Magestic 2, page 79
‘Can I ask a personal question?’
‘You’re a rude bastard, you don’t need permission.’
I took a moment. ‘Back in our era, would you have ended your life?’
Hal looked away, taking many seconds. ‘After I retired the first time I was a little down, figuring it would just be me and a few aircraft magazines to read, a few crap old reunions to glorify times gone by.’ He flicked dust of his trousers. ‘Then I met you arseholes, and I was busy again, a new lease of life, and Rescue Force gave me a great deal of respect for myself. After you injected me, well – it was like a second life; I was jogging and flying attack helicopters.’ He smiled briefly as he remembered back, and sipped his drink.
‘Then the fame hit, and that was OK for a while, then SARS and the rest of shit hit, and I was as depressed as everyone else. Finding out who Jimmy was came as a bit of a shock, but I got used to it … and we did well, we fixed that world. Problem was, having fixed it I was useless again, unless I wanted to do the tours and guest speaking. That lasted a few months, before I wanted to start shooting people.
‘People don’t realise it, but climbing the mountain is far better than giving a slide show about how you climbed it. The fame became unbearable after a while, always some arsehole taking my picture everywhere I went. I couldn’t go out. When Jimmy went back I wanted to go with him, was a bit pissed off at him because I wasn’t invited along, and those twelve years he was gone …well, I became a recluse almost.’ He took a moment, studying the carpet.
‘When he came back and gave the warning I was fucking delighted, then … then the bastard put a team together and went without me.’
I slowly nodded. ‘He didn’t consider many people, and was going to come back with just the two of us,’ I lied. ‘The others kind of tagged along or asked to come, and I knew you’d lost it a bit. I didn’t see this as a picnic, and Jimmy and me ... we both wondered if you’d make the duration.’
‘I’m keeping fit, trying to eat well. So far so good.’
I nodded. ‘You enjoying it?’
‘I’m alive and functioning, doing something worthwhile, when I should be in the ground. Not a case of enjoying it, it’s a case of … why go and die when you don’t need to? No one chooses to end it, and we’d all choose to go on.’
‘Jimmy considered ending it; he’s had a long run. And he felt as useless as you. He hatched this plan because he knew what would happen over there, and I started to realise it after he went. I kept busy in politics, and was more of a politician and less of a prophet, and that helped.’
‘If we fix this war, with Britain and America coming out on top, then we should have a fucking good run at 2025,’ Hal suggested before sipping his drink.
‘There’s still the Cold War, Middle East oil, Israel, bank fraud, SARS. And any of those could produce an aberration.’
‘Like American going to war in 1937!’
‘Just like that,’ I said with a grin.
‘Or Hueys and jets in 1937, rockets and cruise missiles.’
‘OK, so we fucked up the timeline a bit.’
‘A bit?’ Hal repeated. ‘We’ll land a man on the moon in 1945!’
‘Germany produced cruise missiles and ballistic rockets in 1944, don’t forget, and they flew operational helicopters – a couple of them. So … it’s not too much of a stretch. And the Germans had flying delta wing aircraft and jets.’
Hal reluctantly nodded. ‘Our guys are fiddling with the first few television sets now.’
‘After the war we’ll conquer that market,’ I suggested. ‘And after the war, our B52 will have seats for passengers and do New York to London in six hours. British Rail will still be crap, but air travel will advance!’
He smiled. ‘Some things never change. Back in our era I still couldn’t get any sense out of my bank, and my insurance was valid so long as didn’t claim for anything. Ever.’
‘Mankind does have refreshingly consistent flaws.’
In the Philippines, the senior American officers on the front lines stared at one of our MLRS vehicles arriving.
‘What the fuck is that?’ was heard a few times. ‘Funny damn tank.’
‘It’s a multiple launch rocket system, sir,’ a Canadian Rifles soldier explained. ‘We’ll demonstrate it. Where are the Jap lines, sir?’
‘See that ridge. That’s their front line, their field HQ is beyond it.’ A shell landed nearby, men ducking.
