“We have some more information from the ground observers sir and from the radars. There is a line of single aircraft, well ahead of the main formation. They are the ones flying highest. Then there are scattered small groups behind them and the main mass of the bombers still further behind.”
That made things a little clearer. The advance line were the pathfinders. Their job was to find and identify the target. The formations behind were the markers. They'd bomb the target and compare the places the bombs actually landed with where they had aimed. The main force would then use that correction to place their own bombs more accurately. Herrick had been wondering how the Americans were planning to hit anything from such extreme altitude. Now it made sense. They'd obviously studied the failure of the earlier raids and come up with this solution. One thing was obvious, these weren't B-29s. There had been rumors that the Americans were building a new bomber, some said it had six engines, others ten. Didn't matter, they'd find out when they looked at the wreckage. The key to the situation was that line of pathfinders. If they could be taken out, the inbound formation would be blinded and they would be back to scattering bombs at random. So now he knew where to concentrate.
“Order the Ju-635 groups to get airborne and climb to maximum altitude. Vector them in on that advance line of aircraft. Order the RCCs to launch their fighters to finish off any cripples that come down to lower altitudes. The LCCs are to engage the small formations following advance line with their rocket fighters.” The Me-263s could get up to 16,000 meters -just. If they broke up the target markers as well as the pathfinders, the whole raid would be compromised. Any of the LCCs that have Wasserfall are to engage the leading line. Wasserfall had an advertised operational ceiling of 18,000 meters, more than enough. There were just so few of them in so few batteries. 12 missiles per site, one site per LCC. Fortunately, most were in the Ruhr, right in the path of the oncoming bombers.
Admiral's Quarters, USS Gettysburg CVB-43, Bay of Biscay.
It didn't look like Gettysburg would be going home after all. She had been scheduled to go for a major refit that would see her get the new hurricane bow, the forward hull plating being extended all the way up to the flight deck so the bow structure was fully enclosed. Chancellorsville had just arrived with the new design and it was working well. But now, Shiloh had been hit and was, at best, going to be in dock for a long time. That meant Admiral Charles Skimmer and the Gettysburg would have to remain on station to replace her. And then there was this.
Everybody knew the Big One was under way. The sky looked as if a giant rake had been drawn across it; from horizon to horizon it was covered with the high-altitude contrails of the B-36 formations. The first wave had already passed, the second wave was fast approaching. And the orders on his desk were part of that. Strange inexplicable orders.
The whole point of the B-36 plan was to fly at high altitude so the bombers couldn't be intercepted. But one section of bombers, the one heading for Paris was going in much lower than the rest. And 24,000 feet was very low - for a B-36. So much so that TG-57.3 was ordered to provide fighter cover. Escort and flak suppression. The flight plan was in the orders. Absent-mindedly Skimmer traced it out on his chart. Crossing France to a point just south of Paris, then swing to that course and over.... The map looked familiar somehow. Skimmer took a closer look then looked hard again. Suddenly the connection dropped into place. They couldn't possibly be thinking of THAT, they couldn't. Could they? Would they?
Surely not..... Skimmer was fighting hard to stop himself
erupting into laughter, if that was what they really had in mind... but they couldn't. Surely they couldn't?
It was time to brief his CAG. Foreman was outside and Skimmer called him in. “How you doing Paul? Enjoyed your swim?” Foreman. His back was still killing him from the ejection and there was a disconsolate Ensign-level Flivver driver on the hangar deck whose beloved mount had just been commandeered and repainted to become Made Marian II. The Doc had passed him OK to fly so he was back on the roster. And he was involved in what was coming next.
“What do you make of this Paul?” Skimmer passed him the orders and flight plan and sat back to watch the reaction. Foreman read the orders, eyebrows raised slightly, then automatically checked the flight plan against the charts. As Skimmer had expected, he looked at Paris casually, then did a double-take and made a much closer look.
“They can't be planning to do THAT. Can they? It’s just not possible. Even if it was, they couldn't be planning THAT?” He was shaking his head, Foreman was having an even harder job than Skimmer, first in believing what he was seeing and then in preventing himself from erupting into laughter. “But if it can be done, and if that's what they are planning, it’s a beauty. A classic. Epic even. The French will never recover. Admiral Sir, we've GOT to get that big momma through.”
Skimmer nodded, still trying to contain himself. Then both men gave up and erupted into helpless laughter. Behind them, on the horizon, a column of smoke marked the site of the burning Shiloh.
Electronics Pit, RB-36H “Ain't Misbehavin” 55,000 feet over the German Border.
Electronic fingers feeling out to find an enemy. Touching, approaching and retreating. Sensing what was out there, what moved and what was quiet. Fingers whose movement showed on the displays of the Electronics Pit. Ain’t Misbehavin and the 22 men on board her were doing their job, getting the measure of the enemy defenses, finding their strengths and weaknesses, plotting a route for the bombers that were following behind them. Ain't Misbehavin was alone, relying on her altitude and her electronics countermeasures for protection. So far it was working. So far.
The Electronics Pit was in the aft pressurized compartment of Ain't Misbehavin. Once this had been the gunner's station, controlling the four twin 20 millimeter mounts grouped around the rear fuselage. They'd gone now, along with the bunks, the kitchen, everything that weighed the aircraft down. The only guns left were the twin twenties in the tail and there had been serious talk of stripping those out as well. Even the sighting blisters had gone, the upper pair replaced by flush metal panels, the lower ones by flush transparency. Now the gunners compartment was filled with the display scopes for the electronic surveillance equipment. The equipment had been registering the signals from the long-range Mammut and Wasserman radars for a couple of hours now, long before the echoes would be strong enough for the Germans to get a decent return echo. Not that they would get a decent return echo; the propellers had been set to very specific speeds in order to create harmonics that would interfere with clear return pulse echoes.
Captain Mark Sheppard leaned forward, things were beginning to get serious. In the last few minutes they'd picked the first of the Wurtzburg fire control radars and the Jagdschlosz height finding systems. There was an eerie quiet in the Electronics Pit, the operators controlling the electronic fingers were intent on their job. There was none of the casual chatter that marked the flight deck and the radio/bombardier stations forward. Instead, human fingers delicately adjusted controls so the electronic fingers could do their work. Up here, crews were supposed to wear pressure suits but nobody in the Electronics Pit did. The thick gloves would destroy the operators ability to make the fine adjustments needed. Nobody was leaving the aircraft anyway, the eight men in the Optics Capsule had no way out and the crew had long ago made a decision, they came home together or went in together. Bearing in mind what was about to happen to Germany, bailing out of a stricken bomber wouldn't achieve much anyway.