General LeMay's furious anger had faded and he was listening to the Russian with professional attention. “Guards-Colonel, we have the B-60 coming, A jet-engined version of the B-36. Not quite so much range but faster and higher flying. Beyond that we have the B-52, faster and higher-flying still.”
“Yes General, and so the cat moves to a higher branch. And still the dogs will catch it one day. And when it does, the cat will be torn apart. General, when we hunt bombers we have only one thing to think about at a time. First to find the bomber. Then to reach the bomber. Then to kill the bomber.
“Radar has solved the problem of finding the bomber. Oh I know how good your radio-electronic warfare equipment is but radar will still tell the fighters the bomber is coming and roughly where it is. Reaching the bomber is something we are working on now. We will solve that too. If the XF-86 and the MiG-15 don't achieve this, then the next generation will. Already we have an advanced MiG-15 on the drawing boards. Two years, perhaps three and the MiG-17 will be here at Red Sun. Killing the bomber? Once we have reached it that is easy. We have heavy cannon, we have rockets, already both our countries are working on practical air-to-air missiles. And through all this, the bomber just sits there, a passive target to be hunted.
“Over the last few weeks, the fighters have failed again and again but they are still the hunters and the B-36 is still the hunted, passive, waiting to be killed. Today, for the first time, it was different, A bomber attacked the fighter. Look at the films in the cameras. The pilot of the XF-86 didn't know what to do. He panicked because this had never happened to him before. Bombers do not attack fighters, only today one did. His reaction was the same as a tiger who has just been bitten by a rabbit. He thought, this cannot be happening. Sitting where I was, I could see that the solution to his problem was simple; all he had to do was dive away, pick up speed and come back after us before we could have climbed to safety. He did not think of doing that. Because that would have been a fighter conceding victory in a dogfight to a bomber and he could not do it.
“Sir, if the bomber has the ability to attack the fighters, that complicates the task of the fighter very greatly. The fighter pilot must not only think of attacking the bomber, he must think of defending himself as well. The GB-36 and the F-85 are steps in that direction but there are bigger and better ones to be made.”
“Guards-Colonel, we built a version of the B29 as an escort bomber. The YB-41, we doubled its armament, gave it multiple quad-fifties. Some even had twin or quad 20mms. The Germans got them all. Shot them all down. Every one of them.”
“I know the YB-41 General. I saw some of them go down. For all their extra guns, they were just prey. A bit tougher, a bit harder to kill but still prey. They were passive and they died. I believe the key is an active defense. A bomber that can take the fight to the fighters. Your strategic reconnaissance B-36s map enemy defenses, why should they not attack them as well?”
“How can a bomber take the fight to the fighters?” LeMay's voice was a bullying derisive sneer. “Loaded down with fuel and bombs, how can it. You were lucky today; you had a fighter that was almost helpless. How can a bomber have the performance to fight a fighter?”
“It can't General. So we build the performance into the weapon, not the aircraft.”
LeMay's expression didn't change, it couldn't. Bell's Palsy saw to that. But if he had been able to, his jaw would have dropped open. It was an elegant concept, one that would solve problems far into the future. Build performance into the weapons. Arm the bombers with the new air-to-air missiles. Use the strategic reconnaissance aircraft to blast a path through the defenses so the bombers would have a clear ride. It wasn't just elegant, it was brilliant.
Red Sun had been designed to develop fighter defenses against bombers like the B-36 yet it looked like the first big lesson was one that would greatly increase the threat, not develop a counter to it. His mind started to gallop ahead. The new strategic reconnaissance aircraft would have to be fast, relatively agile, and flexible so it could counter whatever unknowns a defense could throw at it. Something that could trick the enemy into engaging it, then destroy whatever the enemy threw up A real hustler of an aircraft. Then, he put that idea away for another time when he had an opportunity to think.
The Russian was still standing in front of him, his expression still one of polite helpfulness. “Guards-Colonel, you have made your point. And Texan Lady made hers. Tell me, Pokryshkin. just what does it take to intimidate you Russians?”
Pokryshkin returned the baleful stare, glare for glare. “General, Sir, you really never have met my mother have you?”
General LeMay shook his head. “Dismissed,. Get out the whole lot of you before I change my mind and bust you all to Airman Basic.”
Outside, Dedmon sighed and relaxed against the wall. “Alex, thank you. I thought we were doomed for sure.”
Pokryshkin did his best to look solemn and dutiful. “If necessary, it is the duty of the fighter to die in the defense of the bombers they are sworn to protect.” Then his face broke into a grin. “Besides, communism did my country immense harm but it had one great virtue. The threat of facing an NKVD interrogator taught every good Russian to think on his feet.”
Dedmon chuckled, more with relief than anything else. “Come on Alex, I'll buy you a beer or six. I have to ask though, did your mother really have a run-in with an amorous bear.”
“In a way. She was attacked by a bear once but there was no harm done. She punched it out.” Pokryshkin looked at the Americans sideways, to see if they'd fall for it.
“Uh huh.” Dedmon's voice was skeptical. “Tell us about it. Over beers.”
Portsmouth Naval Base, Great Britain,
“Oh no! Not her too!” Commander Fox had been let through the main gate of Portsmouth Royal Naval Dockyard and had walked along the wide road leading up to the base's administrative area. In a way, he'd been pleasantly surprised by the city. The stories had been that it had been bombed to a flat ruin, the few remaining people living in wooden-covered holes in the ground. It hadn't been that bad, not quite. The buildings had been shot up, strafed, bombed, rocketed, but enough of them survived to make the city livable. It was even a shadow of its former self, the Pompey of old, the sailors dream and the Master-at-Arms nightmare was still there. Getting off the train and walking down to the road that lead to the base, he'd felt quite cheered. Then, he'd turned the corner to see this.
Victory was still sitting in her concrete basin but her masts were down and there was a blackened hole almost dead amidships. Even from a distance, Fox could see where fire had curled out through the gunports and licked at her sides. Almost without wanting to, almost not wanting to, Fox broke into a run. The other side of the ship was as bad as he'd feared. It must have been one of the big rockets, the ones the Americans called Tiny Tim. It had blown out almost a third of the ship's side and sprayed the wood fragments over half the yard. A gaping, savage exit wound surrounded by the black infection of fire.