‘We’ll do what we can, sir,’
The Canadian soldier mounted up and closed the hatch, the MLRS revving and belching smoke, trundling forwards and being curiously observed by tired and muddy Marines in foxholes and trenches. The box lifted and turned, the officers watching from behind a low wall. As they observed, the rockets screamed out in quick succession – hands soon over ears, the box-launcher moving very slowly from left to right, soon a thunderous noise reaching the American lines as dirt flew skywards on the ridge.
When the MLRS had finished firing, silence engulfing the US line, a huge angry monster of a cloud drifted away to the right above the ridge. The officers stood up, incredible looks exchanged.
The Canadian soldier ran back. ‘How was that, sir?’
‘How much ammo do you have?’ they asked, stood in awe of the firepower released.
‘Not much, just enough for a week or so.’
They stared at him.
‘Should I reload and try and hit the Jap command centre, sir?’
The officers slowly nodded.
Ten miles away, US Marines opened boxes of RPGs whilst under fire, NCOs from the Training Brigade calling the senior men together, the men all now on their knees.
‘This is simple,’ the new arrival shouted, rounds pinging off nearby trees. ‘Put the head down the front of the tube, you’ll see a grove - so you can’t get it wrong. Knock the safety off here, point and pull the trigger. Watch me.’ He loaded an RPG, checked safety, and ran to one side bent double. ‘Always make sure that there’s no one behind you!’ he shouted. From the kneeling position he made ready, stood and fired, ducking back down again as the top of a distant pockmarked house erupted. Bent double, he ran back. ‘If you want, just point up at forty-five degrees for a lob shot.’
Five minutes later, the advancing Japanese lines were subjected to dozens of falling RPG rounds, plus accurate fire aiming directly at their positions, at the houses they now occupied.
‘What’s that, sir?’ a Marines sergeant asked an officer from the Training Brigade, pointing.
‘It’s called an earthquake shell.’ The officer faced the mortar team. ‘OK, load and fire into the village.’
They stood back and observed the distant village, now overrun by advancing Japanese units. The mortar round “popped” out of the tube, and five seconds later the centre of the village disappeared, smoke and dirt engulfing the whole of the village.
‘What the hell was in that shell?’ the sergeant asked, heads popping up from foxholes to see what had happened.
‘Some special kinda explosives. Fire four rounds!’
The village was raised, the Japanese now fully believing that heavy artillery was being used.
Magestic 2
Copyright © Geoff Wolak
www.geoffwolak-writing.com
Part 7
RAF in China
Big Paul eased up, his wicker chair issuing a squeak. Stretching, he took in the view of the colony from the balcony of the command centre, and stepped inside just as the Colonel from the American Brigade arrived; the Colonel had flown back on a Buffalo during the night, having been summoned. Big Paul shook his guest’s hand - and hugged him, five minutes of insults and jibes exchanged before they settled around the map. The Colonel marked the map, highlighting the Japanese positions as best he could, Po and Han adding detail of units.
‘Right,’ Big Paul finally said to the Colonel. ‘I want you spread out, right along that entire front, a war of attrition. But watch your flanks, because the emperor just landed two hundred thousand men up the coast. They’re three hundred miles away, but they will move south and west, buddy. We’re also getting reports of units from Manchuria coming down by train, more arriving all the time. Fucking bars in Tokyo must be empty.’
‘Supplies?’
‘Take whatever you need, and whatever you can squeeze onto a plane.’
‘How far have you penetrated?’ he asked.
‘Eight miles.’
‘Eight miles! Ya boys sleeping on the job?’
‘Those boys, mate, have sixty thousand Japs around them, all wanting a piece of them. You’re spread out and in the hills, we’re all bunched up. Our fucking front line has a Jap every two feet – mostly dead granted, but you have them every two fucking miles.’
‘You don’t want us to probe deeper?’
‘No, wear them down and keep them tied up, or we’ll have them all down here.’
‘Two Super Goose just landed,’ a runner shouted.
‘That’s risky in daylight,’ the Colonel noted.
