This is not quite 2nd draft. I will warn you that it is rather lengthy at over 12,000 words. I hope you enjoy it.
Chaunte
Copyrighted 2006 - All rights reserved.
Midnight Lady
Billy Michaels moved back from the nose section to the cockpit. He was sure that the Colonel would want to keep this discussion off the intercom.
"Nothing looks familiar, Colonel," Michaels reported. "Hell's bells, we were more than two and a half hours in from the coast! I can't think of a single way how we can be over water after being in the clouds for less than three minutes."
Colonel Robert Pearson looked out the window and down at the ocean below. His navigator was right. Fifteen minutes ago, they were at the initial point for their bombing run on the ball bearing plant at Schweinfurt. They ran into some significant turbulence when they entered a cloudbank. When they emerged, they were flying parallel to a coastline. Up ahead was land.
"Radio to pilot."
"Go ahead, Sparks," Pearson said over the intercom.
"Sir, I'm getting some radio traffic from the rest of the formation. They want to know where we are."
"I wish I could tell them," Pearson said to himself. "Sparks, are you picking up anything from the ground?"
"Nothing, sir."
"Colonel," co-pilot Danny Hendricks reported, "there's the coastline."
Pearson looked forward at the green vegetation on the land ahead. Even from twenty thousand feet, it was clear that the plants had never been disturbed. Wherever they might be, Pearson knew that this was not Europe.
"Sparks, patch me in to the squadron," Pearson finally said. He waited for the click in his headset before he continued.
"This is the Midnight Lady. There's no hiding that we're not over Germany. There doesn't appear to be any flak or enemy fighters, so we are going to descend to eight thousand feet so we can conserve our oxygen.
"I'd like to tell you where we are, but, for right now, I can't."
"Belly gunner to pilot! Bogies coming up at twelve o'clock low!"
"Everyone, hold your fire!" Pearson ordered.
A dozen small crafts surrounded the formation. They didn't look like any airplane they had ever seen before. Everyone held their fire, but kept their guns trained on the escorts.
One craft moved up alongside the Midnight Lady. It rocked a little started a gentle turn towards the coast. It was clear that they were to follow.
"Sparks, tell the formation that we are being escorted," Pearson said. "Everyone sit tight and hold your fire."
Eighteen B-17's of the United States Army Air Corps, 100th Bomb Group, were guided to a hard-packed field. One by one, the planes landed. They parked neatly by the makeshift runway. As the last propeller came to a stop, an eerie quiet filled the land. The ten crewmembers onboard each bomber climbed out of their ship into the hot, sultry air. They lined the runway and waited to see who their escort was.
One of the escort ships glided over then runway. Once it reached midfield, it stopped and hovered about a hundred feet above the ground. Landing legs extended as the craft descended to the surface. Once on the ground, the doors opened and the occupants stepped out.
"Son of a bitch" was all Pearson could mutter.
_
Sparks looked under the wing of the Lady. Pearson was going over the homemade maps with several of the senior officers. It was a daily ritual since they arrived four weeks earlier. They would gather and update the maps with information brought back by scouting parties. With each party's return, they learned a little bit more.
"Begging your pardon, Colonel," Sparks said. "But the storm is forming again."
Pearson and the other officers scrambled out from under the wing. He grabbed his binoculars and his viewing stick. Pearson jammed one end of the stick down into the ground and used the other end to stabilize the lenses.
"Looks like the Skinnies have another ship coming in," Pearson said. "Make that two ships. How many ships does that make this week, Sparks?"
"Five ships this week, sir. Twenty-three since we arrived and only four departing."
"Twenty-three ships" Paul Cabala mused. Cabala flew the Chicago. His rank of major and close friendship with Pearson made him executive officer. "It sure doesn't look like they're leaving anytime soon."
"No, it sure doesn't," Pearson agreed.
"See anything else, Colonel?" Ben Kowalski asked nervously.
"Gotta be patient" Pearson replied slowly. "Okay, it looks like I've got something. Big wingspan, but damn hard to see. It heading for the deck."
"Think its some new kind of Nazi weapon?" Cabala asked.
"I don't know," Pearson said, handing the glasses to Cabala. "But it's coming this way."
Pearson turned towards the Lady and shouted, "Danny! Let's get the Lightnings fired up. Time to see how good a twin-engine pilot you are!"
"I don't think I'd bother," Cabala added, looking towards the west. "It's going to be on top of us in about a minute."
"Can't be!" Kowalski said. "That would mean its flying at better than four hundred knots!"
Pearson turned back to where Cabala was pointing. There, near ground level, was a thin black line growing larger with every second. A faint whine could be heard in the distance.
