Almost by instinct, Nual looked at the Gail, counting the flashes, two on the nose, four in the wings. Six 13mm machine-guns. The Japanese had nailed him beautifully, he'd been outflown, outthought, outfought. There was only one way out and Nual took it, yanking back on the stick, slamming the controls over, pulling through the stream of tire in a crazy, tumbling maneuver that arced his heavy tighter up, out of the cone of fire and killing all his speed and energy in one crazy gyration. With all the speed and energy from his dive, the Japanese pilot couldn't match the insane aerobatics and he raced past, the pilot wondering how he could have missed.
He hadn't. Nual had felt a dull thump in his thigh, not a bullet because his leg still worked but something else. A fragment blown off the airframe? He jerked the stick over to the right and stamped a full right rudder, then swept the stick over to the left. The Thunderstorm went crazy from the opposing control inputs, spinning around its axis, tumbling in the sky, only the massive power of its big radial keeping it from stalling out completely. Nual felt himself bounce off the cockpit sides, the Thunderstorm was built for American pilots and its proportions were generous for Thais.
The Japanese was coming in again; his turn had been wide, dictated by speed, by gravity, by centrifugal forces. He was superb; forcing the combat to close range where his rapid-fire machine-guns had the advantage. Nual used tricks he'd never heard of, that nobody had thought of to keep out of the fierce attacks, each time gaining experience, gaining a little more of the measure of this terribly skilled adversary. His Thunderstorm lacked the agility to dodge and twist with his enemy but he had the speed and, given a chance, he could separate. Then the positions would change and his big 37s came into their own. Now, every time the Japanese set up for one of his slashing passes, Nual could lead his path of flight and a burst of 37mm shells would thump out. But it wasn't enough, the Japanese was a natural pilot, one for whom his tighter was an extension of his own limbs, his own thoughts and he would slip though the long-range bursts of fire with little damage and then the battle would change again, and Nual would once more be dodging the streams of machine-gun fire.
228
He had another problem; his fuel gauge was edging down slowly but surely into the red. The dogfight was a stalemate but only because his engine was at full power, gulping fuel. Sooner or later, he'd run out and the Thunderstorm would be a big, heavy, glider. Easy prey. Time for a last throw of the dice. The Gail was making another pass, the 13mm bullets surrounding the Thunderstorm. Then, the Japanese raced past him and Nual slammed full left rudder, stick over to the left, emergency power and full forward on the stick. As the Thunderstorm started to tumble, he reversed the rudder and stick and headed straight down, out of the fight in a whirling snap-dive. The Thunderstorm was big and it was heavy and it picked up speed fast in a dive. The Gail was following him down, the Japanese pilot grimily determined to catch the pilot whose nerve had clearly broken. He was running from the battle. What sort of warrior was this? Below him, the Thunderstorm had stopped receding and the two aircraft were holding position.
Then, the Thunderstorm started to grow in the Japanese pilot's sights; it had pulled out of its dive and was running straight and level. In his mirror, Nual could see the Gail following him down, a thin line of black smoke streaming from its exhaust as it tried to catch him up. Then, as he saw the bright flashes on the wings and nose of the Gail, he hauled back on the stick, throwing the aircraft in a vertical bank, reversing the turn as it started. The Japanese pilot tried to follow the turn but his speed was too great, in his determination to catch the Thunderstorm he'd let speed and energy and centrifugal force build up until they'd locked his aircraft on its course. Right past the nose of the Thunderstorm.
Nual took his time for the fight was over. His cannons thumped and the big shells struck home, one blowing the engine off its mounts, another smashing the fuel lines open, a third shredding the cockpit and everything in it. There were others as well but they didn't matter. The Gail was already exploding in mid-air. Nual pulled back, turning his aircraft away from the ball of fire that had once been the Japanese fighter.
Then, he looked around the sky, only to see it was empty. They'd gone, all of them, he was the only survivor. The score was four for three. Somehow, it didn't seem like a victory.
Short of Phase line Execute, North of Tong Klao Village, Recovered Provinces, Thailand
“How are your feet holding out?”
Private Kan's facial expression was a combination of relief and nervousness. He'd been one of two men who'd had trouble with their feet the day before, typical of garrison soldiers who'd spent to much time in barracks and not enough in the field. Not taking proper care of one's feet wasn't the worst sin an infantry man could commit, not quite, but it was certainly close.
“They're fine Ell-tee. The stuff worked fine but it’s gone and burned holes in my socks.” A ripple of laughter swirled around the men in the group. The previous evening Sirisoon had noticed a couple of the men limping and made it her business to find out why. Then she'd produced a bottle of the Army's dreaded stuff, a lotion designed to cure the problems that afflicted soldier's feet. Like most army solutions, it was quick, violent and more than a little indiscriminate but also effective.
“You're lucky it’s only your socks. Had an Ell-tee once, stirred the stuff with his eating irons. Turned them green it did, then dissolved them. Had to spend the rest of the march eating with his fingers.” Another ripple of laughter spread across the group. Sergeant Yawd smiled contentedly, a scratch platoon was settling down into a real team, even the repples who'd arrived the night before were finding their place. Of course, having an officer who knew what she was doing helped. Yawd stopped briefly, realizing the import of his casual thought.
“Sergeant, a word please.” The two drifted away from the rest of the unit. “Company says we have to hold here. Hold if attacked but don't move forward to Phase Line Execute. Rest of the Company is on Phase Line Decimate two klicks behind us.”
“What gives Ell-tee? What are the brass up to?” Sergeant Yawd looked at Sirisoon and saw the black pupil of her eyes contract almost to a dot. She was gone, her mind somewhere else. When she came back she would know exactly what was happening, why it was happening and what would happen next. A couple of the men had noticed it and there was a quiet whisper doing the rounds that their strange Ell-tee wasn't a human at all, that she was a pret, a ghostly spirit who had taken human form. One who could see the future and anticipate it.
That had come in eerily useful all morning. The Japanese Army Air Force had been up, over the battlefield with their light bombers. Mostly Harvs and Kens but there'd been reports of the new Oscar in other areas. Yesterday, it had been the Thai Air Force that had dominated the battlefield, today it had been absent and it had been the Japanese turn to lash at the ground troops with aircraft. Neither Harv nor Ken carried the devastating firepower of the Ostriches but they were there. The Ostriches weren't. Some of the Harvs had attacked Sirsoon's unit but she'd had a strange art of knowing when they were likely to appear and finding cover just in time.
“It’s a converging advance, it has to be. We're pushing slowly forward and that's doing two things. One is its pulling the enemy forward onto us. The other is its making sure that the other limb of the advance doesn't crunch into us rather than the enemy. Standard drill for taking out a riverhead like this is to attack its flanks by the river. Pinch it off, surround it and destroy it. Has to be that, can't be anything else. Sergeant, do you see that, up by Execute?”