One Thousand Years (2 page)

But
his confidence had been infectious. He had promised a quick mission,
and they had replaced the satellites in record time. And all the
while he provided charming company. It was more than that, she
understood. His Nordic features and idealist naivety reminded her of
someone from her college years. That one had also been a younger
man, and likewise an idealist. He actually wanted to marry her, an
anti-social act that would put a serious dent into their positions
with the campus Party leadership. She had planned to become a
professor, after all, and a historian at that.
That
, she reminded herself, was a relationship best forgotten.

A new one with anyone like Vinson was impossible, or at least until the
mission ends. She might go back to teaching then. But she can
always dream in the meantime.

Vinson
positioned the Tiger on a heading toward the hangar doors and
released the controls to the machine. Everything would be automatic
now.

“I
hope we did not forget anything,” he said.

“Like
what?” she asked. It sounded like more small talk. She locked
her side panel away and gazed at him. She would enjoy small talk for
a while longer, knowing that she had a lot of work to do once back
inside the ship.

They
chatted a bit while the Tiger passed through the outer, and then the
inner, hangar doors, and finally parking itself inside. It was a
complex sequence handled automatically, but she could tell that
Vinson was monitoring each phase, even as they laughed together. He
was obviously born to fly. That was a trait he shared with those
living in earlier times. She could well imagine Vinson as a pilot
during the war they watched on the Earth below, shooting down
Tommies, and defending the Reich. And she could be a simple
schoolteacher in that much simpler time. Or they could be innocent
students in a twentieth-century motorcar on their first date. She
was an idealist, too, and she knew it.

Once
parked, the engines shut down, the indicators turned blue and then
disappeared. She regretted that Vinson had been so efficient,
getting them back so quickly. Even in modern times, men had never
lost their propensity for showing off.

Dale
wondered how she could turn off her smile when they part ways.
Finally, the view on the dome became a blank. The mission was really
over. One indicator remained on, but only for a second longer. It
was the mission log turning off. It would be retracted for analysis
by the SS.

She knew that would happen, of course. What she hadn't considered was
that no machines could be watching them now. They were suddenly
truly alone. Anything they said would be erased before the next
mission. This realization of privacy had startled her.
Before this moment, she hadn't felt true privacy in years.
For one brief second, she wanted to reach over and kiss Vinson good night.
She resisted the impulse and laughed at the very idea.

Vinson laughed too,
and she wondered if he understood the spirit of the moment.

“Thank you Adolf,” she said.
“I enjoyed the little trip.”
She squeezed his hand gently and it made her feel good.

*

“The guy who goes
around predicting Hitler will surrender tomorrow should have been up
there today flying over that flak. The gunners are still in there
pitching in the ninth inning.”
—
Unknown airman, (April 8, 1944)

Sam McHenry had observed early on that war was like a series of
engineering problems. It's not a single event, but a methodical
process. Your own positions are fortified. The enemy's are torn
down. Your side advances. One step at a time.

He could now see the target area more clearly.
This was the best weather for dive bombing.
It was fairly clear below, with some clouds above and around them.
There was still quite a bit of haze in the west coming from Mount Vesuvius
after the eruption last month.
McHenry had noticed earlier that the birds were coming back.

“Target in sight,” reported Parker,
leading the mission of sixteen black fighter pilots that day.
They were still flying their P-40s,
but that was due to change this month.

McHenry looked ahead to Brooks' aircraft, who would be up next,
and then swept his eyes left to locate the small dot that was Parker,
now making his dive.
He didn't hold his eyes there long.
They darted back and forth, scanning the horizon,
even turning his head both ways for a full view,
and then to his gauges and instruments.
He switched fuel tanks in preparation for the dive,
and scanned the horizon again.

“Taking
some flak,” shouted Parker over the noise. “It's coming
from one...” The reception broke for a moment of crackle, then
came back. “...away.” Parker had dropped his load and
pulled up, and to the side.

