1845 Hours
Air Defense Operations Room, Genoa Area Command
Air Marshall Andrew Vorhees leaned back in his chair and lit another cigarette. The ashtray in front of him was already full enough to serve as a small sandbox, with a dozen and more white cigarette butts sticking out of it like ill-hewn tombstones.
He'd been on the go since the dawn conference, first getting as many planes, men, and guns moving as he could from Toulon and then catching one of the precious few transport flights down here to organize things. Now he was staring at the glass situation map of Genoa, watching serf auxiliaries mark patrol areas and draw circles on it in greasepaint while a Citizen officer watched much more closely than normal.
"Sir." Vorhees turned to the young Pilot Officer who was handing him a message form. "From the Navy. A hunter sub sighted a United States class attack carrier south of Corsica half an hour ago. She appeared to be launchin' aircraft at that time. Navy says the transmission cut off abruptly." Vorhees leaned forward in his seat, automatically scanning the message form.
"Analysis, Mister?" He'd always loved the mentoring part of being a senior officer, and even a crisis as mortal as this one was no reason to stop teaching his junior officers. Made it more important than ever, in his opinion. The young Citizen shrugged.
"Could have been combat air patrol or a scouting mission, Sir, but we have to assume the worst." The worst being very specifically defined under these circumstances- AR-1 Revenant attack bombers in the air with live atomics. "And if it is that, there's only one place they could be headed. Only major logistics center we got left." The boy looked upwards at the ceiling of the command center, and Vorhees grinned.
"Full marks. Now get on the horn to the fighter fields." Vorhees raised his voice, letting it carry across the whole command center. "Listen up, people! We probably got some damnyanks on the way to pay us a visit in a couple-three hours. Kick everythin' up to Force Condition Five, scramble the reserve Night Owls, move the Peregrines up to cockpit alert. I want everything we've got radiating and every gun locked and loaded. Remember, either we get this one or everybody dies. Let's do this people, let's go!"
Phones came off their clips, and a dozen voices began to talk urgently all at once. Vorhees looked as the sighting report was entered onto his status board, and smiled tightly.
"The game's afoot."
1914 Hours
Docking Bridge, USSReprisal
"Here they come." There was none of the high, desperate excitement in the lookout's voice that there might have been a few days or hours before. Altoona's radar had picked up the Snake strike flight thirty miles out, but it hadn't mattered. Reprisal's last fighters had gone into the sea hours ago, and with her speed reduced to a crawl the big carrier couldn't get enough wind over her deck to launch more without the catapult. Commander Guitierrez knew that their AA crews would do the best they could. He also knew that it wouldn't be enough.
As he watched, Altoona peeled out of formation with the damaged carrier and began working up to full speed. When the raid warning came through Guitierrez had ordered his escorts to break off and maneuver independently through it. All the close screen in the world couldn't save a ship that moved like a crippled whale, and right now he needed those ships intact for rescue work more than he needed to reduce the hits Reprisal might take. If they made enough sea miles during the night, they might even be under Gibraltar's air umbrella not too long after daybreak.
Yeah, that was it.
The Draka formation that came in was noticeably smaller and more homogenous than the one before, more in line with their first attack. Guitierrez felt his lips pulling back into a rictus grin over that. Altoona's intercept gear was nowhere near as good as what had been aboard Traverse City, but even they had picked up a panicked cacophony of air support requests from across the continent, along with increasingly stern directives to conserve as much aviation fuel as possible. How the Snakes expected to square that circle he wasn't sure, but it did seem to limit the number of planes they were willing to send after Reprisal.
Unfortunately, they'd have to be a whole lot worse off before they'd consider letting her go. Even ignoring the threat they posed, two of the few values the Draka recognized were pride and payback. Reprisal qualified in spades under both those categories.
Guitierrez heard a crashing din start to build up as the task force's 5" mounts opened fire, followed with disturbing speed by the chatter of the close-in Bofors mounts. Down here on Reprisal's bow he could hardly see any of the battle- the ship was being conned from an antiaircraft sighting station just forward of where the island had been, with orders relayed by phone down to the rudder compartment. It was a damned bad system, but at least up there they could see what was coming. Guitierrez stared out the forward windows and waited for the bombs to fall.
