Winter Warriors

ground ahead of her. This was the hard part, actually finding something to shoot at. Once she had a target, Evil Dreams had the bombs and rockets, not to mention her four 23mm cannon, to do something fairly disastrous to it. But first she had to find it. The minutes ticked by, slowly draining the fuel from her tanks.

“Hey Boss, got something.”

“Worthwhile?” There had been all too many times when a F-61 had expended its bombs and rockets on a target of little value only to have a rich group turn up when she was on her way back home, her racks and magazines empty.

“Collection of vehicles; definition isn’t good enough to count how many.” There was a rustling of maps in the bulky radar compartment. “OK, there’s a railway junction ahead. East-west line meets a north-south line. I think the contacts are clustered around the buildings at the junction.” The resolution of the SCR-720 wasn’t that good, it was barely adequate to show that the targets were there.

“OK, we’ll take them down.” Quayle swung Evil Dreams around in a wide curve, getting her lined up on the radar contacts below. There was nothing to be seen down there. Every unit on Kola knew that keeping itself blacked out was essential if they were to survive. The Americans had their sophisticated Black Widows with their array of weapons and radar. The Russians had their partisans on the ground, all too ready to spot a target and steer in one of the little night-intruder Boomerangs. The Germans had their night fliers as well; everything from the old Hs-123 biplanes to Ju-88Gs and He-219 night-fighters. An array of nocturnal pests whose activities condemned the troops on the ground to a night of sleepless darkness.

“Target’s in front of us now Boss.” Quayle reached down and selected the inner bomb racks. They had something new, a device that allowed three 500 pound bombs to be carried on a single pylon originally intended for a single 1,600 pound weapon. The price paid was that the triple rack was draggy and pulled their speed down. That’s why a wise pilot dumped those bombs first. Next step was to put the nose down, taking Evil Dreams into a long, quiet dive that allowed him to throttle the engines back. No point on giving the targets more warning than I have to.

Morton quietly read the range to the cluster of targets on the ground ahead. Then, he stopped; they were too close in for the radar to be effective. It didn’t matter. Quayle had seen the shadows of the buildings in front of him and had lined up perfectly. Then, he punched the bomb release and slammed the throttles forward. The big Black Widow leapt forward with the added power from its R-2800s. Staring out of the back transparencies, Phelan saw the ground erupt with the six explosions from the bombs. Then two more, bigger, fireballing blasts.

“Secondary explosions, probably fuel or ammunition going up. Whatever had been down there, we’ve hit something.” He paused a second. “Problems Boss. We’ve got a bandit out here. I’m picking up Lichtenstein emissions and we just gave him the flaming datum to end all flaming datums.” Morton scanned his radar warning equipment.

There was no indication where the enemy night-fighter was, but it was out there and it had a good idea where the intruder it was hunting could be. Phelan slid away from his observation post and climbed into his gunner’s seat. If they couldn’t find the enemy night-fighter, defending against it would be his job.

In the cockpit, Quayle was weighing odds. The fighter couldn’t be to the south or west of us, otherwise we ‘d have picked it up. It had to be north and east, probably on its way back to base. And it had to be above us. In daylight that would be a bad disadvantage for Evil Dreams but at night, things were different. The lower aircraft would be hidden against the shadows of the ground; the higher aircraft would be silhouetted against the brighter sky. Provided the differential wasn’t too great, the plane below had the edge. Quayle remembered something else; an urgent intelligence warning that German night-fighters carried upwards-firing cannon. No. Here, now, being below was good.

As Evil Dreams turned, her radar scanning arc cut across the sky, searching for the hostile night-fighter. The Germans had a radar warning system too; one that could detect the SCR-720. That was probably how they knew Evil Dreams had been in the area.

“Got him, Boss. He’s turning our way but we’re behind, below and outside his curve. About 5,000 yards ahead. Closing steadily, his speed’s around 200, perhaps 250.” Quayle glanced down, Evil Dreams was doing just over 330 mph. Within two minutes, they should be able to see the target. Theoretically, it was possible to do an entire intercept using radar sightings but nobody ever did. They waited to see their target first.

“He’s straightening out Boss. Probably going to reverse his turn.” That would make sense, the German pilot would be snaking, trying to expand the search arc of his radar. This time though, the turn would take him right across the Black Widow’s nose.

“Got him! There he is.” Quayle ran the identification through his mind. Twin radial engines, twin tailplanes, glass cockpit extending to the nose. A Heinkel 219. That was good, they were the best night fighters Germany had and downing one is a real prize. The German fighter was dark against the sky. To cut down shadows, the Germans painted theirs dappled gray. The Americans used a darker slate gray.

“Turret locked forward, Boss; transferring gun control to you.” Phelan settled back. His turret was now part of Evil Dreams’ forward-firing gun battery.

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.

Mechanized Column, 71st Infantry Division, Kola Peninsula

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