Brooks
was now starting his dive, and the flak would soon be aimed at him.

McHenry
checked his gauges again, and then the bomb-safety lever. The aircraft
was running smoothly. Scanning outside, he looked down to see
Parker's bomb explode at the bridge. It looked good, but he was too
far away to make a real assessment.

“Good
shooting, Twain,” said Brooks, taking his turn to shout over
the flak. “Close, but the bridge is still up. I'm almost
there.” Another pause, and he released. “Bomb away,”
he said.

McHenry
lowered his flaps and began his own dive, heading downward at
sixty-five degrees. The flak was directed at him now. After dozens
of missions like this, he felt that knew the Germans' playbook. The
temptation to defend himself was great. He wanted so badly to
reciprocate with his .50 cals, but he had to concentrate on that
bridge. His ears cleared, and so did his mind.

“Bridge
still up, but smoking,” he shouted, reporting on Brooks' hit.
He stayed quiet from then on, wanting to be completely focused for
the last moment before releasing his bomb.

That moment was approaching as though in slow motion.
His cockpit shook hard as the enemy's flak exploded around him.
He made an instantaneous decision to fall another three seconds
— a long and dangerous three seconds
— to get the aim right. Then he released the bomb and pulled
up, pushing the throttle, feeling the intense gee-forces, and
resisting the unrealistic fear that the wings could snap off, or the
very real worry that those gee-forces could force him to black out.

But
that worry was short-lived. He was okay, and his plane was okay. It
felt good to be rid of the 1,000 pound bomb that was dragging him.
He gained altitude quickly to rejoin the group in a circle around the
target, while checking for damage from that flak.
There must have been damage, he knew, but he couldn't see any of significance.
His eyes scanned the sky again,
hoping for a repeat of their recent air battle.
He wondered, too, about that remarkable silver ship he'd seen those months before.

The next man dropped his bomb, increasing the damage to where it could
not be easily repaired. But then Douglas sighted enemy aircraft above.
Coming from a dive, the German fighters would be quickly on them.

Parker
turned hard right, leading them into the attack. “Battle
stations, people! Those still carrying, find a good place to
jettison, but get in formation quick!”

“‘190s,”
Brooks shouted — meaning the Focke-Wulf 190, the
Luftwaffe's versatile fighter. They had tangled with ‘190s before.
The Germans were faster, and could climb higher, but the P-40 was
more agile and had better armoring. Today, the Germans' main
advantage was their numbers.
There were simply more of them this day.
Too many more.

“I
count at least twenty,” said Rebbit, one of the new
replacements.

“At
least,” agreed Parker. The formation tightened up. Parker saw
that the enemy aircraft were going to overcast — coming in too
high. He made a sharp right, leading the men under the Germans.

Now
the real fighting would begin. They broke off into pairs, McHenry
with Douglas, as the ‘190s did as well. But the numbers quickly made
coordination impossible.

McHenry
was attempting to line up on a ‘190, only to find another attacking
from behind him. He turned, trying to shake him loose, but the man
stayed on him. He cut his power and turned into a tight barrel roll,
letting his follower overtake him. That worked. Then he pushed the
throttle to stay close behind. He almost had it in his sights but a
second ‘190 came from the side, now firing at him. McHenry made a
wild corkscrew turn, coming out of it nearly lined up on the second
‘190. They both turned and banked, but McHenry was turning tighter,
reaching for the sweet spot where their swerves could cross the
trajectory of his shells. Finally, he pushed the trigger.

He
expected to see his tracers spit forward but they didn't. His guns
didn't fire. He pushed the trigger again, with no result. With
another ‘190 behind him, he jinked left so hard it was difficult to
get his fingers to check the gun switches. They were already on. He
reset them quickly, to no avail. Leveling off only long enough to
clear his mind and try it again, slowly, his guns still didn't fire.
He toggled the gun switches off and on one more time. Nothing.

