There was a murmur of agreement.
“Right. Let's get out there. And let’s do things to them that we most certainly do not want done to us.”
Administrative Building, Nevada Test and” Experimental Area
“We've got the wrong aircraft. That's all there is to it.” The voice was loaded with frustration and anger. Not to mention fear. The trials had been going on for two weeks now and. from the fighter pilot's view, they had been a complete failure. Nothing, but nothing, they had been able to do had even got them close to the B-36s. To make matters worse, some sadist organizing the exercises had designated each evolution after an American city. Today's had been “Mission Springfield” and, like all the rest, the question wasn't whether the fighters could defend the target but how badly they would fail and how close the B-36 Hometown would get to dropping its device on the aiming point. The answers had been disastrously badly and five hundred feet. If this had been the real world, Springfield would be history. The thick atmosphere of misery and futility could be cut with a knife.
“What do you mean Francis?” Gabreski's F-74s were the highest flying of all the American fighters in the exercise. They could get up to over 48,000 feet, agonizingly close to the B-36s cruising serenely over their heads, but not quite close enough. And, to make matters worse, it took almost 20 minutes to reach that altitude. The B-36s had seen them coming and changed course just enough to preclude any possibility of an intercept.
“Four thousand pounds of thrust just doesn't hack it. We need power, much more power.” By the time the F-74s had got up to their service ceiling, their engines were pushing out less than 600 pounds of thrust. “And we need swept wings.”
“There's a possible answer to that. North American is sending over a prototype, the XF-86A, for testing. Should be here in a day or so. Got the J-47 engine, same as the B-36s, and swept wings. North American is claiming 49,000 feet and getting there in 15 minutes. Artem, is there any chance of getting some MiG-15s over here?”
Across the room, the Russian designer shook his head. He spoke slowly and the interpreter paused a little before relaying his words. “The Chief Designer says that he is very sorry but it is quite impossible. We have a serious problem with the aircraft and it is proving difficult to solve. At 1,000 kilometers per hour, the aircraft drops a wing and stalls. Goes into a... mmmm ...., a flat spin? And crashes. Already we have lost three aircraft to this. He says that if they could get a MiG-15 here they would but it just cannot be done. We will be visiting North American soon and perhaps they can help.”
Mikoyan spoke again and again the interpreter paused before answering. “The Chief Designer also says that perhaps this would not help anyway. The problem is not swept wings, they give extra speed but they are less efficient at giving lift. So there is a penalty in altitude to pay. The key is wings and engine power. For high altitude the aircraft needs much power and wings with lift. After all, he says, that is why the B-36 can fly so high. Big wings and much power.”
“Navy aircraft then.” Joseph McConnell spoke from a corner of the room. His F-80Gs were actually 30 miles per hour faster than the F-74s at low altitude but their performance bled off quickly with altitude and they ran out of climb 3,000 feet below the newer tighter. “Navy birds have lower wing loadings than ours; they have to in order to land on a carrier. Perhaps we should call in the Navy?” There was a groan around the room, quickly stifled.
“It's worth trying, the latest model Banshee gets up to 48,500 and can do it in ten minutes. The Panthers are a bit worse in both departments. But, stripping them down might give us some capability.”
“Why do we worry about this? It's not as if anybody can copy the B-36 yet.” George Davis's voice was aggrieved and combative. His Stomnbirds had shown up badly, so much so they'd been withdrawn to be rebuilt. The idea had been good, the Stormbird had a 75mm cannon in its nose and the operational concept had been to get it up as high as it could and then use it as a sky-fired anti-aircraft gun. The problem was they'd run out of altitude at 37,500 feet and that just wasn't high enough to make the idea work. The F-71s were having every possible ounce of weight stripped out of them to see if that would make the idea feasible.
“We wish that was true. Only, it isn't. The Japanese Navy are working on a long-range heavy bomber, the Frank. We don't know its performance details but it's B-36 size. We have to assume that its got the same altitude capability. You see, the Japanese Navy are building two German designs, the Heinkel He-274 and the He-277. The Germans gave up on them back in '44 when they ditched their heavy bomber effort in favor of fighters and ground support but the Japanese Navy has both in service, the 277 in quite large numbers.
“The 274, the CADS code name is Dick, can get up to 47,000 feet, the 277 to 49,000. That one's the Eric according to CADS. They haven't got the range to worry us yet; the Dick is strictly a medium-range bomber radius is around 600 miles tops. Eric's at the bottom of the heavy bomber range capability, operational radius about a thousand miles. So, neither aircraft is a threat to us yet but we have to recognize the possibility that the Japanese will apply the technology from the two German aircraft to their own long-range bomber. Then we have a very real threat to the American mainland.
“How long will that take? We don't know. But, how long did the Germans think they had before we flew over their defenses and blew them into the history books?”
“Guys, I've had a thought.” Colonel Pico stopped and looked at McConnell. “Our fighters can't get up high enough to stop a B-36, but there's one aircraft that can.”
“Go on Joe, you can't leave it there.”
“I used to be a bombardier before I got into flight school. The only aircraft that can get up high enough to fight a B-36 is another B-36. So why don't we intercept the inbound high attitude bombers with B-36s and drop atomic bombs on them?”
There was a profound silence. Eventually, Pico looked around the room. “Will somebody, please think of a reason why that isn't a good idea? Anybody, please?”
Approaches to HM Submarine Base, Faslane, UK
The rain was savage, lashing across Xena's sail in an almost horizontal sheet, driving into the men's eyes and streaming off the superstructure around them. It had long since penetrated the towel Commander Fox wore around his neck and was now soaking under his oilskin and into his shirt and vest. He had a megaphone held over his face, reversed so the wide end covered his eyes and he could look out of the narrow end through the torrent that would otherwise have blinded him.
“Approaching the cleared channel now. Swampy, is this rain hot?” It was a question that wouldn't have occurred to Fox a few weeks earlier.
Across the bridge, trying to shelter behind the periscope stays, Swamphen shook his head. “Last year might have been a little above background but the winter washed all that muck out of the air. This'll be clean.” Swamphen spoke confidently, apparently in sure knowledge of the theoretical basis of his statement. In fact, he'd been worried enough by the rainstorm to take a few Geiger counter readings. To his relief, he'd found the rain was wet, not hot.