“Looks good,” said Boney. He stared through the bombsight as his left hand uncapped the red drop button. “Lining up. Opening bomb bay doors.”
In the ball turret Martin turned to twelve o’clock and watched the doors swing down in front of him. Sudden turbulence jostled him. Behind him the trailing B-17s in the flight group would be opening their bomb bay doors as well.
Martin glanced down. Through the flak smoke he saw rhythmic flashes of antiaircraft guns firing nearly five miles below. The concrete sprawl of the munitions factory just ahead. Here we go, he thought.
In the copilot seat Broben pulled the Very pistol from behind the pilot’s seat and fitted it with a fat shell. He put a hand on the right-side window and held the gun ready. “Copilot to bombardier, ready with the signal,” he said.
In the nose bubble Boney hunched over the Norden, right hand calibrating. In the sights a long white concrete building drifted into view. “I’m on the AP,” Boney reported. He turned the dial a notch and pressed the red button. “Bombs away,” he said.
Broben opened the window six inches and stuck out the flare gun and pulled the trigger. “Bomb drop signal fired,” he said.
Seven heavy bombs dropped from Fata Morgana’s belly in twin columns, waggling like mindless swimming tadpoles and whistling lewdly as gravity pulled them toward their wholesale annihilation. Farley felt the bomber lift half a foot as the payload dropped.
“Flight engineer here,” said Wen. “One bomb still in the rack. Right side.”
“Boney, free that rack up,” Farley ordered. “Plavitz, give me a secondary target.”
“Right away, captain,” Plavitz said.
Broben shook his head. Farley saw him mouth Shit.
“The railyard’s just off our current heading,” Plavitz came back. “Turn right five degrees.”
“It’ll put us out of the formation,” Broben told Farley.
“Five degrees out, five back. Unless you want to come in at Thurgood with a thousand pounds of bomb in our belly.”
“Drop it over the Channel.”
Farley looked grim. “Only if I can’t drop it here first.” He turned the bomber and pressed his mike. “Boney, what’s the status on that orphan?”
“He’s jumping up and down on it, cap,” Wen reported.
Broben rolled his eyes, and Farley couldn’t help smirking at the image of the lanky and serious bombardier stomping on the stubborn bomb like a man tamping down a dirt-filled hole.
“Roger,” Farley said. “Be sure just the bomb drops out, all right?”
Martin watched the area around the concrete buildings far below erupt with smoke. He strained to see if any bombs scored direct hits on the buildings themselves, but they were quickly engulfed in roiling columns of gray smoke that climbed skyward.
“Ball gunner here,” he said. “I saw hits on the Aiming Point, but that thing should have gone off like a powderkeg. I don’t think we—”
The back end of the bomber slewed to the left and Martin heard a thunderclap behind him.
“We’re hit,” Everett’s voice yelled in his headset.
“Tail gunner, report,” said Farley. He tried to bank right and suddenly the bomber didn’t want to go. The others were yelling on the interphone and he told them to can it and again ordered Francis to report. The tail gunner didn’t reply.
“Wen, get back there.”
“On my way,” said Wen.
Now Farley had to muscle the control wheel to keep her from veering right. That dive once started would become a giant arc that slammed into the world five miles below. Farley didn’t intend to give it the opportunity. “Jerry, give me some elbow grease here,” he said.
Broben grabbed his own control wheel. “Holy crap,” he said. “Right elevator?”
“Feels like,” said Farley.
“Jesus Christ, we’re two for two.” Broben shook his head. “What god of flying did we piss off?”
The wheel felt alive in Farley’s hands as it pushed against him. His forearms ached from the struggle. The bomber shot from that remorseless country of flak and all grew bright. Farley blinked at the sudden stinging in his eyes. He wanted to put on his Polaroids but he didn’t dare let go the wheel.
“Flight engineer to pilot,” came Wen’s tight Southern drawl. “The rear canopy took a bad hit, the whole thing’s shattered. There’s a lot of debris and I can’t get back there to see what the damage is. I don’t see how Francis could’ve made it.”
“Are we on fire?”
“Don’t look like it.”
“Roger. Shorty, get Boney out of the bay and tell him to close the doors. We’ll dump that last bomb over the—”
“Bandits, eight o’clock level,” called Garrett.
In the ball turret Martin swung to eight o’clock and saw black specks in formation just above the horizon. “Confirmed,” he said. “There’s dozens of them.”
“Wen, forget the tail and get up top,” said Farley. “They’ll come at us from behind when they see the damage.” Farley glanced at the instruments. The azimuth indicator was cartwheeling. “Navigator, what’s our position?”
“Compass is still spinning like a top,” Plavitz reported. “Looking at the rail line … we’re headed southwest. Right fifteen degrees, captain.”
“Right fifteen, roger.”
“Easier said than done,” said Broben as he helped Farley manhandle the controls. Behind him Wen clambered into the top turret.
“Bombardier to pilot,” Boney said. “Closing bomb bay doors. One still in the rack.”
“Roger,” Farley said.
“What the holy hell?” came Everett’s voice. “Can you see the flak field, captain?”
Farley looked past Broben. Fata Morgana was nosing down as she arced around the flak field. Farley saw other bombers in the flight group emerging from the flak in formation, some damaged, some trailing smoke, but nothing especially—no, wait. There was something odd about the flak field itself. At the bottom of the box, the smoke was being drawn down and condensing, like water down a drain.
Farley tabled it for now. They were no longer in the middle of it, so he didn’t give a damn if the flak field started dancing and playing “The Star Spangled Banner.” They had bigger fish to fry right now. “What’s the story on those bandits?” he asked.
“Still closing,” said Martin. “I’d say half a minute out. They’re—shit!”
“Ball gunner, report. You hit, Martin?”
“Something just shocked me. I’ve got some kind of short circuit here.”
“Unplug your suit,” said Broben.
“I did, but I can still feel it.”
“Well, try … out … tight.”
Farley glanced at Broben and yanked down his oxygen mask. “Your mike connection’s loose,” he told him.
Broben took a hand off the wheel and worked the throat-mike plug. “How … out … ow?”
Farley shook his head.
“Cap—” from Shorty. “There’s … prob … elec—”