The Draka Vulture bombers released their loads a mile or two out, keeping their bombsights fixed on their targets in the twilight gloom as their munitions homed in on their targets. Guitierrez heard the phone talker emotionlessly call ofd the rounds that went ballistic as proximity fused 5" shells shredded their mother craft with enormous midair shotguns, but it wasn't enough. He could feel the deck tremble under him as the ship shuddered, and heard the phone talker call them out. "Near miss, port quarter. Near miss, port quarter. Near miss, starboard quarter."
Then a huge, shuddering roar as Reprisal was hit, another, and another. His ship took deep, gaping wounds, the alarms sounded and the speakers shouted of fire, fire on the flight deck, and suddenly Guitierrez had had enough.
"You have the bridge, Mister Brown." With that, he strapped his helmet on and left the bridge, vaulting the ladder up to topside. Looking at the damage wouldn't make it go away, but at least he could get some idea of what was happening to his ship and how he could stop it. He sure wasn't doing anyone any good staring out the windows on the docking bridge.
The Flight Deck
Guitierrez mounted up to a world of twisted, burning horror. The Bofors guns had fallen silent, and the 5" mounts were crashing only occasionally as they took parting shots at the retreating Draka bombers. The after part of the flight deck, though, was a roaring inferno, flames licking over the twisted metal that had once been the landing area as smoke billowed up into the darkening sky. Guitierrez could see gangs of seamen unrolling hoses and playing water over the worst of it, and he could see casualties who had been brought to the flight deck instead of sickbay trying desperately to crawl away from the fires. He raced in, hardly knowing where he was going or what he was going to do, until he saw a group of officers in khaki standing near the edge. Calvin was there, directing a gang of men trying to switch around water pressure.
"How bad is it, Chief?" Calvin looked over his shoulder and shook his head.
"Bad, Skipper. I just took the last prop shafts offline, which means we're dead in the water. Because I did that we've got pumps and fire mains, for now, and we can keep these damn fires from eating up the whole ship. That'll last until something else falls apart in Engineering or the Snakes hit us again, and then we'll have nothing." Calvin paused. He knew what he had to say, but Navy tradition dictated he be very careful about how he said it.
"Sir, I don't think we can control this conflagration. I have to recommend that we abandon ship while rescue operations are still possible." Guitierrez closed his eyes. There it was. He nodded.
"All right, Chief. I'll have the escorts move in. Pass the word for all hands to abandon ship."
2023 Hours
Aboard Spirit of Rio
"Show time!" Fujita's voice over the intercom broke into Rosemont's consciousness as he guided Spirit northwards, his three companions hanging off his wings. They'd been in the air for just over an hour, spiraling up and away from Reprisal and sticking together for the first part of the flight. What they were about to try called for some very, very tricky timing, and the longer they could all stay together, the better. On the other hand, if the Snakes caught them on radar before they separated, the whole thing would be worse than useless.
Rosemont blipped his navigation lights once, then twice more in quick succession. He looked over his left shoulder at Applebaum in Night Terrors, barely catching sight of the other man in his dim cockpit lights. Rosemont brought his hand up to his oxygen mask, then pushed it out with splayed fingers, the classic "kiss-off" signal he'd learned to use instead of "goodbye" during his formation training at Pensacola. Applebaum nodded, then peeled smoothly off into a turn. Within seconds his Revenant had melted away into the night, and Rosemont pushed his yoke forward, diving Spirit down towards the dark sea below. Again, Fujita brought his radar up, counting off the altitude until they pulled up less than a thousand feet from the sea below. Rosemont checked over his shoulder, finding Yarrow's dim formation indicators tucked in on his right wing, exactly where they were supposed to be.
