“All right. Shorty?”
The radio operator shook his head. “I picked up some kind of signal after Wen got the auxiliary generator going, but I never got anything out of it. It wasn’t voices, German or otherwise.”
Broben nodded at the faintly luminous city wall that spanned the entire canyon. “If that’s Germany, the Allies have been awfully misinformed.”
Farley gave him a sour look. Broben shrugged.
“What the hell did we just have a dogfight with?” Farley asked.
Wen folded his arms and looked at his boots. “Wasn’t no airplane, I can tell you that.”
“Then what was it?”
Everett and Garrett glanced at each other. Both men looked at Farley and shrugged. “We took turns firing on it when we weren’t helping crank the wheels down,” said Everett. “Wen’s right. That thing wasn’t an airplane.”
“It was alive,” said Garrett.
“It was bigger than our bomber,” Farley pointed out.
“It was bigger than our bomber,” Garrett agreed. “And it was alive.”
Everett nodded. He looked embarrassed. “It looked like one of those big dinosaur birds,” he said.
“Like a damn dragon,” said Garrett.
Wen looked stubborn. “I know a machine when I see one,” he insisted.
“All right,” said Farley, “let’s put a lid on it for now. We need to think about our situation.”
Broben waved his cigarette at the city wall that filled the canyon’s termination like a fairy-tale castle caught in an evil spell. “We just put on one hell of a show for whoever lives in that aquarium. I give it five minutes before they send out a Welcome Wagon.”
“Then let’s be ready for them when they get here,” said Farley.
“I blew the Norden,” said Boney.
“Good man. Wen, any chance of getting more than Number One going in the next ten minutes?”
Wen shook his head unhappily. “I misdoubt it’ll happen in a day or two.”
Plavitz pointed at the city wall. “You were off by four and a half minutes, lieutenant,” he said.
They all looked to see a pair of vehicles approaching on the valley floor before the city wall—dark angular shapes moving before the faintly glowing structure. Long and van-like and black-windowed, unlit and utterly silent as they jounced along the rocky canyon floor on half-shielded balloon tires. Troop transports, Farley thought. Maybe twelve men each. They were going slow, maybe five miles an hour. Even at that speed they’d be here in a few minutes.
Farley frowned at the bomber’s front wheels, effectively chocked by the depressions in which they had come to rest. He’d never get her out of there on one engine. With the tail destroyed, he wanted to at least turn her front toward whatever was coming their way. The crew could try to walk her around, but even if they managed it there’d be little time left to take stations. No, they were stuck in place with their shot-up ass to the unknown, and here was where they’d have to make a stand. If it came to that.
Farley turned his back on the approaching transports. “All right, listen up,” he decided. “I want to give these people the benefit of the doubt, but if they pull up behind us instead of beside us, I don’t think talking’s going to be the first thing on their list. The tail gun’s out of commission, and the nose and maybe the waist guns won’t have a line on them.” He clapped his hands. “So. Garrett, Everett, grab the .30 and an ammo can from the nose and take up a firing position on the rockfall. Stay low and don’t shoot unless you have to.”
“We can yank one of the .50s,” Everett offered.
“You may end up hauling it farther than up that slope. Grab the .30 and get going.”
They got going.
“Martin,” said Farley, “see if you can get through that mess back there.” He waved at the rear of the bomber. “If the guns still work, you’re Queen for a Day if it gets ugly. If they don’t, find cover and make sure you’ve got a shot.”
“Understood, captain.”
“You’ll have to move Francis. And pull his tags.”
Martin nodded grimly. “Only way to know if the guns still work is to fire them,” he pointed out.
“If you can do it before those transports get here, go ahead. Once they pull up, it’ll look like a warning shot.”
“What’s wrong with a warning shot?” asked Broben. “Those jalopies ain’t the Red Cross bringing doughnuts.”
“Let’s don’t give them room to say we started it,” said Farley.
“I better hop to it,” said Martin, and headed to the bomber.
“Plavitz, top turret,” Farley ordered. “You’re our main bet here.”
Plavitz glanced at Wen, plainly wondering why Farley hadn’t ordered the flight engineer to the top turret, his normal combat station. But he nodded and said, “Got it, cap,” and hurried after Martin.
Farley watched him go, then turned to the rest of the men. “Shorty, grab water and rations from the ditch kits.”
Shorty looked puzzled, but he nodded. “Will do, captain,” he said. “I’ll put ’em in a duffel.”
Farley frowned at his flight engineer. “Wen, I hate to say it, but—”
“You want me to rig her so we can light her up.”
“It might come to that. We’re at the halfway mark on fuel, so leave us enough to get back.”
Wen scratched his neck and looked over his shoulder, his giveaway that he disagreed with his pilot. “She’s a pretty good bird, cap. We can’t set a bomber on fire every time we fly one.”
“I agree,” said Farley. “Now take the flare gun and set her up to burn.”
Wen scowled as Broben handed him the Very pistol. He tucked it into his waistband and dragged on his cigarette as he turned toward the bomber, muttering to himself.
“Toss your butts!” Broben called out. “This crate’s about to be a Hindenburg Junior.”
Wen sidearmed the butt away and gave a two-fingered salute without looking.
“Boney,” Farley said, “will that stuck bomb go off if we do have to burn her?”
“Doubt it,” said Boney. “A small blast from the fuse booster is what sets off the TNT.”
“Can you rig it so it does?”
“Jesus,” muttered Broben.
Boney shrugged. “I can pull the fuse booster and rig that to go off if the ship burns. It’d do some damage.”
“Go ahead and do it.”
Boney nodded and turned back to the bomber.
Broben waited till Boney was out of earshot, then turned to Farley. “We fighting or running?” he asked.
“We’re covering our bases.”
“Well, if I’m not gonna help fly this tub, I better find somewhere to shoot from.”
Farley turned back toward the approaching transports. “Maybe they’re just bringing us the key to the city.”
“Sure. And it’s so big they need two trucks to carry it.” Broben pulled his Colt and chambered a round. “I’ll see you when the dust settles, Joseph.”
Farley touched the bill of his crush hat and glanced up at the figure so recently painted on the nose of his new aircraft. He nodded at her, then hurried back to the main door.
The fuselage already reeked of spilled high-octane, and a spent fuel can lay where Wen had tossed it near the right waist gun. Shorty was pulling one of the rubber rafts from the overhead wing storage. A pounding from the rear of the bomber startled Farley until he realized it was Martin, trying to get back to the tail gun. Something clanged from in the left wing crawlspace and Farley heard Wen yell, “God damn shit house mouse!”
“Wen,” called Farley, “find some cover when you’re finished and hold onto that flare gun. Don’t light her up till you have to, and don’t wait a second longer than that.”