The Dying Time (Book 2): After The Dying Time (39 page)

Chapter 37: Dogfight

Dawn found Michael at the airfield with Able and the other pilots, preflighting the converted crop dusters and ultralights. At the last minute, Michael decided to carry his Uzi. Strange how he’d become attached to that gun, but then people get sentimental over all kinds of things. Ellen was positively sloppy over a bunch of seashells the two of them collected on a Caribbean beach during a pre-Dying Time vacation. That beach probably wasn’t even there anymore. Come to think of it, maybe that was why she loved them so much. With Michael, it was just that his Uzi had helped him out of a lot of jams, sort of like a good luck charm; not that he’d admit to being superstitious.

The pilots warmed up their engines and were taxiing for takeoff when their radios blared a warning.

“Planes! Planes!” The voice was that of Charity Kirkwell. “They’re hitting the command center! They’re hitting...”

Glancing over his shoulder, Michael saw the Kirkwell’s balloon collapse and fall toward the ground. The basket suspended under it hung in tatters.

Before the Allied pilots could get airborne, the enemy planes were on them. An Me-109 Messerschmitt, two P-51 Mustangs and a P-38 Lightning. World War Two vintage fighters, Michael noted.

He keyed his mike, saying, “Faith! Take the ultralights! Go after the tanks and artillery.”

“Roger that, Boss,” Faith said as the ultralights lifted from the runway and veered away. The ultralights required considerably less runway to get airborne than the Pitts Specials.

All Michael and Able could do was pour on the coal and hope to get up in the air before they were shot to pieces. Michael’s plane shuddered as four slugs tore through its lower left wing, ruining the LAWS rocket mounted there and then he was climbing and twisting away. The enemy had all the advantages--speed, altitude and numbers. Michael had all he could do just to keep the enemy off of him while trying to claw his way into the sky.

Able had the same problem, with one on his tail and another above him. Fortunately, the crop dusters were among the most aerobatic aircraft ever designed, not as nimble as a Sukhoi, but far more maneuverable than the enemy fighters. That gave Michael an idea.

“Able! Let’s team up, buddy and crowd their airspace a little,” Michael yelled into his radio.

As the two Allies banked toward each other, Able caught on and radioed back, “We’ll be each other’s wingmen.”

Able flashed by and Michael glimpsed shock on the face of the guy on his tail as the enemy pilot flew into Michael’s line of fire. The twin Vickers chattered and the enemy pilot’s cockpit and the face behind it dissolved in a rain of lead and shattered Plexiglas. The Mustang exploded.

One down.

Michael glanced around and mentally corrected himself.

Two down.

Able had sent the Me-109 on Michael’s tail spiraling earthward in a barely controlled dive toward a hard landing.

Michael executed a snap roll right and pulled into a hard climb. The enemy planes above had been scrambling to avoid ramming each other. By the time they untangled, Michael was on the Lightning’s tail and Able was locking on to the remaining Mustang. Able’s plane was smoking badly, but he had at least a momentary advantage.

That P-38 Michael attacked was fast and its pilot knew the score. With two engines he could out climb Michael’s crop duster, so he nosed up sharply and grabbed sky. Michael practically stood the Pitts on end and succeeded in getting the Lightning in his sights for a second. He swore viciously as the Vickers stuttered twice and jammed. By the time Michael cleared the jam, the other plane was out of range.

As the enemy pilot pulled away, Michael rolled over and dove back down to see how Able was doing. The first thing he saw was the wreckage of the other P-51 spinning ground ward. Then he saw Able, dangling beneath his chute. Able’s plane was gone, but he had done his job. As Michael zoomed past, Able gave him a thumbs- up, then began waving wildly. Michael cursed again as he veered left, but this time he was cursing his stupidity in forgetting that the P-38 could also dive faster than his Pitts. Bullets hammered into the crop duster, destroying the Vickers and cutting the launch wire to the other LAWS.

The next few minutes were a blur of spins, rolls, loops, half-loops and assorted other aerobatics Michael was certain he invented on the spot. The enemy couldn’t keep Michael in his sights because of the Pitts superior maneuverability, but every time Michael out-positioned the Lightning, it would simply out climb him and regain the advantage. It was the kind of stalemate that could last until one plane or the other ran out of fuel. And Michael knew the P-38 could stay up longer.

“All right,” he muttered. “If I can’t out-fly him, I’ll have to out-think him.”