"No radar emissions, Skipper. We're clear." Walker sounded a lot better than he had when they'd talked in the ready room- actually strapping in and taking off seemed to have sealed his determination. Rosemont nodded, and permitted himself a tight smile. They'd done it. Flying high without the weight of their bombs, Applebaum and Saint-Laurence would be faster than Spirit, giving them enough time to curve out onto oblique courses towards the target. With any luck they'd all hit the Snake radar net at more or less the same time and confuse the Draka. In the meantime, Snake Eater could support Spirit with jammers, chaff bombers, and serve as a decoy to draw off Snake fighters if it came to that. Rosemont would have much preferred to be the one coming in at an angle, since when push came to shove the Snakes would probably figure it was the atomic bomber taking the direct route, but he didn't have a lot of choice either. His plane was four tons heavier than the others, and none of them had enough gas to poke around all night.
Rosemont trimmed his nose out, and took in the shimmer of moonlight on the water beneath his nose. The interphones hummed softly in his ears, and Spirit responded to his touch so effortlessly that moving her rudder seemed to take no more mental effort than flexing his foot or making a fist. He let his eyes fall into the familiar flicker of the gauge scan, dipping upwards to find Yarrow's formation lights and then checking the water in front of them for obstacles. He was night flying again, and for the next hour or so he could be content with that.
2050 Hours
Aboard Night Terrors
"Turn point." Polinyn, the new guy, sounded nervous. Bayreaux had still been only semi-conscious when the briefing began back aboard Reprisal, so Applebaum had picked one of the backup BNs to fill out his crew. The backups had been through the same training that they had- Flannery had only made the choice as to which crews would fly the strikes the night before. Still, it was the young Russian's first time flying combat in the AR-1, and he was palpably nervous.
Whereas I am a seasoned veteran, with one whole abort under my belt. Applebaum had done his share of flying, in Helldivers and the last of the old SBD Dauntlesses, but comparing that to the Revenant was like comparing a Model T to a new Chevrolet. Never mind all the new gadgets, the thing was just so damned big.
Applebaum eased his yoke over into a right turn, settling onto a new course. Somewhere just off his nose, Saint-Laurence should be doing the same right about now, just as Rosemont and Yarrow punched their way through the same imaginary circle around Genoa. At least it was clear tonight. He'd damn well had enough of trying to fly this thing through the rain.
"Signals." Wallenstein's voice was calm, perfectly clear as he enunciated his words. "Draka Watchtower types. There appear to be multiple point sources emanating from the area around Genoa, all with similar or identical signatures. Our intelligence only showed one in place."
Applebaum laughed humorlessly. "Well, looks like there've been some busy little Snakes over there the last few hours, Albrecht. Been getting a reception together for us."
"Yes." If Wallenstein appreciated the joke, he was uncommonly good at keeping any hint of it out of his voice. "Signal strength is increasing, pilot. Recommend we begin our descent."
"Roger." Applebaum pushed the yoke forward. After a couple seconds, he figured out what was wrong, and keyed his mic.
"Altitude, Sergey?" Polinyn started reading the numbers off, sounding a bit abashed. Well, the kid didn't have to drop any bombs tonight. As long as they were heading for the general area of Genoa they should be all right. Night Terrors screamed on just above the waves, riding the night like a hungry ghost.
2053 Hours
Air Defense Operations Room, Genoa Area Command
"Contact!" Vorhees wheeled around in his chair at that, watching as the serf auxiliary carefully drew a new greasepaint trace on the medium-range status board. "Bearing bullseye 205, range one-fifty miles." Vorhees fairly jumped out of his chair and strode over to the talker who had reported the contact.
"What do we have? How firm? Come on!" The serf talker handed him a penciled contact slip.
"Western Area Radar, sir. They been gettin' make and break contacts for a bit on the edge of their scopes, but now they got somethin' for definite. Intermittent, but pretty strong when it there." Vorhees shut his eyes for a moment, then looked over at the fighter patrol areas penciled in on the plot. Committing fighters over there would stretch his remaining resources even thinner, but there was nothing to be done for it.
"Send Black Buck one-seven flight over to investigate. And get a pair of Peregrines movin'. Just in case."
