimlessly across the sky before exploding harmlessly on the ground.
Immediately Chuckles and Wanker tore into the SAMAS with the brunt of their weaponry: two 20mm cannons and four .30 caliber machine guns from Wanker's Spitfire, four 20 mm and two 7.62 mm from Chuckles' 190. A huge explosion marked the SAMAS pilot's untimely demise as Sake screamed "Yeehaw!" across the radio as he completed his roll under, barely clearing the ground below by less than 50 feet.
The second Jack wasn't so gullible. Its pilot waited until he had a good lock and firing position before letting his missiles fly. "Split hard on one…two…now!" screamed Mack as the missiles bore in on him and Sugar. Their two aircraft, flying close enough to register as one target on sensors, now spit at the last second with a release of countermeasures. It fooled some of the mini missiles, but not all. Both Mack and Sugar received several hits, but not enough to completely wipe out their shields.
Then Mack did something totally unexpected: he closed with the SAMAS for a one on one dogfight! Against the smaller and more maneuverable "Smiling Jack" SAMAS he hardly stood a chance. Such a rookie mistake seemed highly unlike Mack, he must've been hit harder than I thought! Sure enough, the Jack was soon on Mack's tail and giving him one hell of a waxing!
"Damn it Mack, get the hell out of there!" I yelled across the radio.
"Shut up, Andrews, I know what I'm doing," Mack replied, weaving side to side in the fork tailed P-38 when he should have been climbing to the ceiling, taking advantage of the Lightning's superior climb characteristics. "Sugar," he continued, "bank hard left towards me and get into a scissors with me."
"Copy that, Mack!" Sugar replied with a smile in his voice. Now I knew what Mack was up to, and so did Sugar. They were going to get the SAMAS in a Thach weave, a sucker play as old as the plane designs they were flying! The trick is, when a more maneuverable aircraft is on your tail, you fly a 'scissors' pattern with your wingman, banking back-and-forth in opposite arcing patterns, crossing face-to-face with them. If done properly, the unsuspecting bandit will be led straight into your wingman's firing arc for a head-on shot. They did just that, and the Jack pilot appeared to be falling for it hook, line, and sinker!
Sugar crossed just behind the Jack on the first pass and Mack took some minor damage to his stabilizer as he banked around for the next pass. This time Sugar was lined up perfectly. The SAMAS pilot noticed too late what was going on and attempted to dive, but was already flying through the swarm of Sugar's tracers as he did. The six wing mounted .50 caliber TK-machine guns of the Tuskeegee Queen crisscrossed into the chest and shoulder area of the Smiling Jack. The Jack's engines smoked and one wing broke off, and he spiraled down trailing smoke, the mangled remains of the body armor housing a lifeless mass that spiraled down with it.
"Hot damn!" screamed Sugar, "Kill number two!"
"Great shooting, kid," congratulated Mack. "And Andrews," he continued, to yours truly, of course, "don't ever doubt me again."
"Are you kidding, Mackenzie?" I rebutted, "The way you fly I have no choice. Just be glad that SAMAS pilot was as blind as you are dumb, or you'd be a star on his plane, not him a skull on Sugar's!"
"Damnation, boy," he chuckled, "I could wax your tail any day!"
"I'd hate to embarrass you in front of the boys again!" I poked back, "Alright boys, cloak up and form up, we're heading home."
"Colonel look!" called Brick from the tail, "The Vultures is here!" Sure enough, behind us the aptly named Vulture Flight had arrived to pick at what was left. The mass of assorted bombers, modern and old, magic and mundane, let loose into the smoking remains of the base and the ground barracks, leveling the entire area. It would be months before a functional base could be reestablished. For the moment the north east sector's airspace would be back in our hands.
"Hot damn!" I whistled, "another job well done!"
Back at the Flight Deck it was drinks all around. We had sent a keg of Hermann's old German best to Vulture flight for their help in this mission. For us, however, a special drink was prepared: Jaeger! We were all about half blitzed by this point. Chuckles, Hermann, and the other Germans were singing some old German drinking song. Sake and Wanker, who spoke little to no German, were just drunk enough to try to follow along.
"Alright, you morons!" I called, dismissing the fiery redhead that occupied my lap with a quick pat, "Jaeger time!"
"Hear hear!" called Wanker, finishing his pint of ale in a single gulp.
Hermann pulled a frozen bottle from the icebox and poured out one dram each of the icy black liquor for all the pilots, aircrew, and Joker Company members who had participated in the mission. Once we all had our glasses I turned to Chuckles.
"Mein Herr?" I said to him, "do you care to do the honors?"
"With pleasure, Kamerad," he responded, raising his glass. "We drink tonight to our victorious Jaegers and crewmen: to Sugar and Mack, who each gained a kill, to Butch, Brick, and Jerky, who shared a kill, and to Wanker and myself, who also shared a kill with the aid of Sake's bravery. To Brick and to the crew of the Blue Note Baby, who flew their first mission with bravery and warrior's skill, and to the crew of Hogan's Goat, who performed as outstandingly as we have come to expect from them. To Joker Company: if not for them all would have gone for not. To Colonel Andrews and Major 'Wanker' Chambers, who devised this particularly effective raid. And finally, and most importantly, to Albatross, Bert, and the other warriors before us who have died in glorious battle to rid the world from tyranny and evil. Jaeger!"
To which all replied, "Jaeger!" and downed their drinks in a single gulp.