Return of Sky Ghost (26 page)

Somehow word about the defenders’ weapons reached back up to the SuperZeroes, who were circling the attack area in carousel fashion at about 8,500 feet. Two of them broke off from this orbit and came screaming out of the cloud layer. It was obvious they were going in to strafe the AA guns.

That’s when the STS men went into action.

One AA gun was located at the northwestern edge of the base, and, at about 3,000 yards, the closest defenders’ position to the STS team’s Roamer. One of the SuperZeroes came down to nearly wavetop level and began a run across Falkland Sound, heading straight for the AA gun which was still popping away at the SuperKates.

This flight path took it right past the cliff where the STS Roamer lay in wait. With the ’Zero slowing in speed and its pilot obviously powering up his electric guns, the STS commander sighted his hot engine and launched a half-barrel barrage of AA guided rockets. The eight projectiles went spiraling away from the hidden cliff position, turning swiftly if uneasily as their primitive radiation-seeking nose cones followed the warm electronic heartbeat being emitted by the attacking SuperZero.

Their paths might have looked uncertain, but the timing of the barrage couldn’t have been better. Five of the eight rockets hit the ’Zero and a sixth clipped its tail. There was a series of quick explosions as the tiny HE warheads blew up. A second later the SuperZero began to come apart.

First there was smoke. Then flame. Then many swirling pieces of metal, bone, and skin. Another explosion shook the morning air. After that, there was nothing left of the ’Zero or its pilot except tiny pieces of debris falling into the cold, choppy waters of the Sound.

Scratch one SuperZero.

But now the STS crew had a problem. It had revealed its position. Still, when the second SuperZero came in, mimicking its partner’s path, the Roamer opened up again, this time launching its eight remaining guided rockets. Only two of the projectiles hit the target this time, but it was enough to sheer off the unsuspecting ’Zero’s wing and send the plane careening into the sound, right after its partner.

While all this was going on, the SuperKates continued their systematic cratering of the base’s northwest runway. Several control buildings had also been hit and now long plumes of smoke were beginning to rise above the airfield.

The Japanese planes were going about their job in a very leisurely fashion. The base’s AA guns were still firing, but now a swarm of ’Zeroes came screaming down and, avoiding the lethal approach over the sound, began mercilessly strafing both AA guns from the opposite direction.

Even worse, a six-pack of SuperZeroes had located the Roamer’s position and were now coming out of the sky, cannons powered up, intent on destroying it.

The crew of the Roamer locked up tight and began moving off the cliff. Its commander knew he had to get to a less exposed position, but such a maneuver would be difficult. The terrain all around Point Curly was wide open, rocky, with barely a tree or a bush in sight to hide behind. Their only chance, and it was a slim one, was to make a mad dash for the bottom of the cliff, where heavy beach foliage and some convenient rock outcrops could be found.

Two ’Zeroes came in just as the huge tracked vehicle had backed out onto the roadway from which it had come. Both ’Zeroes opened up with electric guns and cannon, both missing the Roamer cleanly, but not by a wide margin.

A second pair of ’Zeroes were right on their tails. Their aim was true, and in seconds heavy machine gun rounds began pinging all over the Roamer’s turret.

It was at this point that the Roamer’s commander sent an urgent message back to the command hut at the farmhouse, telling them they were under attack, that there was little they could do about it, and to please dispatch “any and all” aid or recovery forces—STS lingo for, send some body bags for us. So desperate was this message—sent as a third pair of ’Zeroes were homing in—the Roamer commander ended it with the even more fateful words, “God Save the Queen.”

All did seem rather bleak inside the Roamer at that moment. They were about to be torn apart by cannon shells, McReady airfield was about to be bombed out of existence, and a substantial naval force was on its way to invade the island, all of which would put their main responsibility—the operation at the farmhouse—in dire straits indeed.

To a man then, the STS troopers believed that they had fucked up royally and that by failing to protect the secret at the farmhouse, they’d triggered a widespread, global event of historic proportion.