There was no time to get the fighters up.
There was barely time to get crews into the gun turrets.
"Four hundred knots might be a bit slow," Cabala said.
"Sparks!" Pearson ordered. "Get on the GERTRUDE. I want to know if they're trying to raise us."
"Will do!" Sparks replied and ran back to the plane. The GERTRUDE was a hand-cranked radio transceiver. He could hear incoming transmissions, but could only reply in Morse code. It was designed for emergency situations. Since they had arrived, every day seemed like an emergency situation.
Just before the plane over flew the runway, it stepped aside and went down parallel to the flight line. Pearson took the binoculars back and looked the ship over. It was a dull black with white markings. It was just a little too far away to read.
"Damn," Kowalski muttered. "Look at the size of that thing!"
"It has to be twice the size of our planes," Cabala said. "It looks like a damn bat!"
"Strange," Pearson said as he continued looking the ship over. "I don't see a single gun."
All across the field, men were racing for their planes. If they couldn't get the fighters up, they could at least defend themselves from the mounted guns. The officers could hear the electric motors whine as the gun turrets trained on the newcomer.
"Okay, men, this is the deal," Pearson told the officers. "Tell the boys to hold their fire. If they were going to attack, they would have done it by now. Kowalski, I know your crews are a little skittish. Make sure they hold their fire. Got it? Move!"
The pilots ran to their planes. Pearson turned and called out orders to his own crew.
"Danny, forget what I said about the Lightnings. We don't have time. Stand by to start Number Two! We don't want to run the batteries into the ground moving a turret."
"I'm on it" Hendricks called down from the cockpit.
Pearson turned back to the newcomer, studying the craft as it circled the field. It was a little closer this time, so he could see more detail. Finally, he could make out the insignia on the plane.
"Hold your fire, boys!" he called out. "It's American!"
Hendricks leaned out of the cockpit side window and acknowledged the order. While the co-pilot was passing the word on to the crew of the Lady, Pearson grabbed an empty jerry can and started banging on it with a rock. Heads finally turned towards him.
The call of it being American went like wildfire across the flight line. The crews stood by their planes to watch this new "secret weapon." They smiled thinking they had finally pulled one over on the Nazis.
Pearson turned his attention back to the plane. The pilot was flying a standard traffic pattern around the airfield, and he was now turning from base-leg onto final approach. Hackles started to rise on the back of Pearson's neck. There were no wheels visible.
"Sparks!" he called out. "Anything on the radio?"
"Quiet as a church mouse, Colonel," the radioman replied.
Pearson thought seriously about breaking radio silence to warn them about their undercarriage.
"Come on," he muttered to himself. "Get those wheels down"
Just before touchdown, wheels suddenly lowered. Scant seconds later, the plane was rumbling down the grass runway. The faintest whine accompanied the plane as it raced by. The plane reached the end of the runway and came to a stop. Soldiers ran to see who was flying the big black bird.
Before they could find out their visitors, they had a job to do first.
Men at the end of the strip motioned the plane off to the side. The ground was hard and safe and the plane turned around easily. They motioned the plane behind a group of battered bombers and signaled the pilot to stop. The faint high-pitched whine coming from the wings started to wind down. A belly hatch popped open and two green-suited figures jumped down.
The crowd hushed as the first figure stepped out in front of the plane. She looked over the men before her and waited. Not a single person saluted.
"Where is your commanding officer?" the stranger called out.
Two men stepped forward through the mass of people. The one in front noticed the stars on the woman's shoulders and hesitated. He had never seen a woman with that rank before. She waited expectantly, daring the colonel to not salute. Training finally kicked in, and Pearson saluted, albeit somewhat sloppily.
"Colonel Robert Pearson. United States Army Air Corps. This is my second in command, Major Paul Cabala."
"Major-General Lisa Finch. United States Air Force." The general said. "This is my co-pilot, Captain Frank Johnson."
Johnson saluted crisply. Pearson returned the salute, then turned back to Finch.
"Welcome to the middle of nowhere, General," Pearson replied; though the timbre in his voice said otherwise. "We need to get you and your plane under cover as soon as possible before the Skinnies show up. Where's the rest of your crew?"
"It's just the two of us, Colonel," Finch answered. "That's all it takes."
Pearson paused for a split second, turned and gave a whistle. In seconds, tree branches were being gathered and placed around the plane. Some of the enlisted men were about to climb up onto the wings, but Finch stopped them.
"General, we've done this before," Pearson said. His lack of patience rang out like an out of tune bell. "Let us do our job!"
