Steven Boyett - Fata Morgana

“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—”

Broben snatched off his headset. “Son of a bitch!” he yelled. “I got shocked.”

Farley frowned. He held the wheel with one hand and clamped the other under his arm to pull off one of his wool-lined gloves and the thin Rayon glove beneath. The cockpit air felt like ice. He tapped the throttle with a bare finger—and saw the bluewhite flash just before he felt the shock.

He glanced at the instruments as he put his gloves back on. The azimuth indicator was rolling like a hamster wheel. Every level indicator was topped—oil, manifold, fuel, batteries.

“We’re picking up some kind of static electricity,” Farley said. “Everybody keep your gloves on and be careful what you touch.”

Broben pointed to his throat and shook his head. The interphone was out.

Then Farley felt the drumming of two sets of twin .50s as Martin and Wen began to fire.

The interphone went dead and Martin realized that there would be no coordinating with the crew on targets. And no help getting out of the ball. He was as isolated as he could get. Procedure now was to shoot at anything that moved and spoke German. But even as he worked the range finder pedal and sighted on the closing fighters and felt his thumbs slide above the red fire buttons, he could not rid himself of the memory of the Ill Wind, of an image of the crew above him all dead at their stations, the Fata Morgana a ghost ship sailing Martin toward the landing he’d evaded once before.

For a few seconds the world dissolved. Martin had seen horses walleyed and crazed but until that moment he had not understood that blind fear could be a literal truth. And then it cleared and he was screaming as both thumbs mashed the fire button at the Bf 109 fighter closing on the bomber’s tail so straight and fast it looked like the son of a bitch was going to ram them.

Above him the bomber began to shake. The fuselage was ringing like a bell.

Martin’s tracer rounds were falling short. The bandit was still out of range. Martin’s suit was still unplugged and he couldn’t feel his feet. Frostbite would be the least of his worries if he didn’t smear this joker.

The German pilot would likely fire a one-second burst at the last possible moment and then veer off. The Messerschmitt was flying level behind the bomber because the tail gun was no longer a threat. Two others hung back in formation behind it, waiting their turn. Martin could not fire upward and Wen, in the top turret, could not fire down. The bastards were going to be hard to hit.