Aboard Black Buck 17
Approx. 120 miles south-southwest of Genoa
"Black Buck 17 acknowledges." Flight Officer Ilsa Tromp pulled her Night Owl into sharp, raking turn, peeling off her assigned station and heading for the intruder's track like a hawk moving in on its prey. She reached over and jammed her throttles against the firewalls, making sure they were stuck. Night fighter duty had been cushy until exactly twenty-one hours ago, when those damned fools Venner and Weiss had managed to let a Yankee expend them and fry Marseilles- and still worse, get themselves recorded doing it. Now the whole night fighter command was under a gods-damned microscope, with the sound of bush knives being sharpened already sounding in a thousand officer's messes. The Draka might frown on infighting, but they were no more immune to the psychology of disaster than any other human beings- including the time-honored pursuit of hunting the wild scapegoat.
"Recommend course 010 magnetic." Maggie Miller's voice was devoid of its usual cheer as she buried her face in the radar scope's black rubber hood, searching out the blip that was trying to kill their last link home. Tromp glanced in her rear-view mirror, making sure Riksdottir's lights were still lined up with the targets scribed there. Flying formation wasn't usually something night fighters did, which was making her even more testy, but no matter. The intercepts had also told them of the precious time that had been lost after Venners and Weiss inherited the plantation, while the Peregrines searched with only ground control to guide them. There had to be someone left to act as a seeing eye for the rest of the system, as much as she itched to bring this bastard down herself.
Ilsa grinned behind her oxygen mask. Of course, she was the flight lead. And if they managed to bring this leopard down before the rest of the hunting party came up, wasn't that the more honor to them?
2054 Hours
Aboard Night Terrors
"Night Eyes set for sure, Walter." Wallenstein's voice was dolefully precise. "And it seems our friends have learned from last night's festivities. I'd say there are at least two signals out there."
"Wonderful." Applebaum forced himself to keep up his scan, while his mind built a carefully compassed model of the planes heading in for them. "Do they have us?"
"They are heading right for us, on a perfect course to intercept our path. Either they have us, Walter, or we should begin to seriously consider Loki worship." Son of a bitch. He did have a sense of humor. Applebaum heard himself laughing.
"Allright. I'm taking it up to three, might need some room to maneuver here in a minute." Even as he spoke, Applebaum eased the yoke back and thumbed the button for the fuel boost pumps. "We'll do the same thing Spirit's crew did. Play dumb until he finds us, then light 'em all off and hope we can shoot our way out." Of course, last night the Draka hadn't known they were at war with the Alliance yet. Life was full of little challenges like that. "Sergey, give 'em a chaff bomb. Let's muddy the waters a bit."
"Roger, pilot." In Night Terrors' nose, Polinyn ran his hands over the conventional bomb panel. Single release, time fuze for five seconds- just long enough to clear the Revenant before it burst. He slapped the doors open.
"Away!" Night Terrors jerked as the chaff bomb dropped away into the slipstream.
Aboard Black Buck 17
"That's funny." Miller adjusted her scope with a frown, while Ilsa looked over worriedly. Draka Forces legend had it that was one of the three most common last things a pilot heard from her radar operator, right up there with "Oops" and "Oh, zebra shit!".
"What is it, Maggie?" She kept her eyes determinedly forward, straining even though she knew it was vanishingly unlikely she could pick the contact out in time for them to do anything about it. Or avoid a midair collision. If Maggie's radar had just packed it up, she needed to hand the lead off to Riksdottir right now.
"Bloom on the scope." Miller's fingers twisted the gain down, leaning forward even harder into her hood. "Could be a decoy, but I thought I saw it movin' right before it dropped off. Those Yankee planes like to duck in and out of low altitudes…could be nothing, could be another contact. I'm calling it in." Tromp blinked- their training had taught them to check and double-check a contact before reporting it, but going by the book didn't seem to have worked so well lately. And if Maggie thought it was solid-
"Do it."