"This plane has is coated with a radar-absorbing material!" Finch replied energetically. "If it gets damaged, the plane loses its stealth capabilities!"
Pearson looked confused and frustrated. "Stealth? I never heard of it."
Finch forced herself to calm down. "'Stealth' is the ability to hide from radar or whatever is being used for tracking. If the coating gets damage, the plane will shine like a searchlight on their tracking systems."
"Then how the hell are we going to hide your plane? General. Ma'am."
"I have camouflage netting in the bomb bay," she replied patiently as they waked under the plane. She opened an access panel, pressed a combination key, and two massive doors opened underneath the plane. There, in the forward section, was a tightly wound bundle of webbing. She undid the elastic cords holding the wad in place and it fell with a whump onto the ground.
"Use this," she ordered. "It won't scratch the paint. Have your men take their boots off when they climb on top of the plane."
"Yes, ma'am," Pearson said. He turned to the group and shouted out orders.
Kowalski's crew muttered angrily at having to take their boots off, but they did. They climbed up onto the wing as another crew hoisted the netting up to them. Johnson went on top to supervise placement of the netting.
"How long before the what did you call them? the Skinnies show up?" Finch asked
Pearson looked at his watch. "Anytime now."
"General," Johnson called down from the wing. "The netting is installed. We're showing a normal infrared signature. We're about as invisible as we're going to be."
"Thank you, Captain," She shouted up to him, then turned to the rest of the crews standing there. "Good job getting it installed, men. Come on down so you won't show up on any surveillance photos."
"You heard the order," Pearson said. "Scatter. Let's not give the Skinnies a target to find."
The soldiers quickly dispersed themselves along the flight line. Within seconds, you would never have known that a new plane had arrived.
"I am impressed, Colonel," Finch said approvingly.
"They're good men," he replied. "We should get moving as well."
They walked a few steps with Pearson staring at the big, black bird.
"That is one impressive looking airplane," Pearson said. "I've never seen anything like it before. I haven't even heard rumors of anything like it!"
"It's a B-2B 'Spirit'," she said proudly. "It's the first model built to work off of unimproved runways. Every plane is named the 'spirit of something.' This bird is the Spirit of Independence."
"Forgive me for saying it," Pearson said. "It's not a very imaginative name."
"I know," Finch replied with a small laugh. "But, given what these things cost, Congress decides what to name them."
Finch looked up and down the flight line and counted tails.
"It looks like you have a full squadron, Colonel," she said.
"It's not as big as it looks," Pearson said. "We have twenty-four B-17's here, but only eighteen are flyable. The rest are hanger queens we use for spare parts."
"Any fighters?"
"We have a handful of Lightnings," he said, pointing in the general direction. "All of them flyable, but their ammo is limited."
"I would like to go reconnaissance flight," Finch said. "Would one of your P-38 pilots be available?"
"Yeah, but there isn't a lot to see," Pearson replied. "We've flown over the entire area and haven't seen one thing that looks familiar. Hell, not even the stars look right! You are stuck with us out in the middle of nothing."
"Easy, Colonel," Finch said. "I was just asking."
As they started to move down the flight line, they could hear a high-pitched buzz in the distance. Pearson moved Finch deep under the wing of Chicago and waited.
"Skinnies," was all he said.
The craft flew down the length of the runway at about five hundred feet. After one pass, the craft turned to the west and disappeared.
"I'll be damned," Pearson said watching the craft disappear. "They didn't stop."
"Do they usually stop?" Finch asked.
"When ever one of their ships arrive, they do a fly-by of here. If they detect a new plane, they land and take one person from each plane for interrogation." Pearson paused, then looked at her. "Those they have brought back have been basket cases. All they can do is sit curled up in a ball and rock. They were good men; each of them."
The anger in Pearson's voice was coming through loud and clear to Finch. He felt personally responsible for getting them into this situation. What made matters worse was that he couldn't see a way to get them home.
Finch suddenly understood better why Pearson felt threatened by her presence. She had read how women and minorities were treated in the 1940's, but it was hard to understand with a 21st century background. What she had read was starting to make sense to her. He felt guilty for getting them into this mess. On top of that Pearson was being given orders from a woman who was his superior officer. Either one, Finch was sure Pearson could handle. Together, it was too much to bear.
Finch studied the identification markings on the bombers lining the field.
"These planes are from the 100th Bomb Group," she said, changing the subject to something neutral. "The white square with the black 'D' gives that away. That makes eighteen. The other six must be the ones surrounding the Independence?"
"Yup," he replied. "They were stragglers trying to nurse their planes back home when they were pounced on by the Luftwaffe. Fortunately, there was a handful of P-38's also heading home to England and saw the bombers being attacked. They gave the Messerschmitts a rude surprise. Then the whole kit and caboodle showed up here with us."