The Lightning dove on him again. Michael flipped the little Pitts out of the way and looped onto the P-38’s tail, pounding his fist against the wrecked Vickers as the Lightning zipped through his sights.

The enemy pilot understood Michael’s performance and started getting cocky. Twice more, Michael got on the Lightning’s tail without firing. Now the P-38’s pilot was sure. He didn’t bother to out-climb Michael. He could sense victory.

They sparred for a few more minutes. Michael had to let him get close. By this time, they were several miles from the battle. Michael broke off and headed back, as though fleeing for his life--convincing enough, since he was. He hugged the deck, banking and rolling wildly to stay out of the Lightning’s sights and to convince its pilot that he was frantic. The P-38 was faster and it soon caught up.

The enemy pilot couldn’t resist gloating. He eased up on Michael’s right until the P-38 was even with the Pitts. Michael looked over at him and shrugged. The other man grinned like a wolf.

Michael snapped up his Uzi and fired out the open cockpit. The man’s smile vanished as he banked the Lightning sharply away. Michael missed the pilot but he nailed the P-38’s port engine.

Now their positions were reversed, with Michael’s crop duster faster and more maneuverable. The P-38 was crippled-- flying a two-engine plane on one engine takes an experienced pilot. The torque from the remaining engine makes the plane want to roll, so constant side stick pressure must be applied to counter the effect. It can be tough just keeping a plane in the air; forget evading an attack.

But Michael didn’t want to kill the man--he wanted to interrogate him. He also wanted that P-38. If it could be repaired, it would make a nice addition to the Allied air force, so Michael flew up alongside the Lightning, waved his Uzi at the pilot, motioning him down. The enemy pilot understood. Michael herded him back to the airfield and forced him down.

One of Daniel Windwalker’s scouts had already picked up Able Emery. The mechanic was waiting back at the base when Michael and the enemy pilot landed. Able’s crew was busy patching holes in the surviving ultralights and re-arming them, so Able declared Michael a mechanic-in-training and drafted him to help fix up the Pitts. Michael didn’t mind. The Pitts had to be repaired before he took it up again and for the moment he was tired of dodging bullets.

*

Meanwhile, the King’s armor and infantry rumbled northeast out of Payson and smashed into the Allies’ first line of defense at the Green River. In the fiercest, bloodiest fighting of the war, the Allies repelled that first blitzkrieg.

Adam watched that charge from a forward bunker, as much to gain insight into the enemy commander’s tactical strengths and weaknesses as from the fact it was Adam’s style to lead from the front. What he saw was a straight-ahead cavalry style, be-damned-to-you, all-out charge. It was an example of raw, overpowering strength, in which heavy losses are anticipated and planned for. The enemy commander was obviously expecting to simply overwhelm the Allies by sheer speed, shock-power and strength of numbers.

But Adam and Bob Young had designed the defenses well and the enemy artillery barrage hadn’t destroyed their 90 mm and 106 mm recoilless rifles. Barricade-type minefields channeled the attackers into killing grounds, where the Allied artillery was pre-ranged. Forward area scouts began radioing calls for fire as soon as the enemy rolled out of Payson. About the only thing the enemy did right was to push heavy equipment ahead of the tanks when they entered the minefields. The recoilless rifles took out several of the King’s tanks, while Faith’s ultralights accounted for another pair. Six more tumbled into tank pits, or were destroyed by Allied artillery, mines and infantry wielded LAWS rockets. Sixteen APC’s were killed in similar ways. The punishment inflicted by the enemy’s armor and artillery was horrendous.

Prince John was surprised his artillery hadn’t destroyed the Allied anti-tank guns. His losses were much higher than he anticipated. In spite of that, he almost broke through during his first attack. His cavalry charge tactics were no surprise to Adam Young, who knew tank tactics originally grew from cavalry practices. But Adam also knew the Germans had taught the British the folly of such maneuvers on the battlefields of North Africa during World War Two.

Still, there was just so much that light artillery and badly outnumbered infantry, no matter how brave, could do against armor. By focusing his artillery fire on that first Allied breastwork and by concentrating his remaining armor in a narrow area near East Bench, John was able, on his second attack, to breech the defenses and force the allies to retreat to Springville.

Adam thought hard about the enemy’s methods. Unless he missed his guess, he figured the King’s army wasn’t used to fighting against soldiers who were well prepared, well organized and well led. They’re pretty much used to steamrolling everything in their path, he decided. No commander would have ordered such a wasteful charge unless he was desperate, or overconfident, or had access to virtually unlimited supplies of men and equipment. That last was an unsettling thought.

