Inside the cockpit of the Lightning, Alec had watched on his main display screen as his electro-optical targeting systems had easily picked out the P-7A Puma on the ground far below, thermal imaging cutting through the cloud cover as if it didn’t exist and clearly showing the substantial heat surrounding each of the armoured vehicles’ powerful engines. He’d located the cluster of tanks the moment he’d banked back to the north, levelling out at around three thousand metres as the low growling tone that rose in his headset indicated the infrared tracking sensors slaved to his air-to-air missiles had detected a target.
As he lowered the port wing slightly and looked out that side of the cockpit, his helmet-mounted sight instantly ‘enclosed’ each of the invisible enemy vehicles below in a small green box, the one surrounding the nearest of the Pumas — the southernmost armoured car — also overlapped by a bright red diamond that clearly indicated Trumbull had a ‘lock-on’. The fact that he personally couldn’t see a thing was largely irrelevant: all that mattered was that his thermal systems were ‘seeing’ things perfectly.
He cycled through each of the targets once in turn, reassuring himself that his systems were working correctly before settling on his first target and releasing one of the AIM-9X missiles inside his weapons bays. A second later, he’d switched to the next target and fired the second Sidewinder, immediately switching to a third target and turning onto an intercept course.
Thorne was about to uncover his ears after that first explosion as he caught sight of the second missile in his peripheral vision and decided against removing his hands. The second Sidewinder hurtled down out of the sky trailing a similar line of grey smoke, and hammered into the Puma approaching from the north a second or two later, the shockwave not quite so powerful where he lay, as the vehicle was not so close.
“Tally ho!” Trumbull’s call rose from Thorne’s speaker/mike, and the sky lit up to the east as a hailstorm of red tracer poured down onto the Church Road from the dark clouds above. With all three remaining armoured vehicles positioned evenly along the lane, it hadn’t been particularly difficult for the squadron leader to line up on the P-9B Nashorn assault gun and open up with the 25mm rotary cannon beneath his belly. Loaded with a combination of high explosive and armour-piercing rounds, the torrent of fire from the four-barrelled GAU-22/A was more than sufficient to punch through the thinner top armour of the Panther and Nashorn, and tear the thin steel skin of the Weisel light tank to pieces. All three vehicles exploded instantly into flames, the heavy tank ‘brewing up’ dramatically as its hatches burst open and fire spewed meters into the air, while at least a dozen infantry standing in the vicinity were also killed instantly. The Lightning appeared a moment later as it levelled out of a shallow dive at high speed, executing a precise victory roll before howling skyward once more and disappearing into the low clouds again trailing the deafening roar of its engine.
“Landing on the A20, Phoenix-Leader,” Trumbull advised over the radio. “Covering fire would be greatly appreciated.”
Thorne didn’t need any further urging, and immediately burst from the crater with rifle in hand, running due south toward the Hythe Road at full speed. At the time he’d left the future in late 2010, the record for the world’s fastest 200 metre sprint stood at 19.19 seconds, held by Jamaican runner Usain Bolt. Fully loaded and carrying the Kalashnikov, Thorne managed to cover a similar distance between that crater and the A20 in perhaps twice that amount of time, although he’d have been the first to admit he was almost at the point of collapse and fearing a heart attack as he reached the road. All the same, he forced his body to remain active and took up a position near where the track through the field joined the Hythe Road, holding the rifle to his shoulder and crouching by a low line of bushes along the roadside as he prepared to fire on any potential threat.
The F-35E reappeared thirty seconds later, this time coming down low over the A20 in a westerly direction with lights came on as its landing gear lowered beneath the fuselage. With lift fan and thrust vectoring in operation, the aircraft was able to carry out a steady descent that wasn’t completely vertical but was nevertheless far slower than would’ve been possible in a conventional landing. It touched down a few dozen metres beyond his position, the cockpit canopy already rising as the wheels struck the hard asphalt. This time it was Thorne’s turn to protect Trumbull as a small squad of troopers charged toward them up the A20 from the east, appearing suddenly out of the smoke and fire still rising from the direction of Smeeth and firing their rifles wildly. They were no better than dark silhouettes against the glowing background, but that was more than enough for him to pick them out as targets, and a few well-aimed shots from the rifle in semi-auto mode was more than enough to drop all four men in turn. No further threats appeared, and after five more seconds or so, Thorne finally dropped the rifle and turned back toward the Lightning, somehow finding enough remaining energy to run once more as that same rope ladder he’d thrown to Alec so many weeks before appeared over the side of the cockpit.
The jet was rolling again before he could even strap himself properly into his seat, his stomach lurching badly with the sudden acceleration as Trumbull slammed the throttle hard forward and the F-35E launched itself skyward once more. By the time he’d snugged the rear cockpit’s flight helmet over his head and could hear Trumbull over the intercom, the Lightning has reached the relative safety of the thick, low-lying cloud cover and was turning back to the north. Trumbull continued to climb until they finally broke through the other side and were flying in clear skies once more, the moon and stars shining brightly as he checked his air search radar and made sure they kept well away from any Luftwaffe night fighters.
“You nutter…!” Thorne crowed in joyous disbelief, chest heaving and adrenalin coursing through his system as he unloaded and safed his pistol before returning it to its holster. “You dyed-in-the-wool, crazy-as-a-shithouse-rat, absolute and complete fucking legend of a nutter…!”
“You’re completely welcome, Max,” Trumbull replied, smile beaming beneath his oxygen mask in recognition that an outburst of that nature from Max Thorne was high praise indeed.
“‘Tally ho’…!” Thorne continued, unabated “He yells out ‘tally ho’ like he’s out on a fuckin’ fox hunt and toasts a load of Kraut armour to save the bloody day!”
“Perhaps you’d prefer I’d said ‘Okay kid, let’s blow this thing so we can all go home…’…?” There was a very pregnant pause, after which Thorne burst into outright laughter, Trumbull eventually joining the man in his own, more subdued fashion. The squadron leader’s own adrenaline levels and spirits were also high, and Thorne’s manic mood was quite infectious.
“Oh, this bloke’s good…” the Australian observed out loud for Trumbull’s benefit. “Officer and a gentleman, shit-hot pilot and smartarse!” He shook his head slowly, unable to wipe the smile from his face. “I knew I was gonna be sorry I let you watch Star Wars!”