Against the Tide Imperial: The Struggle for Ceylon (The Usurper's War: An Alternative World War II B by James Young (classic book list .txt) 📗

fuel than he did. It was only prudent to put them back aboard the deck first. Now, as he looked at the setting sun, he pondered whether that was about get him killed.

“State fuel,” the carrier’s bridge replied.

“I’m roughly fifteen minutes from being into reserve,” he replied.

“Radar has a contact at bearing oh one zero true, estimated range forty-five miles, altitude probably angels seven, closing with our current position.” Chenango replied. “Do you feel it is safe to investigate?”

I will never cease to be amazed at people who ask dumb questions, Adam thought. It’s about to be dark in probably a half hour or so, there’s no air sea rescue capability aboard this carrier, and you’re asking if it’s safe? No, it most certainly isn’t safe, but I’ll go anyway.

“On my way towards contact,” Adam said. “Please provide vector when within fifteen miles.”

There was a long pause, his instructions apparently causing some concern on the carrier’s bridge.

Just in case someone on the receiving end of those radar beams has our frequency open and speaks English, I’d rather see him first than be seen. A prudent man only had to get bounced by opposing aircraft eavesdropping on the fighter control radio network a single time to learn that lesson. Unfortunately, Adam had flown with some dense flight commanders during the Second Battle of Britain.

“Understand, will give you vector at fifteen miles.”

Adam put the Wildcat into a climbing trim and advanced his throttle. Looking out over the wings, he gave a heavy sigh and jettisoned the two empty drop tanks.

We’re going to Pearl, he thought. If this is what I think it might be, two less drop tanks won’t be a problem. The Wildcat, even the new FM-2, wasn’t the best climber in the world and Adam wanted to get to angels ten as quickly as he could.

That the hostile contact was heading directly towards the task force helped the relative closure rate immensely. A little over ten minutes and one additional radio call later, Adam found himself slightly below and off the port quarter of a single-engined, dual float aircraft.

“Red One, do you have the bogey in sight?” Chenango asked. Adam ignored the call, gradually closing on the enemy from below with the other aircraft outlined against the darkening sky. As he got within one hundred yards, the bright red circle on the dark green fuselage became visible.

“Red One, this is Home Plate, please respond,” Chenango stated.

Oh, I’m about to respond. He charged his four .50-caliber machine guns and took a deep breath then pulled up. It was only when the floatplane’s wings filled his reflect sight from end to end that Adam squeezed his trigger. It was a 3-second burst, and the Yokosuka E14Y’s crew probably never knew what hit them. The four streams of thumb-sized bullets sliced upwards through the fuselage, through the cockpit, and finally into the fuel tanks. The lightly built Glen burst into a fireball, the flames bright against the darkened ocean below as the aircraft fell towards the water.

Adam immediately threw his Wildcat into a reversal and cleared his own tail just in case his victim had a friend.

Can’t imagine a submarine carrying two of those things, but I’m betting that poor bastard wasn’t expecting someone to sneak up on him either.

“Home Base, Red One, scratch one bandit,” Adam stated tersely. “I am returning towards base.”

“Roger Red One, good job,” the Chenango replied. “Be advised we are changing course, come to heading one nine oh true from your current position.”

You know what’s harder than landing on a postage stamp in the middle of the ocean? Adam belatedly realized twenty minutes later, bile raising in his stomach. Finding that postage stamp in the dark. At his altitude, the sun was still a faint disc on the edge of the horizon. However, the surface of the ocean was dark, and he realized that perhaps it might have been prudent to pay a bit more attention during the impromptu ship search class held by the Dauntless squadron aboard Chenango.

“Red One, look to your five o’clock,” his headset crackled, and he recognized Sam Cobb’s voice. Rotating in his seat, Adam strained to see into the darkness.

There, he thought, his heart in his throat. It was only now, as he saw the carrier’s wake, that Adam realized just how much he’d been sweating in fear. As he turned around to get in the groove, he made sure to keep his eyes on his instruments rather than attempting to view things through his canopy. Once straight and level, he risked looking up.

Oh shit! He stabbed the electrical gear button and lowering his arrester hook. The Chenango was barely two miles ahead of him, the dark outline now just visible in the last vestiges of nautical twilight. He advanced the throttle slightly to account for the increased drag as the Wildcat got mushy with its gear coming down. Quick, furtive movements saw to his trim.

Thank goodness Eastern’s engineers didn’t do anything to mess with the low speed handling. The flight deck swelling as he closed. It was only as he was making his last adjustments and about to land on the deck that his mind clued him in to the lack of a LSO. Then the Wildcat was hitting the deck…and snagging the first wire as he chopped his throttle.

Okay, and people do this on a permanent basis?! he marveled, panting wildly in the cockpit. He was reaching forward to kill the engine when the Wildcat’s engine just died on its own.

“No more of this bullshit, Adam,” he muttered. “Nope, gonna change that flight roster right out.”

“Sir, you okay?” one of the Chenango’s plane handlers asked him. Adam hadn’t even heard the man clamber up on the wing.

“Oh, I’m wonderful,” he replied, short of breath. “I face the thought of dying from exposure every day.”

“Sir, captain would like to see you,” Sam drawled drily from the other side. “Something about apparently being blind as a bat.”

“Bats can see at night,”