That’s why it was so strange that in that last dark second when they were convinced only a miracle could save them, that’s exactly what happened.

Their first indication was that the expected barrage of armor-piercing, skin-ripping, bone-crunching cannon fire never came. They heard the ’Zeroes bearing down on them—but they heard another sound as well. This one was deeper on the mechanical end, yet higher in pitch.

The noise, and the strange echoing that accompanied it, led them to think that whatever was making it was going very very fast.

They did hear the unmistakable sound of an aerial cannon going off—this was the last sound many a soldier had heard, and it was terrifying. But the fusillade did not hit the Roamer. Instead the Roamer just kept on going, at full speed, twisting and turning down the steep road off the cliff.

The commander was pounding his driver on the back to go faster, and the driver was trying to comply. But in the confusion and the sheer elation of not being dead yet, the commander did not realize the vehicle’s power plants had no more rpm left in them.

About hallway down the hill they heard more cannon fire, more screeching engines—but still, no gut-wrenching cannon barrage came. The driver was now eyeing a small forest at the bottom of the hill, hard by a frozen bog and next to an outcrop of thick granite rocks. It would be a perfect place to hide.

He made for it quickly. Through more noise and engine screeching and cannon rattling, the big vehicle somehow skidded its way through the trees and under the protective granite top.

Only then did the commander order all stop and told his men to stay fast and in place.

Then he lifted the turret hatch and had a look out.

Jet engines were still screaming and cannons were still rattling and the bombing of McReady field was still booming in the background, but the commander wasn’t paying much attention to any of it. He was looking straight up into the clear cold sky above them.

For the first time ever, his men actually heard him curse.

“Goddamn!” he yelled excitedly. “What the hell is
that?”

Across the sound at McReady, the crew manning AA gun emplacement #2 was running out of ammunition.

It had been years since they’d fired their gun, it was a small wonder it was working at all. They had been hitting targets since the terrifying aerial attack began five minutes ago. The sky was so full of Japanese aircraft, it would have been hard
not
to hit anything.

So they had destroyed three SuperKates and had damaged at least three more. But again, it didn’t make any difference. There were so many enemy airplanes roaring about, killing three and banging three would have little effect. There was no doubt who would ultimately prevail in this battle.

But the gun crew had been firing away madly nevertheless and now they were running out of ammunition. Once they ran through their last magazine, what would happen? They didn’t know ….

Meanwhile, the enemy airplanes were so systematically attacking the air base, it was easy to see what their plan was. The main north-to-northwest runway was destroyed by now, as were the two smaller east-to-west strips. But this still left four major runways unscathed, three big enough to handle fighters, one that could handle everything but monsters.

It was the same with the hard targets. The attackers had blown up the half dozen support buildings at the base, along with the main access road, a bridge, and the water desalination plant. Left untouched were the weather rooms, the control towers, the main radar station, the fueling facility, and the backup communications hut.

So the intentions were clear: The attackers were seeking to disable the air base but not destroy it. In other words, they wanted to take it over.

And kill everyone on the ground in the process.

That’s what happened to Gun Crew #1, far across the base. They and their gun had gone up in a huge explosion about a minute before, courtesy of a double pounce by a pair of SuperZeroes. Now Gun Crew #2 was all that was left between the attackers and giving up the ghost. Though valiant and loyal, none of the six men in the crew wanted to the here, in the lonely northwestern edge of East Falkland Island, literally out in the middle of nowhere.

But that’s what was going to happen. The crew let off its last ammo tube, and tore a good chunk off the tail of a SuperKate—and then the gun went dry.

The gun crew had rifles, but it would have been pathetic to try to fight off the huge fighters and attack planes with small-caliber ammunition. Not that the gun crew would have any chance to do so. Now that the first gun crew was gone, no less than eight SuperZeroes were diving on the #2 gun position. Each plane had four machine guns and a cannon. Combined, one plane could spit out nearly 300 rounds in three seconds. Multiplied by eight, that’s the fusillade that awaited the hapless gunners.