The pilots came straight over, their aircraft now being unloaded, the two men both Canadian Rifles pilots. ‘Should have landed before dawn, boss, but we were late. Still, we reached here at fifteen thousand, circled and had a look, then dropped like a fucking stone, right down and landed.’
‘What did you bring?’ Big Paul asked the man.
‘RPGs, aviation version.’
‘Cool,’ Big Paul offered. ‘Can you hang around?’
‘We’re assigned here now.’
‘Even better; you now work for this reprobate,’ Big Paul told the pilots, thumbing towards the Colonel. ‘Load up and follow the Buffalos north.’
‘How about a couple of Boeings?’ the Colonel asked. ‘We have a decent strip up there.’
Big Paul faced the RAF officer. ‘Fancy sending a flight up north for some action?’
‘We have just the eight aircraft serviceable,’ the RAF protested.
‘Then tell your grandchildren a good story, and relocate them all to the north, mechanics and supplies in the Super Goose, plus personal effects.’
‘And fuel?’ the RAF asked.
Big Paul faced the Colonel, and waited. The Colonel said, ‘They’ll run off regular gas if we tune the engines right, we have gas up there.’
Big Paul faced the RAF officer, and waited. The man said, ‘They will run of regular gas, but performance will be down a bit.’
‘Such challenges make for a good story over a beer. It’s your call, but I’d like you to go.’
‘As you say, it would be a challenge. OK, we’re in.’
‘Fly with full tanks and no weapons,’ Big Paul told the RAF officer. ‘Just in case you miss the dirt strip. And fly late, so that you reach it at dawn. You can always put down on a road.’
Sat on the balcony with the Colonel, Big Paul said, ‘Dead tally?’
‘Fifteen or so,’ the Colonel reported, none too concerned.
‘Wounded?’
‘Brought most of them back with us, they’ll make it.’
‘Morale?’ Big Paul broached.
The Colonel snapped his head around. ‘Morale is fine,’ he insisted. ‘We’re at war, buddy, this ain’t Spain, and the guys love killing Japs.’
‘Use the Super Goose to rotate them out for a week’s R&R back here. This’ll drag on.’
The Colonel nodded. ‘Could use some jeeps. We have trucks up there, but they break down every damn mile.’
‘You can fit a jeep in a Buffalo. Check your supply levels, then ship some up; it’s your call what sits on the plane.’
‘I will, it’ll make a difference.’ He paused. ‘Those Super Goose must have had the seats removed.’
‘Cargo version, bound to have.’
‘How big is the door?’
‘Not big enough for a jeep.’
‘What … sideways, with the wheels off?’
‘You’re not going to damage one of my planes!’
The Colonel reluctantly nodded, sipping a beer. ‘I’ll stick the regular supplies in the Goose, jeeps in the Buffalos. Guys will be right pleased; some use horses.’
We celebrated New Year in the hotel, the factory staff all given New Year’s Day off, not least because many of the managers and team leaders worked beyond their required hours now that we were at war, and they came in on the weekends voluntarily.
But New Year’s Day saw an Italian air attack on an escorted British convoy, two ships badly damaged, two aircraft shot down by the escorting destroyers.
Jimmy commented, ‘Britain won’t be able to hold off a war with the Italians much longer. And the Germans have been steadily building up in Libya.’
‘There was another raid on the RAF a few days ago,’ I mentioned. ‘In Chad. A few people killed.’
Jimmy folded his newspaper. ‘I’m hoping it will drag on a little longer, also hoping that Japanese losses will continue to be played down by the Japanese. So far … the Japanese are lying about their losses, which is exactly what we want.’
‘And a ground war in Libya?’ I nudged.
‘Would … most likely drag on at least till the summer, but we’d risk pissing off the British if they just sat and took it.’
A note arrived as I fetched fresh teas. ‘Pancakes, Cookie?’ I joked, getting a look from our trusty chef.
As I sat, Jimmy said, ‘Germans have moved into Czechoslovakia. And in the snow!’
‘They must be hoping that everyone else is snowed in, and can’t react.’
‘Britain couldn’t react anyway, save an air war, and France is in even worse state than Britain. So unless the Americans land – and they’re not in great shape for a war yet – no one will be opposing the Germans. And right now the Red Army is large, but couldn’t organise a tea party, let alone a war.’
