Lothar Schumann kept his Fledermaus angling upwards. After years of flying low down, chasing the Ami carrier fighters through the treetops, he had gone straight to the opposite extreme, flying up here where the air was so thin that his wings could hardly find a grip. And instead of hunting the small fighters, he was now hunting the biggest aircraft the world had ever seen. The ones that had destroyed his country. From up here, he could see into Germany and the clouds that overhung it. Only they weren't clouds, they were pyres of smoke. How many people had the Amis killed today? Tens of thousands? Hundreds? Perhaps even a million? Who knew?
IV/JG-26 had watched the returning bombers flying overhead. There was no point in launching earlier; the BV-155s couldn't get up that high; Blohm und Voss had claimed a maximum ceiling of 17,000 meters but the BV-155C had never fulfilled its promise and its production had been cut short by the shortage of alloys needed for its turbocharger. The bombers were reportedly flying at 16,500 meters and, in reality, even the Vossies ran out of power 2,000 meters below that. But Green Eight could make it up there. Make it up there, stay there and maneuver there. And so, Schumann thought it was up to him to give the monsters the boot to the head they so richly deserved.
Harmann's plan was a bit different and Schumann had to agree it made sense. His Fledermaus could get up that high but he didn't have that much firepower. Four slow-firing 30 millimeter guns and 24 R4M rockets. Perhaps, on his own he could bring down two of the monsters. So, following him up were Harmann's nine operational Vossies. They had picked out one of the last formations of monsters returning from Germany. It had been a desperate race to get Green Right flying again but they'd made it. And luck had rewarded them, a group of nine Ami aircraft flying in loose formation. The plan was simple, Schumann would cripple as many as he could, force them to lose altitude so the Vossies could Gang up on them. With luck they could get all nine.
Tactics, tactics. Flying against the B-29s they had used a nose-on pass at first. But the closing speed was too high and they hadn't been able to get a good shot in. Word on the monsters were that they were fast, 700 kilometers per hour at least. Far too fast for a nose pass. Beam passes had worked down there, where the fighters could maneuver but up here even Green Eight was floundering. No. It had to be a tail-chase. Word was that the bombers had tail guns and knew how to use them. It didn't matter, it wasn't as if he had anything to go home to. Or a home to go to now.
Very good, he was level with the bomber formation now, saw them accelerating away from him. Well, he could play that game as well. Very well Amis,. You think 700 kilometers is good. I have 200 more than that. That means we are closing at three kilometers per minute. In three minutes time, I will have you and then, boot to the head my Ami friends. And to the hells with Harmann's plans.
Flight Deck, B-36H Texan Lady, cruising over Eastern France.
Dusk approaching. A sunset tike the crew had never seen before, spreading red and purples and oranges and golds across the whole western half of the sky. It was spectacular already yet it would be an hour or so before darkness really started to fall. Personally, Dedmon couldn't wait. Speed and altitude made Texan Lady almost invulnerable; darkness as well took the “almost” out of the equation. That was another little secret about the B-36; the combination of APG-41 track-while-scan radar and 20 millimeter guns made her tail cannon as dangerous to an enemy in the dark as they were to one in daylight. But Dedmon wanted darkness for another reason as well.
It was quiet on the flight deck, in the engineer station below them, in the navigator/bombardier station below that. In the electronics warfare pit aft. It had been ever since they had started the run back over Germany, twisting and turning to keep clear of the after-effects of the explosions. Germany had been covered by a dense low-level cloud, a combination of smoke and debris and the effects of the incredible concussion waves yet they could see where every city had been. All two hundred of them were glowing brightly through the cloud layer. A sickly white-yellow glow. One that made Germany look like it had leprosy. Nobody else had repeated Major Pico's cry but they were all thinking it. Some darkness would suit the mood in the aircraft.
“Enemy aircraft sir, formation closing from aft. One aircraft climbing, approaching our altitude, nine more holding about 6,000 feet below us.”
OK Dedmon thought, here we go again. “Full power all engines, turning and burning. All aircraft adopt tail-heavy. Stand by to repel fighter attack.” The enemy aircraft was a flying pancake, he'd thought the Navy had got all of those either in combat or on the ground. This one must have escaped. And he'd picked Texan Lady as his target. Watch him carefully now because as soon as he fires... like that. Now turn, not too hard we want to keep speed and energy up, just enough to turn inside the rocket salvo - and wave bye-bye as it passes. Dedmon grinned for the first time since Berlin, the rockets hadn't even been close enough to activate their acoustic fuzes. “OK guys, his rockets missed. Over to you John Paul.”
Back in the tail gunner's position John Paul Martin framed the oncoming fighter in his gunsight. The APG-41 had two antennas, one tracked a designated target while the other continued to scan for new targets. Once the designated target was selected and locked, the system would automatically compute the predicted position of the target and aim the guns at the correct point. All the gunner had to do was to press the trigger. Martin used his joystick to move the little box that selected the appropriate target then thumbed the button that locked the system. “Target locked sir, hold one.....wait........wait........wait....... Break right, break right break right.”
He felt the lurch as Texan Lady stood on her wingtip and racked a tight turn to starboard. The incoming fighter was sliding straight across the tail, straight into the stream of fire from the twin 20 millimeter cannon.
Cockpit Go-229 Green Eight, 49,500 feet over Eastern France
Schumann watched the Ami bomber swerve out of the way of his rocket salvo. Damn it, how could something that big dance around like that? So it would have to be cannon then. And just one of the monsters downed. He'd hoped to get at least two. Still, he had his cannon and the Ami bomber was so big that he couldn't possibly miss. Just a little more time, a little closer and - that was not possible. The bomber was turning hard to starboard now, racking around much tighter than the turn to avoid his rockets. He tried to follow but felt the Fledermaus shuddering on the edge of a stall. Then he realized he'd fallen into a deadly trap. The bomber was turning inside him and he couldn't match the turn. If he tried, he'd stall out and spin then, by the time he recovered and climbed back up here the Amis would be long gone. If he turned as tightly as he could without stalling, he'd pass aft of the bomber without getting his guns to bear but giving the bomber a perfect deflection shot with its tail guns. If he went straight, same thing would happen. Break the other way, same again. If he accelerated, his turning circle would widen still more, if he slowed down he would stall, up here the margin between maximum speed and stalling speed was perilously slim.
Incredible, his fighter, the best the Luftwaffe had, was losing a dogfight with the biggest bomber the world had ever seen. This was not possible. Intellectually, he knew it was. The huge wing area of the bomber gave it enough lift to allow it to make these turns in the thin air. Those ten engine save it so much power that, combined with the wings, there was a large margin between maximum speed and stalling speed. Up here, big wings and engine power counted for everything. There was just one option left Schumann thought, watching the tail guns on the bomber tracking him. He heaved the control column back into his stomach, kicked the controls over to a hard starboard turn. The nose of the Fledermaus reared up in shock and Schumann squeezed the firing button. The Fledermaus arched up and around then flopped on its back in a stall, its cannon shots arcing towards the Ami bomber. “Boot to the Head!” Schumann was still squeezing the firing button when the 20 millimeter shells smashed into his cockpit.