“My
guns are out!” he called. “Repeat, this is Anthem; my
guns are out.”

Douglas
was quick to reply. “Jammed?”

“Negative.
Appears electrical.”

“Reset
your gun switches,” Douglas said, sounding out of breath. They
were all busy.

“Tried
that,” McHenry said, making another tight turn while looking
back and forth for the ‘190s he was tangling with, and then deciding
to dive toward the trees. He couldn't blame Douglas for the obvious
suggestion. Allowances are made for the stress of combat. He'd have
suggested that, too.

“Anthem,
Twain,” Parker called. “Having trouble spotting you.
Can you get home?”

“West
of the main,” McHenry replied, seeing the ‘190 on his tail
again. Then he saw there were two of them again, and immediately
took this as an opportunity to help the others win the day. “Leading
two away on a chase. Don't worry about me; will shake these guys.”
No sooner had he said that that he saw one more with them.
Even
better
, he thought.
This could help even the odds for the
rest.

He
hugged the contour of the ground, hills and valleys, nearly clipping
the trees. He had to keep looking behind, then forward, occasionally
seeing the Germans' tracers fly by, and occasionally missing trees
and high tension wires by inches. He went as fast as he could while
jinking. At 275 miles per hour, he was as likely to be killed by a
tree as by the Germans.

He tried aiming toward the direction of his base but the three ‘190s had the advantage.
His heading was determined more by their attacks than by his own intent.
The best he could do was jink out of their sights while they seemed
to control the general direction. He didn't mind at first, as long
as it wasn't north. He was still alive. Then they reached the end
of the landscape, and they were out skimming over the sea.

“I'm
out over the water,” he reported, although certain the men were
out of range by now, especially at this low altitude. He kept
jinking left and right, up and down, and picking up salt spray. The
Germans rarely had a good shot at him. One of them was gone now,
probably back to rejoin the fray, but possibly out of ammunition.
Bullets are heavy. An aircraft can only carry so many. It gave him
hope that they might run out, too. The other two kept at him, and
they scored more hits. Seeing that he was leaking fuel, he changed
tanks so that he could empty that one first. There was still enough
hope that he was able to think ahead.

The
nose kept veering right. In a quick glance, he saw the edge of his
starboard wing now torn up. But, thankfully, his controls still
responded. He needed them. His life depended on his
maneuverability. He kept up his jinking, but they still forced him
out further over the sea. They scored more hits, one rattling the
armoring at his back. Wind hissed through a new misalignment of the
airframe, but the aircraft held together. Then the controls became
sluggish. He didn't even need to look behind him to know that most
of his rudder was shot out — a death sentence, he knew.

Ditching
would be the smart thing to do. One of these Germans still gets
credit for a kill, and he wouldn't need to die. Would they let him
live long enough for that?
It didn't matter
, McHenry
resolved. He was never going to give in.
Never.
He pulled
the yoke hard. The plane could still respond well up and down, so he
kept at it, jinking vertically. He only needed to last long enough
for them to run out of bullets or fuel.

Then
the two remaining ‘190s were gone. He'd have expected them to climb
first, but they turned eastward, rising only slowly to a less crazy
altitude, and clearly favoring maximum speed. Then he saw what made
them run off.

“Anthem!”
a voice shouted. It was Parker, having made a beeline from the
target area. Two planes were up at five hundred feet.

“You're
just in time,” McHenry said. “I was just about to put
them all into the Tyrrhenian Sea.” He rose steadily, angling
to join them, and then saw another formation of planes coming at
them. It was the rest of the mission.

“You know,” Douglas laughed,
“we saw you kept dodging 'em even after they'd gone.”

“Better
one too many dodges than one too few,” he replied dryly. He counted
fifteen planes above him. They didn't lose anyone. Only then did he
check his gauges and decide to switch fuel tanks again.

“We were afraid
you...” Parker started.