*

Back in Payson, Prince John was doing something he rarely did: blaming himself for a mistake, berating himself for the loss of his planes. General Alexander, the man in charge of his air force, had assured him that four such war birds could sweep the enemy ultralights from the sky. If any of the Allied planes even got into the air. Dinelli was supposed to have taken care of that. And where had those biplanes that shot down his fighters come from? Damn that Dinelli!

Still, he knew he should have waited until all his planes were ready and sent them all at once. At most, it would have taken another week. What could they have come up with in another week? Considering what they’d already come up with, he decided he didn’t want to know. In any event it was now too late. He was committed.

The Major in charge of the motor pool machine shop sent word that his men had fabricated the parts needed for the P-47’s. He planned to use them as dive bombers tomorrow, ordering them to engage in aerial combat only against inferior opponents, or if attacked. Meanwhile, he decided to have them fly an aerial reconnaissance up Provo Canyon at first light.

John had been studying old maps of the area as well as those drawn by his scouts and had noted there were only two lines of retreat open from Provo. One was to the north, through the ruins of Salt Lake City and he had already taken care of that eventuality. The other was up Provo Canyon. None of his cavalry scouts had yet returned from probing that area but instead of wondering what was up there he decided to send a flanking force to cover that possibility too.

Chapter 38: Allied Dive Bombers

All through the night, the earth shook as shells from the King’s howitzers fell on Provo and Springville. Walls cracked. Ceilings collapsed. Buildings burned. It was little consolation that the Allies were able to respond by battering the King’s forward positions with their artillery. Sleep on both sides of the lines was impossible for any who weren’t absolutely exhausted. Men in both armies now learned their fathers and grandfathers, who’d fought in World War Two, Korea and Vietnam, had told the truth when they spoke of sleeping through an artillery barrage.

Those who hadn’t served on the front lines that day worked through the night at aid stations, shored up defensive breastworks, or fought fires.

That night, a combined cavalry/demolitions company under Lieutenant Dan Osaka successfully dammed Hobble Creek just before it dropped over The Fault. The resulting flood turned the ground south of Springville into a soggy swamp to bog down the King’s armor.

The following morning, it was discovered that the plan had at least partially backfired. The tanks, at least the M48A3 Pattons, were amphibious enough to be able to advance through the mud. All it did was lower their profiles, making them harder to hit and absorbing much of the force of near misses.

The enemy had lost most of its M551 Sheridans on the first day of the battle. The antique Sheridans were armed with 152 mm cannons, compared to a 90 mm gun on the Pattons, but the Sheridan’s armor was light aluminum, making it much more vulnerable than the Patton to mines, recoilless rifles and artillery shells. Those Sheridans that had survived the first day soon became mired in the mud on the second. The APC’s didn’t even try to cross the muddy flats and the goo was too deep for horse cavalry. The King’s men blew the dam and drained the water off, but it was too late to do them any good that day.

*

Michael was up in a Hornet flying his third sortie of the day against the enemy’s big M107 Howitzers. Faith Gilcrest flew beside him in the other Hornet. She was Michael’s wingman. Roy Thomas was in the Chinook. Aside from the crop duster Michael had flown the day before and which Able Emery was working feverishly to rearm, they were flying all that was left of the Allied air force. The other Waco II and the Eipper had been lost along with Dennis White and another pilot.

Each ultralight was usually armed with four M72 LAWs rockets, placed in pairs of two under each reinforced lower wing. Sheets of light gauge steel attached to those wings acted as heat shields, deflecting the ignition blast from the rocket motors away from the vulnerable wing fabric. Unfortunately, the M72 had a range of under 1000 feet--not very far when shooting from a plane. It was close. In fact, it was too close--bringing the plane and pilot within range of every machine gun, rifle and pistol in the enemy camp.

The main problem with the LAWS was that it required pinpoint marksmanship to be effective. It did okay against the thinly armored Sheridans and the APC’s, but against the Pattons, well, Michael had learned those tanks were better taken out from the ground, where a soldier had a better angle on the treads. However, the LAWS were useful against the M107 self-propelled howitzers when the rocket scored a direct hit--but the way the ultralights bounced around and the jury-rigged sighting mechanisms made lining up a target was nearly impossible.