‘And Herr Hitler can see Britain, and now America, all tied up in the Far East,’ I noted. ‘I bet he included the Jap Emperor on his Christmas card list. He must be rubbing his hands and smiling.’
‘He thinks he has a free run at Britain, and for all intents and purposes … he damn well has.’
Hal’s mishap
A scientist asked Jimmy if he could try a new jet engine in a prototype F15. Jimmy agreed without paying too much attention. The scientist grabbed the next prototype off the assembly line, just as its engines were being fitted, and made a few modifications with a team of engineers. The aircraft’s small reserve tanks were left with normal jet fuel, the wing tanks fitted with a new binary liquid, the liquid that didn’t burn, just expanded a great deal when mixed and when heated. Parts from a modified torpedo engine were fitted inside the belly of the F15; mixer pumps, heaters to warm the mixed liquid, high-pressure pumps and high-pressure hose to feed expanding warm liquid to the engines.
Once inside the engines, the liquid would be sprayed as a vapour into burners made hot by the regular fuel, a chain reaction caused – similar to burning fuel, and a greater thrust should be achieved. That thrust was destined to assist our heavy jet bomber during take-off and climb, the portion of any flight that wasted the most fuel.
After a few days of fiddling they were set, Hal offering to test the new jet, a task that he shared with Hacker and a few other of the experienced pilots. He strapped in on a very cold day, light winds allowing a safe take-off, and took-off on normal jet fuel, not noticing any difference. At thirty thousand feet, the prescribed height, he turned on the mixers, the pumps, and the heaters, suddenly forced back into his seat. As he sat there, his airspeed indicator turned towards mach two, and kept going, getting stuck at mach three.
Concerned about structural damage, Hal now switched off the fuel, only to find that nothing happened, and that he was, apparently, at mach three. He didn’t dare knock off the auto-trim and try and turn at his speed, and spent fifteen minutes trying to throttle back or knock-off the binary liquid before the plane disintegrated. Trying his radio, his response was oddly garbled, and peering down he could see ice flows. He was in trouble, flying at mach three towards the North Pole.
Figuring he’d have to do something before the fuel ran out, or he met a fat guy in a red suit in a sleigh, he adjusted the auto-trim and nosed up, soon at forty thousand feet and climbing. He checked his oxygen and CO2 scrubbers, they were fine, and turned the cockpit heaters up full, now starting to shiver. At fifty thousand he uttered a few rude words, followed by a few prayers. At fifty-five thousand feet he could clearly see the curvature of the earth, but a wobble in the plane gave him hope, the thin air helping. He would have to chance it, the airspeed indicator now stuck.
He knocked off the auto-trim and initiated a slow and gentle turn to the right whilst keeping the nose up, the aircraft wobbling in the thin air. Facing due south, and noticing now ice forming inside the cockpit, he nosed down into a gentle glide, wondering at what point he could eject, and what his chances were; these seats had no oxygen supply.
After forty minutes he thought he recognised a few features below, and turned towards what he thought was the town at the railway junction, two hundred miles south of the Lemming Base. Banking, and peering down, he was surprised to find Chicago. After a few rude words he gently turned west, and set a course for the Canadian border, knowing where a few of the Goose refuelling points where located, still puzzling just how the hell he had arrived in Chicago – and was he hallucinating due to oxygen depravation.
Figuring he would have to suffer an ejection, he thought “fuck it”, and turned due south again, keen to reach a densely populated area; parachuting down into the frozen tundra would probably be a death sentence. He was dressed warm, and he knew the seat had one of those rubber suits for ocean survival, but a week in the Canadian winter would have finished him.
White fields became brown, towns visible, but he had no idea what his altitude was, his altimeter stuck as well now, the airspeed indicator long having given up. He left auto-trim to fly the plane and sat back, awaiting the inevitable. As the plane ultimately plummeted to earth he would try and glide it as far as possible, pull back on the stick and force a stall, then eject. It was not a pleasant prospect.
