Made hitting a lot easier. But the engineers had come back saying it couldn't be done. The wooden wing skin on the Fledermaus couldn't take it and the weight distribution was wrong and the achh it went on forever. And they still had the Mk-IO8s at the end of it all. The Ta-152 would have to look after himself now. Schumann heaved back on the stick and wondered quickly if the pilot was the birthday kid. One of the Ta-152 pilots had hit 17 today, he'd got Hilda's birthday special breakfast. Three eggs all to himself, fresh ham and sausage and whatever extras she could find. It was rumored that if a pilot lived long enough to see his 21st birthday, Hilda gave him a very special present. Didn't know if that was true, Schumann hoped to find out in a couple of month's time.
If it was him. at least he'd died with a full stomach, the Ta-152 was curving away with a line of black smoke thickening from its engine while the Lockheed raced past the lead Goodyear and arced off. Schumann was climbing fast now, he didn't think anybody could catch his Fledermaus in a zoom-climb. OK so time to look around and pick another target. Another Lockheed to make up for the one that escaped. There was one over there, trying to get over to a German fighter closing in on another Goodyear. Time for another dive. This one was also target fixated not watching around. Schumann dived down then came up from below and behind. The traditional assassin's spot. The best kill of all was where the enemy never even knew you were there. Nobody who had “done it” believed in the nonsense about dogfights any more. The high scorers picked their man, somebody who was vulnerable for some reason, got in, killed him and got out. Start turning and maneuvering and you were in trouble. Like the Lockheed, Schumann's Mk-108s had done their work already. Ripping out the fighter's belly. Boot to the head! The Ami was burning and coming apart in mid-air.
Oh Damn, Schumann hauled back on the controls to get clear of the wreckage from the destroyed Lockheed. His eye caught the name Shiloh painted on the tail then his stomach flipped. His Fledermaus was porpoising sharply up and down, somehow the airflow had gone wrong. He knew what would happen now, the pitching would get worse and worse until the aircraft fell apart in mid-air. It was time to leave. Bad choice facing him. There were rumors that there were observers on the ground and that a pilot who bailed out too early may find his landing spot was occupied by a mobile field court martial with a guilty-of-desertion verdict and a noose waiting. Wait for a second too long and the plane would break up with him in it. Schumann grabbed his ejector seat handles - and his hands missed. By the time they got back the Fledermaus had given another serious lurch and.....
The pitching damped out! Schumann grabbed the stick and pulled back to zoom clear of the fighting. Could it be that easy? That all a pilot had to do if his aircraft started to break up was to let go of the controls? He thought it through as the Fledermaus climbed. Nose pitches up, pilot moves the stick to counter - but by the time the controls have an effect, the nose is already pitching down, so his input makes it worse. So he tries a violent counter the other way - but by the time that had an effect, the nose was coming up anyway - so his efforts make it much worse. Repeat as necessary, the pitching gets more violent until the airframe overstressed and flies apart. What was that thing the electronics people used to measure signals? A wrigglescope? Perhaps the mysterious losses of the Fledermaus force were due to pilot-induced wriggling (Schumann quickly thought of Hilda again). Think more on that later, still had fuel and ammunition time for another victim. Like that one.
“That'“ was one of the new McDonnells, he hadn't killed one of those yet. OK. He'll be looking down for his target so we can come in from above and behind again. Schumann concentrated on the target just waiting for him to get into range when his Guardian Angel goosed him. Closing in fast, oh so very fast, from behind were four fighters. Dark blue ones and it was time to leave. Bye-bye Amis. Schumann abandoned his McDonnell and zoomed skywards. Where he was safe, Glancing behind to see them arc away for another target only they weren't. They were climbing after him, and closing the range fast. But the Amis didn't have a naval fighter that could outclimb the Fledermaus. He looked hard. Straight wings fat fuselage and single streak of smoke from each therefore one engine. They must be the new fighters some pilots had reported. Damned Amis. Their designers didn't produce the aerodynamic beauties the Germans did. Had all the design art of a flying brick. Yet give a brick enough power and it'll outfly anything. Junkers and Hirsch were so proud of their jets, the Fledermaus had two engines with a total of almost 2,000 kilos of thrust. But the Ami jets were delivering twice that. Damn engine designers were asleep on the job they needed a boot to the head for sure.
And Schumann guessed his head was next. The fighters behind him suddenly erupted in gunfire and he felt the hammer blows as the 20 millimeter shells hit his aircraft. That was it, he was dead. The flying wing couldn't take serious damage, that was the price for performance. Warning lights everywhere, progressive loss of control bits coming off. Cockpit filled with smoke and it was time to leave again. But with a burning aircraft if there was a reception committee on the ground he would have a defense. Then, the hammering stopped. By a miracle his instruments had survived, he was more than 3,500 meters up. The Amis didn't fly up here. They'd let him get away rather than break the rule. OK. Shot up, engines damaged, unidentified fire, fuel spewing out and no ammunition. Fight over, go home.
Flight Deck B-36H “Texan Lady” 35,000feet over the Azores
“Oh My God, how beautiful”. Major Pico's gasp snapped Colonel Dedmon out of his rest. They were flying over a continuous cloud strata that was shielding them from the sea beneath. The sun was at just the right angle to turn the clouds into a simmering pearlescent rippling grey. The sort of color one saw on a brightly-lit street in a heavy fog. Just below them, between Dedmon's Hometown and the clouds was another group of three bombers. Peace on Earth, Happy Hooker and Shady Lady. Their contrails formed a thick white ribbon behind them; most aircraft left single contrails for each engine but the B-36s six pushers mixed them up and blended them into a single wide stream. The sun was catching that as well and turning it into a glowing white path behind each aircraft. At the head was the glittering shape of the silver B-36s. As Dedmon watched, the Hometown beneath made a slight turn, curving the silky ribbon across the shining grey back-cloth. It was, indeed, incredibly beautiful.
And wasn't unique. All around them were B-36s at varying altitudes. Most in loose formation, there was no need for wasting strength, fuel and nervous energy keeping the meticulous position demanded by the need to deceive enemy radars. The aircraft were in lazy trios, flying comfortably for the long haul over the Atlantic. They'd been airborne for nine hours and the ones scheduled to penetrate furthest, to the eastern parts of Germany, were due to meet the Lajes-based tankers for their top-off. Then, real business would start.
Texan Lady was behaving herself, Dedmon thought. Normally B-36 flights were a constant battle against system failures. Convair had designed the aircraft with multiple paths for every critical system so if one went down, the flight crew could switch to an alternate while they fixed it. It was a new approach to reliability, he supposed and it did seem to work but it meant a hard time for the engineers on board. Top Sergeants Gordon and King had spent most of the flight juggling the engines to minimize any future problems. The two outboard engines were throttled right back; those were the ones that couldn't be reached in flight. The R-4360 spewed oil and if the supply ran low, the engine had to be shut down. The inner engines could be accessed via a maintenance tunnel in the wings so their oil supply could be topped up from the 55 gallon drums stowed aft., So Texan Lady was flying on her inner engines with the outer ones idling just enough to keep them warm. Aye, that was the trick, keeping systems warm. Dedmon couldn't see it but he knew the tail guns in each bomber were constantly moving, slowly sweeping the horizon, training on other aircraft, keeping the mechanism from freezing and the radar gunlaying system warmed up.