The He-219 was already starting her reverse turn. Quayle corrected slightly and started to turn with her. The red pipper on his gunsight moved up the aircraft’s fuselage to a point just forward of its nose. A quick glance to check that he had selected all eight guns. A gentle squeeze on the trigger was all it took.
There was no stream of tracer. No sensible night fighter crew used the stuff. He could see the shells strike, the brilliant flash of the 23mm shells ripping into the German’s cockpit; the smaller flashes as the 0.5 machine gun bullets danced across the disintegrating mass of metal and plastic. The He-219 was armored, but Evil Dreams’ 23mm guns had been designed to bust tanks. An aircraft was easy meat for them. The American and Australian crews had fallen in love with the V-Ya cannon and they were taking most of the production these days. The Russians preferred the heavier 37mm guns for their ground attack aircraft, so everything had worked out.
Up ahead of them, the He-219 was a mass of flame. It spun out of control. Quayle ceased fire and throttled back, diving away to get clear of the blazing wreck. The night’s work wasn’t over yet.
There had been no warning. They’d heard the engines of course and knew there was an aircraft up there. They hadn’t known who or what it was. The younger men, those with the sharpest ears, said it was twin-engined. That had seemed right. It wasn’t one of the Russian women in their damned sewing machines. That meant it was either American or German. Everybody knew which way the odds favored in that bet. So they had listened carefully and heard the engines fade away as the unidentified aircraft departed. Lang had almost started to relax when Asbach had suddenly leapt up. “He’s coming back; get down!”
Lang had obeyed even though he couldn’t work out how Asbach had known. He’d thrown himself flat just as the quiet purr of engines turned into a roar that almost drowned out the whistle of the bombs coming down. Then the sound of both was lost in the explosions. Lang counted them; four, five, six. By the glow that suddenly lit up the night he knew that some of them had bitten. He looked up, cautiously, carefully. One of the buildings around the station was ablaze where a bomb had flattened it. A trio of half-track trucks were a mass of orange-red flame. One of the sub-units had just lost its reserve fuel. Not a great cost. If the unit had been concentrated, it might have been far worse. Asbach insisted they disperse though, and his experience had, once again, paid off.
“There are two aircraft up there.” The young sergeant was speaking almost to himself. “I think one of them is ours.”
That would mean a night fighter come to rescue them, probably drawn by the explosions. Lang listened carefully. The young man had been right; there were two aircraft up there. It was a fair bet they were stalking each other. He watched, the time seeming to drag by. A crash and rattle was clearly heard over the sound of the engines. It was to the north of them. Lang swore he could see the muzzle flash of the plane’s guns. There was no doubt about where the other plane was. It exploded into flame, a brilliant red crucifix against the dark night that twisted and fell, distorting as it tumbled from the sky.
“I wonder who it was?” Lang couldn’t help ask.
“We’ll never know. Nobody got out of that alive.” There was a crash. The flames seemed to spread out as the destroyed aircraft hit the ground, ten, fifteen kilometers north of them.
“Everybody get to cover, disperse away from the buildings.” Asbach rapped out the orders. If the American aircraft had survived, it would be coming back.
“Going back for them, Boss?”
Quayle shook his head, then keyed the microphone. “Don’t think so. They’ll be dispersing down there. Anyway, I’ve had a thought. I was wondering why they were grouped around a rail junction.”
Phelan thought for a second. “They were waiting for something. Supplies.”
“That’s my guess. They must have moved pretty fast to get here and I bet they’re down on gas. Ammo too, probably. So, they’re waiting for a resupply. Now, since they’re waiting for a resupply by a railway line, doesn’t that mean the supplies are coming…”
“…by train.” Morton finished the sentence off.
“Right. If we work back along the rail lines, we should find that train. A whole trainload of supplies. Jimmie, plot me a course to follow the railway line west. Don, back to your turret. The guns are yours. That kraut may have had a friend.”
Evil Dreams fell back into its usual routine. The Black Widow cruised west. When the contact came, there was no mistaking it, a brilliant return whose glow lasted the entire sweep of the scanner. “Boss, we’ve got it. Big train by the radar echo. There’s a lot of metal down there.
“Any friendlies down there?”
“We’re far behind enemy lines, Boss. Must be as supply train. Krauts must be desperate to run a train this big. Either that or they’re really short of engines.” That was part of the briefing the night intruder pilots got. The Germans were desperately short of locomotives. They’d started the war short. They’d looted the countries they’d conquered to make up the numbers. That had left them with a mixed fleet it was impossible to maintain. They’d never built, or captured, the heavy cranes and wreckers that were needed to salvage damaged or derailed locomotives. The path of the German armies was marked by a trail of rusting locomotives abandoned by the tracks they had left. Then the partisans had displayed incredible imagination in sabotaging what was left and the Americans made busting trains a specialty. All in all, the German railways were in a sad state
“Check the book anyway, Jimmie.”
Morton got his briefing notes out. It only took a second to check. “Nothing friendly round here boss. There’s a Navy train getting out but its far to the west of us; other side of the river and heading north by now. This one’s a kraut, no doubt about it.”
Quayle banked the Black Widow around and headed north before turning down to hit the train side on. Recommended method of hitting trains was to strafe along their length; there was a good bet this train was loaded with ammunition and flying along it was a sure way to get hit by debris. He thought for a second, then selected the twelve five-inch rockets hanging under the outer wing panels. Selector set to two. They would fire of in pairs; each pair a split second after the one before.
Once again it was the shadows that were his first indication of the target. To his surprise there were three separate trains and he’d blundered; he’d lined up on the last of the train convoy. It was too late to do anything about it. He gunned his R-2800s and made his pass, pouring the rockets at the engine and cars behind it.
“Gee, look at that secondary!” In the back, Phelan was watching the eruption and fire as the rockets tore into the target. It had been a beautiful pass.
“There’s a plane up there.” Perdue was searching the sky but he could see nothing. The aircraft seemed to have turned away, whatever it was probably didn’t matter too much. Then he heard the faint growl of the engines picking up and he knew it would matter very much.
It was sheer luck that he saw the twin-boom Black Widow. It streaked across his trains, pouring rockets at the poor little shunter at the end of the line. The orange streaks of rocket fire gave him just enough light to make a tentative guess. The roaring fire as the rockets exploded in the supply of diesel fuel and propellent bags stored in one of the shunter cars confirmed it. A Black Widow night intruder had spotted the trains and decided they just had to be German. Perdue swore to himself, damned Black Widow squadrons hadn’t been informed we have been forced to change their route.