Evans guessed the Germans were frantically trying to get in contact with whatever was left of their homes. Certainly today they weren't firing on him. Not even at the coast. Over on his left. Bitter Fruit and Snakebite were rejoining him. They'd been over at Ile de la Cité seeing how much glass they could break. The rules were strict, buzz the city but don't shoot unless shot at or unless you see AA guns. Anything else was fine. And that included using their engine noise and the pressure wave caused by flying fast and low to break things. Evans took it for granted that somebody had paid a visit to Notre Dame. Perhaps Jim Hamner in Warmonger had done the honors, for some reason he had a down on organized religion.
Evans guessed that the display was working. He and Brim were over Montmatre now, although perhaps “over” was an exaggeration. The streets were clear now except for shattered glass and the debris from scattered trees. A girl on a rooftop was waving at him as he passed below her. Evans waggled his wings slightly as he thundered down the street then lifted up to leapfrog the row of houses at the end. Now a quick run over the Elysée Palace and off home. You know, he thought, a man could get to enjoy this.
FV-1 “Made Marian II”, Escorting B-36H “Victory Parade” Approaching Paris
God in Heaven she was big. Not just large, the B-29 was large. The B-36 was BIG. As in HUGE. And no sluggard either. When they'd picked her up as she crossed the coast she'd been at 40,000 feet and the FV-1s had to struggle to reach her. Then, when they got up there, Victory Parade had suddenly accelerated and left them behind. Had shot ahead of them and then, politely, waited for them to catch up. When they did so, she'd started to turn. The fighters couldn't stay with her, in the thin air, if they pulled the bank necessary to do that, they stalled out. Eventually the B-36 had stopped playing with them. Foreman had tried to get a little revenge by doing a barrel role, something no aircraft that large could even begin to try. “Try that” he said. Victory Parade had radioed back “Try this.” After a couple of minutes with apparently nothing happening he'd asked what they were doing “Flying with two engines shut down” was the reply.
But that was Up There. Now they were Down Here and the big bomber wasn't so happy. The long wings that gave her the ability to fly so high were now a liability, increasing drag and slowing her down. Hence the tighter escort. Down Here, Victory Parade was vulnerable and, with her belly stuffed with thousand pound bombs, her engines were laboring to keep her going. Still, the job ahead needed absolute precision and the lower altitude would achieve that. Foreman let Maid Marian II drift backwards a little, nearer the tail of the bomber. He was right, the giant tailplanes were larger than the wingspan of his fighter. There was a static crackle in his earphones. “Keep clear Navy. We love you dearly but we don't want you too close. You don't want to get too close either; the turbulence behind us is real bad.”
Foreman waggled his wings and gave some more separation. His squadron were flying close escort, grouped around Victory Parade as a last line of defense in case enemy fighters broke through. Other squadrons were sweeping ahead and to either flank in order to intercept hostiles before it ever got that critical. There were some other Navy fighters around including the new Panthers; they'd come over after finishing their strikes. Once news of the B-36's unique mission had spread through the grapevine, it was an all-hands exercise to see she got to her target without harassment.
Once SAC and the Navy had been at dagger's drawn over funding, priorities, critical unit supply, everything that made a wartime production program run. Foreman had flown over the sinking wreck of Shiloh on his way to meet Victory Parade and had heard the messages radioed down from the returning bombers. They'd seen Shiloh dying as a result of her efforts to help them get through and he guessed that the image would have an impact post-war few would expect. He didn't know if the impact would be positive or negative but he guessed that, at least, the aloof bomber crews of SAC would be aware of the price the other services had paid to get to this point.
“Hey Little Friends, turning into our bomb run.” It was Victory Parade. Foreman thumbed his transmit button. “Received and understood Big Sister. We'll stand off a little now. Good luck.”
Salon Marat, Elyseé Palace, Paris
Marshal Petain, President of France, Marshal Gamelin, Minister of Defense and Marshal Purneaux, Minister of the Interior stood at the window, watching the dark blue fighters streaking over the city. Gamelin shook his head and muttered a string of obscenities aimed at the “Anglo-Saxons” who had dared to disturb the city's peace and tranquility. Had they no respect for culture? From what he had to tell the others, obviously not.
“So Marshal, what has happened in Germany.” Petain's voice was quavering and uncertain.
'The Americans dropped bombs of incredible power on almost every center of population. The Germans call them Hellbumers; I believe the correct name is Atomic Bombs.”
Gamelin thought for a moment, the idea of such destructive power in the hands of the barbarian Americans was repulsive. “They delivered them with giant bombers flying at very high altitude. Our people have been reporting them flying over us. Without asking our permission I might add.”
You pompous, arrogant, Parisian thought Marshal Purneaux as Gamelin struck an outraged pose. Don't you understand what has happened today? The world has changed forever and you can't see it. Purneaux was a Breton, born and bred and had a Breton's earthy contempt for Parisians. Gamelin was still talking. “Nevertheless, it is now obvious that Germany has suffered a serious reverse. One that might prove fatal to her hopes of success in this war.”
Every major center of population gone, their whole industrial structure gone, a serious reverse? What would Gamelin call a disaster? Their wine being served at the wrong temperature? Gamelin was still pontificating. “We must now think of how to position ourselves at this juncture. The Americans are children and we must think on how to guide them, how to steer them in the right direction. They require education and shepherding. We must control them for their own good and they must be taught to rely on us for direction and supervision. Most importantly we must ensure that they understand that we are the founding member, the senior member of the coalition that has defeated Germany and treat us with the respect we deserve.”
Marshal Purneaux was seething to himself. Gamelin was so blinded by Anglophobia and his own blinkered view of reality; he couldn't see what was staring him in the face. In fact, Marshall Purneaux, noted, what was staring them alt in the face. A dark-blue bent-wing fighter coming straight at them. By the time the other two men had torn themselves away from their mutual self-admiration and noted its approach, it had swollen from a dot to a snarling shape that filled the window. Petain and Gamelin fell to the floor. Purneaux didn't, if the Corsair was going to open fire, he'd have seen the orange flashes on its wings by now and Americans didn't go crashing into things. So he stood and watched it as it lifted at the last second and flashed over the rooftop,