"Doin' it." Miller keyed her radio mic. "Manorhouse, this is Black Buck 17. Be advised we may have multiple contacts out here…"
2057 Hours
Aboard Night Terrors
Albrecht Wallenstein hunched over his tail-warning scope and watched the twin blips drop towards the bottom of the range indicator. It was hard to watch them boring in towards him when he had a weapon in his hands, but he knew he had to wait, just as you had to wait for the wolf to get close in the woods before you took your shot. He could open up on radar, but his chances of scoring a hit would be much better on visual. Just a few more seconds-
Night Terrors jumped in midair as shells ripped into her left wing, and Wallenstein looked up from his scope to see a Draka Night Owl fighter swooping up and away from them. He'd been suckered! The Draka had dove in from above, closing the range at the last minute. He wheeled the sight around, catching a hint of a wing glinting in moonlight. The Draka wingman was coming in right on his leader's tail. Good to know he wasn't the only one making mistakes tonight.
Wallenstein squeezed his butterfly trigger grips, and a hammering stream of 20mm cannon shells poured into Black Buck 18. Riksdottir and her radar operator died without knowing why.
Aboard Black Buck 17
"Gods curse it!" Ilsa Tromp pulled her Night Owl into a tight, banking turn, her eyes riveted on the slim black form that was already trying to disappear into the night. "How many Freya-damned times did I tell yo' not to ride my tail, yo' little moron!" Already there was no trace left of her wing, the hulk dipping invisibly towards the sea below with a shattered cockpit. She keyed her mic.
"Manorhouse, Black Buck 17. Black Buck 18 is down, repeat, Black Buck 18 is down. We have visual confirm on a Yankee AR-1 Revenant bomber, tracking on radar now."
"Copy, Black Buck." A short pause, then the controller came back. "Black Buck, disengage an' maintain radar contact with the target. Tercel 03 flight is inbound to engage." Tromp bared her teeth. The right call, but these damned Yankees were cutting a swath through her squadron. Her heart called out for her to take their heart's blood, not let the glory boys in their Peregrines have the kill. But all she said was,
"Black Buck acknowledges." Needs must, after all.
2059 Hours
Aboard Spirit of Rio
"Cross Hair sets, pilot. They are not wasting time."
"Just give me the cue, Gunner." Applebaum had abandoned his scan again, eyes flicking back and forth across the sky in front of him in search of the Draka Peregrines. If he could just-
"Now!" Applebaum wrenched the yoke over to the side, standing Night Terrors on her left wing and yanking until the engines screamed in protest. He didn't realize his mistake until too late.
The reefing turn had snatched Night Terrors out from under the first Peregrine's gunsights, but it had also killed their forward speed, leaving them a sitting duck for the wingman. The Draka pilot kicked his rudder, watched the Revenant's belly slide under his sights, and squeezed the trigger on his twin 30mm cannons.
Night Terrors' cockpit filled with red light and warning buzzers as one engine caught fire, the plane sliding sideways and threatening to drop into the ocean. Applebaum pushed the wing down, teeth gritted as he tried to will her to start flying again. The Peregrines looped around for another pass, aiming for the bright orange flare of their burning engine.
In the glassed-in nose, Sergey Polinyn hung on to his seat by the handles, face white. He could see the engine flares coming around for them, and there was nothing he could do but either hang on or reach for the ejection handle between his legs. A frantic voice in the back of his mind was chanting confuse the radar, confuse the radar. As the Peregrines came in again he slapped the bomb bay doors open, jammed the selector over to the "salvo all" position, and yanked the release handle.
All nine remaining chaff bombs in Night Terrors' bomb bay blew off the racks at once, their ejection charges blowing them out sideways until they almost stood still in the air. Five seconds later, their fuzes burst, forming a cloud of fine metal strips hundreds of feet wide.
Fifteen seconds after that, both Draka Peregrines plowed through the cloud, their hungry turbojet engines gobbling up the air and sucking the chaff strips into their first-stage compressors. The turbine blades fouled, then shattered, sending hot chunks of metal into the fighters' fuel tanks. As Tromp and Miller watched in stupefied horror, both jet fighters turned into hot orange fireballs in midair.
At the same instant, the structural members supporting Night Terrors' bomb bay doors, already holed by cannon shots, gave way under the high-speed slipstream. As the doors ripped away the stress took the main wing spar with it, folding the wings up like a sheet of paper creased in the middle.
The shattered hulk of Night Terrors fell like a dropped stone into the Mediterranean. Applebaum, Polinyn, and Wallenstein died instantly