The sight of the huge bombers trying to turn tail and run elicited an almost primal whoop of joy that was quite out of character, and recognising that those six aircraft were now no longer a threat, Trumbull turned back toward the last formation and picked his next target. Three more bombers fell to his 25mm shells before he’d exhausted his supply of ammunition.
Davies cut his own swathe through the rear formation at the same time in the Raptor, his 20mm Vulcan gun spraying shells this way and that. However although he carried 480 rounds for the six-barrelled weapon, it fired at twice the rate of the F-35’s gun and he was also out of ammunition after only five enemy had fallen from of the sky. None of the escorts had been in position to cover the rear echelons of the flight — they’d been forward, expecting to intercept anything that came up against them — and Davies’ only concern was enemy fire from the bombers themselves. He made certain he kept well above them, breaking away the moment he’d pumped enough fire into a target to ensure it was out of the game.
He was forced to pull away for good at about the same time as Trumbull, both men forming up again at high altitude as they heading back westward at high speed.
“Phoenix-One to Eyrie — come in Eyrie,” Jack called out on the radio, looking for a response from Thorne down on the ground.
“Receiving you loud and clear, Phoenix-One,” Thorne’s immediate, anxious reply came through over the radio. “What’s your status, over…?”
“Harbinger and I are quitting the battle area now, Eyrie — all Fidos gone and guns empty.” He paused. “You still have at least ten bombers inbound… sorry, Max…”
“You guys did all you could, Phoenix-One, and you have our thanks. Be advised ‘Alternate’ has been activated and you’re being diverted there for refuelling and rearmament. We can’t guarantee getting you off again here before the rest of the bad guys arrive… over.”
“Acknowledged, Eyrie… better get yourselves to safety as well…” Davies affirmed, then added: “Be advised, Max… I’ve visually identified the enemy bombers as B-29s… repeat: enemy heavies have been confirmed as Bravo-Two-Nine Superfortress.”
There was a pause before the reply came back over the radio. “Thank you again, Phoenix-One. Information received and noted… we’ll take appropriate action… Eyrie over and out…”
“We’re heading for ‘Alternate’, Alec,” Davies informed Trumbull as they flew in formation, a hundred metres apart. “Be prepared for a fast turnaround: we may not stop the rest of these bastards getting in, but we can sure-as-shit stop ‘em from living long enough to brag about it!”
Personnel down below at Hindsight and HMS Proserpine were all well-prepared now, with all anti-aircraft positions on the island ready and waiting for the enemy to fly within range. All could now see faint contrails far off in the eastern sky and heading their way, along with an equally-faint haze of cloud and smoke where the distant air battle had raged. Thorne watched the radar screen in the command bunker as aircraft mingled, wheeled and died and the survivors continued on.
The bodies of Harold Clarke and the two guards had been removed, but in spite of several attempts at scrubbing, the awful red stains on the walls and floors where they’d fallen faintly remained to the distaste of all present. SAS Private Dicko Cassar stood beside Thorne as Neil Drews operated the radar system and passed on information by radio.
His mind now mostly clear of alcohol and running on adrenalin, Thorne ran through the appropriate equations in his mind and recalled what he knew of the Boeing B-29 that Reuters had copied to produce the Luftwaffe’s B-10A. Each aircraft could carry about nine tonnes of bombs in its internal bomb bays, meaning they had approximately ninety tonnes of ordnance heading their way. The range was low enough for aircraft staging out of Southern Norway to carry full bomb loads: an eleven or twelve hundred kilometre round trip was nothing for a strategic bomber that could fly across of the Atlantic without refuelling. No matter how he looked at the figures, the answers he came up with weren’t good.
He was roused from his thoughts as Nick Alpert stepped through the entrance to the bunker and approached to stand at his shoulder.
“The Extender’s in the air and the Galaxy’s ready to go… we’re just waiting on the last essential personnel to get aboard.”
“Then get over there, make sure you and Eileen are on that big bastard, and get it the hell out of here!” Thorne replied without taking his eyes from the radar screen.
“You’re the one who should be on that plane, Max,” Nick shot back, cutting his commander off before the turning man could voice his protest. “It’s vital you’re safe… other than perhaps Eileen, no one else is as important to this mission. Dicko, Neil and I can take care of things from here, but you must get to safety!”
“He’s right, sir…!” Cassar agreed, looking up only briefly, and speaking as if referring to the appropriate choice of a new suit. “There’s nothing you can do here that can’t be done by one of us, and it’d be better for everyone if you’re safe.” There was a long pause as Thorne’s logic and emotion battled silently.
“I don’t like this, Nick… I don’t fuckin’ like it at all…!” He stated firmly, torn between two possible decisions.
“We don’t have time to argue, Max,” Alpert shot back as he gave a wry grin. “As a very wise man I know is sometimes fond of saying, ‘Don’t give me the shits! Just do as you’re bloody well told!’…!”
“Wise man, my arse…!” Thorne snorted with a soft chuckle, but his defences crumbled all the same. He clamped a hand on his friend’s shoulder. “You watch your arse, too!” He cast his gaze around all of the men present. “All of you look after yourselves!”
“Get out of here, Mister…!” Was all Alpert could say, still grinning, and Thorne was gone an instant later, running at full speed for the Galaxy as it waited at the near end of the runway.
He was the last man aboard as the rear-loading ramp began to close, and the C-5M immediately began to roll along the strip. He found a piece of solid airframe as the huge aircraft continued to accelerate and grabbed hold of it, close to where Eileen Donelson and at least a dozen others were crammed in, surrounded by ceiling-high crates of different sizes. The Galaxy clawed its way skyward with a deafening howl a moment later, and their stomachs lurched as the secured load around them creaked and groaned and gave all a few nervous moments.
The C-5M banked immediately after take off and continued to climb, seeking safety in an altitude no propeller-driven aircraft could reach as the KC-10A Extender, already far ahead of them, circled high above awaiting the outcome on the ground. Thorne found he was shaking quite noticeably as he held on tightly in rear of the aircraft, and for a change it wasn’t the dry horrors of the ‘morning after’. The one-time fighter pilot had never actually faced live combat before save for his encounter with Reuters’ Flankers of six weeks before, and the current situation of being forced to wait impotently through an air raid without being able to personally fight back was affecting him a great deal. For the first time in his life, he was experiencing what it was to command men in combat in real life, rather than an exercise: to be forced to ask men to risk their lives, and make decisions that determined whether those men lived or died. The experience was one that he found incredibly stressful and particularly difficult.