Phase Line Execute was the ridgeline up in front of them. The platoon was in front of the treeline, flanks extended to guard against one of the Japanese flanking moves. There was a long patch of level ground before the ridge rose, not high but enough to screen the ground the other side. As Yawd stared, he could see a faint trace of black smoke glistening in the morning sun. Could, just possibly be cooking fires but this was war and war wasn't that kind. That was diesel smoke and diesels meant. “Tanks.”
“Tanks.” Sirisoon said agreeably. “I wonder why they haven't attacked us yet. Must be waiting for something.”
“Us to move forward? Catch us in the open?”
“Could be. They're in for a wait. Hold one.” The radio had crackled with static for a second. Sirisoon held the headset to her ear, her eyes still fixed on the faint trace of smoke. “Received. Air raid warning get everybody down now. Nobody shoot, nobody move.”
The radar, somewhere to the rear, had been right. There was a humming noise and a couple of the Japanese light bombers swept over. Harvs, Mitsubishi Ki-51s. There were a series of sharp cracks in the treeline as the 15 kilogram bombs went off. Lying down in the elephant grass, Sirisoon silently blessed the instructors who'd hammered home a basic lesson. Never set up in a treeline. If you want to fight close, set up inside the trees, if you want a clear field of fire, set up in front of the trees but never, ever set up on the treeline itself. Because that is where you'll be expected to set up.
More cracks, a bit closer, the Harvs were trying to get her unit to give their positions away. Then she thought again. They're not sure we're here at all. The rest of the company is behind us, they may be assuming that's the main body. More cracks, and a crackle of machine-gun fire. For a moment her heart stopped, had one of her men disobeyed and opened up on the aircraft that were taunting them? Then she relaxed, the machine-guns had been the heavy thump of the Japanese 13.2 millimeter, not the rasp of the MG-34. Cautiously sneaking a look, she saw the trace of smoke from over the ridge had thickened and turned into a distinct cloud.
“Here they come. On the word, mortars fire smoke. Machine-gunners spray the infantry, sieve them away from the tanks. I want those tanks blinded, when they come out of the smoke screen, RPG-2 gunners hit the center one. He'll be the platoon commander. Concentrate on him, take him down.”
There was screaming and bugle calls from the ridge in front. Then, the Japanese swarmed over, a battle-flag flying in the center, the troops rolling forward in a khaki wave. Out in front of them were the tanks, three of them, light tanks. The Harvs were still circling overhead, waiting for her unit to reveal their position by opening tire. This, Sirisoon thought, was going to get bloody.
Ostrich Djiap-Eleven, over Phase Line Butcher, Thai/Japanese Indochina Border
“Cabrank, this is Cabrank. Ann moving in support of Pony-Sirisoon.” Flight Lieutenant Pondit frowned, that was right wasn't it. Pony was the code for a beefed-up infantry platoon, taking the point for the battalion. Sirisoon was the nickname of its commander. Thai names were so confusing to outsiders that they formed a perfect code system without any further assistance. But Sirisoon was a woman's name wasn't it? No matter, the call had come up the radio net with the speed and efficiency the Thais had perfected in the war with France seven years earlier.
Pony-Sirisoon was under attack by a combined tank-infantry-aircraft group. Now the Ostriches were streaking in to take out the enemy air cover and savage the ground units. If they lived long enough, early this morning the Japanese fighters had turned up in strength and the Ostrich units had been pummeled. The six aircraft in this formation were all that remained operational out of a full squadron.
“All aircraft Buster.” Buster was full throttle. Normally, Thai ground support aircraft flew in at medium altitude and dive-bombed their targets but with the air filling with Japanese fighters, that was suicidal. This time they were skimming through the treetops, the way they'd heard the American and Russian pilots had flown their Sturmoviks. Would it be enough when the Laylas arrived. The Ostriches had an escort now, that's why they'd been committed again. But the F-80E was an old straight winged design, could it protect them from the rakish, swept-wing Layla?
“Laylas, Laylas!” Pondit's gunner gave out the cry as he saw the shapes high overhead. Pondit dropped a little lower and Fingered the Buddha amulet hanging around his neck. If ever he needed divine protection, it was now.
F-80E Taeng-Onn-One, over Phase Line Butcher, Thai/Japanese Indochina Border
“Laylas, Laylas. Take them out!'“ Flight Lieutenant Chan Nuat-Kheo shoved his throttle forward, pouring power into his J-33 engine. There were twelve Laylas in front of Taeng-Onn flight, angling down towards the Ostriches skimming through the treetops far below. An observer wouldn't have given Taeng-Oun much of a chance. They were outnumbered three to one; their aircraft looked old and antiquated compared to the swept-wing Laylas. And, objectively they were. The F-80E was an American cast off, replaced and now its replacements were being replaced. The F-80 had been in service since 1945 and three years was a long time to stay around. Yet appearances weren't everything and Chan had spoken to the American pilots who'd trained him at Luke Air Force Base. Veterans who'd flown over the Russian Front and had hacked the German jets out of the sky.
Because appearances weren't everything. The F-80E was a joy to fly, a legendary flying machine with all the power it could handle, smooth on the controls, light, agile and above all, responsive. There was nothing Chan could ask of his aircraft that it couldn't give, if the Americans were right, the Layla was treacherous and its pilots had to pay much more attention to simply flying their aircraft and that gave the Thai pilots a subtle but decisive edge right from the start.
The Japanese pilots saw them curving in from above, the classic top-cover position. The fighters swerved around, swinging to face the diving F-80s, then abruptly hauling up into a wicked climb, the low drag of their swept wings sending them skywards as if on elastic. The lead Japanese pilot swept up under the lead of the Thai finger-four and - it was gone. Chan had simply poured yet more power into his engine for that was another advantage the F-80 had. 2,450 kilograms of thrust, almost three times that of the Layla. He'd half-rolled and slammed his throttle all the way to the stops, blasting around in a tight curve that had the Layla floundering.
The Japanese fighter tried to follow him but now another factor cut in. The F-80s straight wings turned every scrap of air flow into lift, the fighter grabbing the sky as if it was a Siamese cat climbing the curtains. The Layla had swept wings and that meant a portion of its airflow was drifting spanwise, sucking the lift away from the aircraft. Already the Layla was shuddering on the edge of a stall. And the Layla was an unforgiving beast that wouldn't stand for that sort of treatment. It whipped out from its pilot's hands and fell into an uncontrollable spin. Chan was on it in a flash, his M-3 Browning machine-guns clipping out short, sharp bursts that flayed green and gray skin from the tumbling Layla. Then, the fragments turned to Perspex before the jet gouted black and orange smoke.
Chan never watched it crash, he hauled back on the stick, climbing as fast as his J-33 would drive him. Up and over, into the maneuver that had been perfected by a German and still bore his name. The Immelman. His F-80 was in its element now, raw engine power dominating the sky as it always would. Another Layla was attempting to follow him up, a futile move because 900 kilograms of thrust couldn't compete with 2,450. Chan pointed his nose at the laboring fighter and his machine-guns snapped out a short burst. Hits flashed all over the Layla and bits chopped off as the Japanese pilot dropped out of the climb and dived away.