Klein leaped to own his feet in an instant, catlike and on edge. Just a quick glance about told him there was no one in the immediate vicinity, and as he aimed the Walther at Thorne’s head, he dared to hope he might actually make good an escape in the ensuing confusion of the air raid. His face was forming into a smug grin, finger tightening on the trigger, as the upper part of Klein’s torso exploded into a spray of crimson gore and blood. His right arm was thrown sideways, taking the pistol’s aim along with it as the PPK discharged into the ground by Thorne’s feet.
Travelling at around three times the speed of sound, the energy of the 750-grain, fifty-calibre slug that had struck Klein wasn’t completely spent by its impact with a human body, and continued on to punch its way through the near wall of the Officers Mess. As flesh and blood spattered the wooden boards around the hole, it finally embedded itself in the stone fireplace on the far side of the room beyond, blasting a large chunk out of the mantelpiece. Klein lived just long enough before he fell to realise what had happened and stare shakily down at the huge hole where his chest had once been as the sound of the shot finally reached them. Another second and he lay dead on the gravel path, almost blown in two as Thorne, still drunk, fell to his knees once more and vomited savagely over the sudden, shocking nature of the man’s death.
Standing more than four hundred metres away across an open expanse of grass between the main buildings and the flight line, Kransky lowered the smoking Barrett rifle from his shoulder and unfolded the bipod legs, leaving the weapon propped on the ground as he began running toward Thorne at full speed and armed men appeared from all around at the sound of the shot.
Personnel were taking their battle stations all over the base as Kransky reached the kneeling Thorne, the Australian still recovering from his bout of retching. Davies, Donelson and Trumbull had emerged from their quarters by that stage and were also converging on Thorne’s position outside the Officers Mess.
“We’ve got a large group of aircraft inbound from the east at high altitude,” Kransky wheezed heavily, gasping for breath after his run as Thorne finally began to struggle to his feet. He angrily kicked at Klein’s corpse. “This son of a bitch here killed WO Clarke and Privates Collins and Hamish before taking out our radar… it was only luck we picked it up as quickly as we did.”
“He’d have done for me as well, Richard,” Thorne observed shakily, unable to take his eyes away from the body for much more than a moment, but sending the American a meaningful glance all the same. “Thanks mate…”
“No worries,” the security chief replied, using vernacular he’d picked up over the last six weeks from the Australians on the base. “My pleasure…”
“Jesus Christ, Max — are you all right?” Eileen cried out anxiously as she reached his side ahead of the others, clutching at his shoulder and drawing a startled breath as she got a good look at what was left of Kristof Klein.
“Thanks to Richard here, yes,” Thorne said softly, aware there was pressing business to attend to and struggling to gather his wits completely. He turned back to Kransky, his mind finally functioning a little clearer as adrenalin began to force shock and drunkenness from his thoughts. “How much time do we have?”
“Fifteen minutes… maybe less. They were out at a hundred miles… Evan thinks they’re heavy bombers.”
“They will be,” Thorne stated simply, his professional mind kicking in as he started to act. “This is the ‘big one’ we’ve been worried about… they won’t have sacrificed their agent here for anything less.” He turned to Eileen. “Get over to the flight line and get those crews into the transports… I want both planes up and out of the area in less than ten minutes! I also want both Tunguskas moved as far away from the base as possible: we haven’t time to get them loaded onto the Galaxy, but if we can get them somewhere safe, they may still be able to help fight off the raid. Get on that now…!”
“Right away, Max,” she acknowledged, turning away slightly and issuing orders through the radio speaker/mike at the throat of her combat jacket.
“Jack: get the Raptor loaded with as many AMRAAMs as you can and get airborne — you’ve got five minutes!”
“Gotcha…!” The Texan grinned excitedly, spinning on his heels and running away toward the flight line. He was already dressed in his flight suit.
“Alec!” Thorne snapped, turning to Trumbull as the man stepped toward him in response. “Suit up — you’re flying the Lightning.”
“Me…?” Trumbull’s jaw dropped. “You want me to take that thing into combat…?”
“You’re good enough and you know it,” Thorne snapped impatiently, the statement true enough. “It took you no time to pick up the shit you didn’t know already, and you’ve been flying brilliantly both in reality and on the simulator. You have to be able to fly that thing in actual combat, and this is as good a time to start as any.”
“Max… I don’t think I’m ready for this yet… give me a Spit and I’d be up there in a flash, but…”
“I don’t have time to fucking argue with you, Squadron Leader!” Thorne snarled angrily, reaching the end of his short tether. He jammed an outstretched finger across to the aircraft on the distant hardstands. “Get suited up and get that fucking airplane off the ground!” He’d been wearing the rank of Air Vice Marshal long enough now for the authority to carry some real weight, and the never-before-seen ferocity of his words forced Trumbull into automatic action.
“Yes, sir…!” He snapped in curt reply, instantly turning and running in the same direction as Davies. The exchange had surprised Kransky with its ferocity, and hadn’t escaped the shocked attention of the nearby Commander Donelson, momentarily distracted by the outburst as she continued to issue orders over her radio.
“How many aircraft…?” Thorne snapped testily, turning back to Kransky.
“Uncertain, but Evan called it ‘fifty-plus’…”
“Fuck…! Get on to the reserve crew at Eday, and have ‘Alternate’ made operational. We’re gonna need it if a couple of those bastards get through — and they will.” Without waiting for a reply, Thorne stormed off toward his quarters to find his uniform — the windbreaker and track pants suddenly felt both incredibly cold and inappropriate.
Ground crew were wheeling away the access ladder as Trumbull seated himself properly and began to set his harness. The engine was already reaching full power as the cockpit canopy closed and he fixed the HMDS system over his head, connecting everything to the appropriate cockpit interfaces. A moment later, the F-35E was in the air and he was climbing sharply away, circling above the airbase to gain altitude as he turned onto an easterly heading at full throttle.
“Yo, Harbinger — you ready to kick some ass?” That was Davies’ voice, deafeningly loud in his ears, or so it seemed to the nervous RAF pilot. “You readin’ me, Max…?” Davies asked with interest a moment later upon receiving no immediate answer.
“Ah… Phoenix-One… this is Harbinger reading you loud and clear, over,” Trumbull began uncertainly, his normally fluid flying mind more than a little stressed. “I’m afraid Max isn’t on this flight, Captain…”