The first two sorties convinced Michael and the other pilots they had to get within 500 feet of their target to have any chance of hitting it. The result was that the ultralights were taking a beating.

“Swiss cheese,” was the way Faith Gilcrest described the way her plane was beginning to look.

“Nah! More like mosquito netting,” Roy Thomas declared of his Chinook.

“Cheer up, folks,” Michael chimed in back at the hangar that morning, “That just means there’s less plane for them to hit.”

Faith had thrown a wrench at him. Roy had settled for a pronounced groan.

The pilots were taking a beating, too. Each of them had been hit more than once and while the flak suits had stopped the bullets, bruising was another matter. They were all stiff and sore.

The poor performance of the LAWS led Michael to the conclusion that the Allies had to come up with some sort of aerial bomb that would be more effective than the rockets. That was why Michael, Faith and Roy, the most experienced pilots, were flying this mission. They were going to test the improvised bombs Adam Young had built for them out of plastic explosives he’d retrieved from the Utah National Guard armory. Each bomb weighed between fifty and sixty pounds, which meant the ultralights could only carry three apiece. The bombs were attached below the fuselage and rigged with impact fuses; leading each pilot to pray the enemy didn’t hit one with a lucky shot.

On the plus side, fifty pounds of C-4 could take out a Patton or a howitzer. On the negative side, the explosion was so powerful it could knock an ultralight out of the air if the plane didn’t get out of blast range quick.

Michael and the others flew toward the enemy in a very loose formation at 5000 feet, trying not to think about what they were sitting on. The only other thing they had to worry about was whether or not their little planes could withstand the stress of dive-bombing. The planes were capable of aerobatic stunts when they were new, but now they were shot full of holes.

As the allied pilots passed over Lincoln Point, Michael turned his thoughts to the enemy’s howitzers. The King had placed all six M107’s near the old Keigley Quarry behind Edge Mountain (shortened from Edge of the World Mountain, as it was next to The Fault). From there the big guns, with their twenty-three mile range, had begun pounding Provo. The worst of the bombardment started early in the morning and already two of the Allies’ M102 howitzers had been permanently silenced.

Michael had decided to avoid the worst of the enemy’s AA fire by flying out over the mud flats that used to be Utah Lake. Once past Lincoln Point, he and his pilots turned southwesterly, paralleling Edge Mountain. Their goal was to hit the M107’s from a new direction, before coming under intense AA fire from the batteries ringing the howitzers. If they failed to destroy or disable all of the M107’s, they would try to find and eliminate the artillery spotters.

The weakness of the huge 175 mm guns was that their shells were too heavy to be loaded by hand. Adam had told Michael it took two men just to hoist one of the shells onto the loading tray. Hydraulics took over from there, loading the shell into the breech. Then men stuffed the proper number and size of powder bags and a firing cartridge into the breech. The three-step process meant each gun had a relatively slow rate of fire, compared to the Allies little M102s. But the M102s only had a range of about eight miles and the shells weren’t always powerful enough to knock out an enemy bunker, whereas the M107’s destroyed anything they hit.

Another problem with the M107s was that the enormous charge of powder required to propel a 175-pound shell for twenty-three miles wore the barrel out. According to Adam, his artillery buddies used to bitch that barrels only had a life of about 400 firings before they had to be replaced. Of course, if each of the King’s guns put 400 shells into Provo….

Michael knew they either had to take out the well-armored ammunition carriers or damage the gun’s hydraulics so they couldn’t be loaded. Their earlier raids had taken out two of the big cannons and now they had some decent explosives.

They passed the old radio tower, its rusted metal wreckage bleak testimony to the force of a storm that had blown down half the trees on the mountain. Now they could see White Lake coming up.

Michael keyed his mike, speaking three words. “Let’s do it.”

He put the Hornet into a dive as he saw the guns. Faith and Roy were right behind, but far enough away to seek different targets and to avoid each other’s blast range.

3000 feet.

Michael aimed his plane at the nearest howitzer. A fierce, all-consuming warrior’s joy welled up from deep within him, making him all but oblivious to the bullets and flak filling the air around him.

2000 feet.

The air streamed around his head, whipping his hair away from his face, buffeting him. The men manning the howitzer were getting concerned.

1000 feet.

The gunners fired one last shell and bugged out. Michael sent a burst of machine gun fire toward them to hurry them along. At 600 feet, he pulled the lanyard that would release the first bomb.