Finch listened carefully as Pearson told the story. Talking was freeing a lot of trapped emotions that needed to come out if he was going to remain sane.
"They came racing down the runway at over a hundred and fifty knots," he said. The 109's fired a few shots at Kowalski's wounded planes, then turned to fire on my planes. By then, every top turret was powered and firing on the Germans. Between them and the P-38's, they saved the squadron."
They stopped in front of Midnight Lady. Finch stared up at the half-clothed woman on the nose. What she was wearing wasn't hiding very many details. It matched the pin-up girls from the era perfectly. Finch didn't need to be told that this was Pearson's plane. She could see it in his eyes.
"Flew her over from the States with the same crew I have now," Pearson said without prompting. "They're good men. They deserve to get home."
They started walking again and Pearson said, "May I ask a question, General?"
"Always."
"Is your rank real or honorary?"
"Excuse me?" Finch replied.
"No disrespect intended, ma'am," Pearson quickly added. "But we have met some WASP's and WAAC's, and their rank has always been well honorary. If you know what I mean."
Finch stopped and turned towards Pearson. She took a breath to calm herself. It wouldn't do anyone any good if she lost her temper. Nevertheless
"Colonel, my rank is every bit as real as yours," she answered evenly. "I have fought two wars, had a direct hit on every target and have never turned back. And what I am carrying in the belly of my B-2 can do more damage than the entire 8th Air Force could do in a single strike.
"The rank is real, Colonel. Quite real."
They turned and continued walking down the line.
"What about Captain Johnson? Did he transfer from the Tuskagee squadron?"
"No. He is not a Tuskagee Airman, Colonel," Finch said. "A lot has changed since the end of World War Two."
"The end?" Pearson said incredulously. "We've only been here a few weeks! The war couldn't have ended that fast."
"It didn't," she agreed. "Germany fell in nineteen forty-four. Japan finally capitulated in 'forty-five."
"With all due respect," Pearson said skeptically. "That's just double talk. It's only nineteen forty-three."
"There is no easy way to tell you this, Colonel," Finch said considering her words. "But, for Captain Johnson and myself, the war ended eighty years ago."
It was Pearson's turn to stop. He leaned against main gear of Lucy and tried to comprehend what he just heard.
"Eighty years" he said to himself. "Who won?"
"The Allies," Finch said.
"Thank God for that," he replied, then turned with a start towards Finch. "What about my wife and kids?"
"They moved on," Finch said gently. "You need to remember that everyone here was presumed lost in combat. Some remarried. Some didn't. But they moved on and kept your memories alive."
Pearson was quiet for a time. "I wish I knew what happened to my family."
"They turned out all right," she replied with a faint smile. "Your son and grandson were both pilots in their own right. Your grandson was awarded the Navy Cross."
Finch stopped and turned to look at Pearson. "Your son, Robert Junior, was awarded the Congressional Medal of Honor. Posthumously."
Pearson's face twisted just a little, swallowing the emotions he felt inside. "How did it happen?"
"He was on his third tour of duty in a place called Viet Nam in Southeast Asia," she continued solemnly. "There was a squad of grunts being mauled by enemy fire. Captain Pearson flew his gunship into the middle of the firefight and made pickup. The Marines refused to leave the bodies of their dead behind. Your son agreed and he waited longer than what he should have. As the ship lifted off, he was hit by small arms fire. He lived just long enough to get everyone back."
Pearson nodded slowly. A sad smile crossed his face. "I wish I had known him"
She reached into one of the side pockets in her jumpsuit and handed an envelope to Pearson.
"Colonel, I have orders for you."
Pearson cocked an eyeball at the envelope and pulled out the paperwork.
"You have got to be kidding me," Pearson said as he read the orders. "Who the devil is President Thompson?"
"She's my commander-in-chief, Colonel," Finch said.
"She?"
"She," Finch answered. "A lot has changed, Colonel."
Pearson reread the paperwork and shook his head slowly. "I don't know how we are going to pull this off, General."
"I'll work on that one, Colonel," Finch replied. "You still have this squadron to run and reconnaissance to perform."
They walked in silence until they reached the end of the runway.
"Well, General," Pearson said. "It's going to be an adjustment, but my men can handle it. I'd also like to start off on a better foot."
Pearson came to attention and saluted smartly. "General Finch. Welcome to the middle of nowhere, ma'am."
"The pleasure is mine, Colonel Pearson." She returned the salute, then offered her hand. "The name is Lisa."
He took the hand and shook it. "Call me Bob."