It was odd, then, because the British soldiers did raise their rifles at the first SuperZero coming in. They all knew they were just seconds from death in this godforsaken place. The SuperZero was coming right across the tarmac at them, five yellow splashes of light emanating from its nose and wings. The air was suddenly filled with fire and hot, piercing lead. A couple of the men began praying. A couple began shooting back….

And then, something very strange happened.

To the men in the guncrew, it looked like a white streak—a bolt of lightning from the cold, smoky sky.

It went by them so fast, it really
was
a blur. No sharp edges could be detected at all. A second later, the SuperZero that had been bearing down on the gun crew was gone. There was some smoke, some flame, and a few pieces of wreckage, but nothing else remained. Instead of a barrage of deadly cannon fire and machine gun bullets, the gun crew was covered in a small cloud of cinders.

The men looked at each other in disbelief. The bombing of the field was continuing, jet engines were still screeching, explosions were still going off. Yet somehow, they were still alive.

Now the second SuperZero was coming in low and slow and firing all its guns at once too. Suddenly the white streak was back and the attacking enemy airplane went up in a ball of fire and smoke as well. The same thing happened to the third ’Zero, and then the fourth.

Lying on the ground, hands over their heads at this point, the members of the gun crew looked up and saw this strange flying thing above them again. The white streak was taking on the image of an airplane, but it was still going terribly fast. Attacking planes were falling out of the sky all around them. Crashing, exploding, disintegrating—suddenly the gun crew was more in danger of getting killed by a piece of falling wreckage than by the bombs and cannon rounds of the attackers.

A SuperKate, totally in flame, came crashing down no more than fifteen feet away from the depleted gun, so close it had actually burned several gun crew members slightly. At that moment the crew got up as one and ran toward a cement embankment next to a burning maintenance shed nearby.

From here they had a better view of what was going on above them. But still it was a fantastic, confusing scene.

The white streak was a fighter aircraft. They could see it better now. Its wings and nose were emitting huge streaks of muzzle flame—much bigger than those of the attacking Japanese planes. It was shooting down the enemy aircraft as if they were standing still. Its pilot was making his way through the attackers, weaving a tapestry of flame and jet exhaust in his deadly wake. No shot was wasted, no movement of the airplane superfluous. Every bullet hit, every cannon round exploded, every attacker caught in its gun sights went down.

But this airplane—it just didn’t seem real. It was going too fast, flying too low. It was performing aerobatics that seemed to defy physics itself. The attacking airplanes tried like hell to get out of its way, but once before its gun barrels, the white streak would simply emit a few well-placed cannon rounds and go on to the next attacker. The plane hit would invariably go down in flames.

This all lasted less than two minutes, but as the gun crew watched in awe, it seemed to go on for hours.

Finally, the scream of jet engines began to fade. The sound of gunfire drifted away, and all that was left was the wind whipping off the sound and the crackling of flames all over the heavily damaged base. Those Japanese planes not shot down had turned tail and were running for home.

The gun crew saw the white streak roar overhead and out to sea to a point about fifteen miles offshore. Here they saw a glint of yellow and a large puff of black smoke. This grew larger and closer and the gun crew saw that it was actually another airplane. A recon plane of some sort, bug-eyed in appearance, with six engines, all now trailing smoke. The white plane had somehow spotted it, had shot it up, and now its pilots were desperately trying to make a crash landing on solid ground. To crash at sea, in the cold South Atlantic, meant certain death to everyone on board.

It took about thirty seconds for the recon plane to reach the shoreline, its wings smoking, its fuselage in flames. It suddenly veered off to the right, went across the sound, and crashed onto a small island about hallway between East and West Falkland.

After that, it got real quiet. Just the wind could be heard.

Then the white plane landed.

The gun crew joined the dozen or so survivors of the air base in running across the burning tarmac, toward the long runway where the white plane had set down. At that same time, the Roamer, recovered from its ordeal on West Falkland, had forded the sound and was climbing up onto the long runway from the other side.