Michael hauled back on the stick praying the little Hornet would respond. At first, he thought his plane would follow the bomb into the howitzer, but slowly the nose came up. He kicked the rudder as soon as the Hornet was under control, banked away from the M107 and strained for altitude.

KAWHAM!

One thousand and one, one thousand and two...Michael counted silently to himself, urging the little plane skyward. One thousand and “Three!” he screamed, as the blast wave reached him and spun his ultralight about the sky like a leaf in a whirlwind.

WHAM! KABLAM!

Faith and Roy, he thought.

Michael regained control of his plane and banked around to observe the results of the attack. The first thing he saw was Faith Gilcrest’s Hornet spinning out of control. Roy was nowhere in sight.

“C’mon, Faith,” he yelled, aware that she couldn’t hear him.

She came out of the spin just in time and banked around Edge Mountain to get away from the AA fire. Then she started to climb back up to attack altitude.

Michael grabbed his mike. “Faith! You okay?”

“Right as rain, Kemo Sabe,” Faith called back.

“Roy! Where the hell are you,” Michael yelled into the mike.

“Right here, fearless leader,” and even through the radio speaker, Roy’s imitation of Boris from the Bullwinkle cartoon was unmistakable.

Finally, Michael saw him popping up from below the lip of Keigley Quarry where the rock walls had sheltered his plane from the shockwaves. Cagy sonofabitch. Michael smiled with appreciation.

Through the dust and smoke generated by the explosions, Michael could see that only one of the three targeted howitzers was out of action. Faith’s was a smoking ruin. She had scored a direct hit.

“Faith! You’re obviously the best shot,” Michael spoke clearly into the mike. “Can you tell Roy and me what we did wrong?”

“Not really,” she replied. “But I can tell what I did.”

“Shoot,” Roy said.

“I took a shallower glide path than you did, Michael,” Faith said. “And I released at 300 feet,” she added. “I couldn’t see Roy’s run.”

“Christ Faith! 300 feet?” Roy blurted the words incredulously.

“And we thought we had balls, huh, Roy?” Michael laughed. “Okay, now that we know how let’s do it again,” Michael said. “Faith girl, this time we’ll follow you down.”

As soon as they were over their targets, Faith peeled off into a dive, Michael and Roy trailing behind. Almost immediately, the flak started again. This time it seemed heavier than before. Something stung Michael’s cheek and when he wiped at it his hand came away red. A hole appeared between his feet and he felt the wind as something whipped by his face, causing him to jerk back. Shit! That must have just missed the bombs. He nudged his plane back on target. Something jolted his plane, causing the whole craft to shudder.

“You just lost your right side landing gear, Michael,” said Roy.

Michael fought the plane back under control. Going to make landing a bit tough. Well ahead of him and off to his left he saw a piece of Faith’s Hornet’s tail rudder disappear. She, too, fought for and regained control. She was very close to the ground now.

Michael saw her release her second bomb and pull up. Against his will, knowing his eyes should be fixed on his own target, he followed it down.

KAWHUMP!

The howitzer rose into the sky, somersaulted gracefully and came down on its side, more than slightly bent. Faith was two for two.

1500 feet.

Michael jerked his gaze back to his own target, swinging the nose of his plane slightly to bring it back on line. “Concentrate!” he screamed at himself. Almost there. The M107 grew as he dove toward it. Most of the crew abandoned the gun and headed for cover, but one crazy S.O.B. had mounted the gun and was straddling its barrel, firing a rifle up at Michael’s Hornet. Michael was below the flak now, but bullets were whizzing by dangerously close. One whipped past his head so close it clipped his ear. Another thunked into the plane’s cowling and he felt the engine falter then pick up again, running weaker than before. The motor coughed and Michael knew he wouldn’t be making any more bombing runs in this plane. He simply had to make this one count.

500 feet. Not yet.

400 feet. He grabbed both bomb release lanyards.

300 feet. His hand gripped the lines tightly.

200 feet. He tugged both lanyards sharply, jerked the nose of his plane up, executed a half roll and dropped like a rock into the quarry pit.

BOOM! KAWHAM!

The twin explosions thundered above him as he struggled to bring the ultralight out of its dive. Slowly, ever so slowly, the nose came up. The lake at the bottom of the quarry filled his vision. His left side landing gear nearly grazed the water as the Hornet leveled off. Michael pulled up gently on the nose and the damaged engine coughed again but kept running. He put the Hornet into a steady spiraling climb out of the quarry.