FROM KEJE-FRIS-AR CINCWEST AND CMDR FIRST FLEET X TO ALL STATIONS
X SUBJECT GENERAL ALARM X AT 0855 THIS DAY A LARGE FORMATION GRIK REPEAT GRIK DIRIGIBLES REPEAT DIRIGIBLES ATTACKED FIRST FLEET WITH HEAVY BOMBS FROM HIGH ALTITUDE ESTIMATED 15000 FEET X SEAPLANE CARRIER HUMFRA-DAR DESTROYED WITH ENTIRE 2ND NAVAL AIR WING MINUS SQUADRONS ALOFT THAT WERE RECOVERED ABOARD SALISSA X FEWER THAN 300 SURVIVORS X RESERVE CAPTAIN GERAN-ERAS AND COFO LT CMDR ALFRED VERNON USN MISSING AND PRESUMED LOST X SERIOUS DAMAGE ALSO SUSTAINED TWO DDS X MINOR DAMAGE SUSTAINED SEVERAL AUXILIARIES X NO EFFECTIVE ANTIAIR EFFORT POSSIBLE BUT CAPTAINS JIS-TIKKAR AND RISA-SAB-AT DESERVE NOTICE FOR CLOSE INSPECTION AND DESCRIPTION OF AIRSHIPS AS WELL AS SENDING ONE OUT OF CONTROL WITH MUSKET FIRE X NUMEROUS OTHER ENEMY CRAFT DESTROYED BY INEXPERIENCED HANDLING X EXAMPLE: RAPID UNCONTROLLED ASCENT AFTER DROPPING BOMBS APPARENTLY CAUSED CATASTROPHIC STRUCTURAL FAILURE AT LEAST SIX (6) GRIK ZEPPELINS X DESCRIPTION GRIK ZEPPELINS: APPROXIMATELY 100 TAILS (YARDS) LONG WITH 4 TAIL-MOUNTED CONTROL SURFACES AND 5 HORIZONTALLY OPPOSED TWO-CYLINDER ENGINES X COMMODORE ELLIS DESCRIBES AS “STUMPY VERSIONS OF ACRON OR MACON” X MAJORITY OF SURVIVING AIRSHIPS RETIRED 345 DEGREES RELATIVE OUR POSITION TOWARD MAINLAND X SOME CONTINUED ON BEARING OF 115 DEGREES POSSIBLE TARGET ANDAMAN X DO NOT REPEAT DO NOT ASSUME THIS IS ONLY RAID X MAKE ALL PREPARATIONS FOR ATTACKS SINGAPORE ARYAAL BAALKPAN X JAP ADVISOR KUROKAWA MUST BE INVOLVED SO REMEMBER JAP AFFINITY FOR COORDINATED AIR ATTACKS X CINCWEST SENDS X
“Oh my God!” Bernie breathed. “Zeppelins! It makes perfect sense, though. No Grik’s ever going to sit in the cockpit of a proper plane. Look, you guys go ahead! I’ll run out to the airfield and give Mallory the dope! We can’t let those bastards hit us here! Not now!”
“Relax, Bernie. We’re hardwired to Ben’s CP from the comm center. He’s already got the word and says he can get four ships in the air if he has to. He’ll have them armed and prepped just in case the red rockets go up. Everybody’s watching the sky, and we’ve already diverted a squadron of PatWing One ‘Nancys’ on a training flight. More planes’ll be up within the hour.”
“Okay, I’ll come with you,” Bernie said, relenting, but then his face turned ashen as he stared toward the Great Hall. Red rockets arced from under the boughs of the Sacred Tree, and others flew skyward from Fort Atkinson and several other designated OPs. “Shit!” he said as the popping sounds of the rockets reached them and general alarm bells began clattering across the city. High above, barely visible in the west-southwest, a jumbled school of what looked like giant fish emerged from the late-afternoon haze.
“Son of a bitch!” Riggs swore. “I didn’t really believe they’d come here! No way they’re the same ones that hit First Fleet! How many of the damn things can they have?” He paused. “Okay, guys. Do not go to the Great Hall! The last thing we need is everybody under one bomb! I’m heading back to the comm center!” He looked at the two men. “Go wherever you want, but split up! And pass the word to anybody you meet: take cover!”
Kaufman Field Baalkpan
Ben Mallory dropped his coffee mug on the table in the shade when the alarm bells began ringing and the rockets popped over the city. The cof- fee spilled across the table and dripped on the ground. “Jumbo!” he shouted at a tall, still-emaciated lieutenant who’d recently arrived from Maa-ni-la. The man had supposedly been a good pilot despite his regulation-busting six-foot-two frame, but he was still in no condition to try out for the P-40s. “Get over to Flight Ops and warm up the radio!” They had one of the spare radios configured for ground use, with a hand crank and dynamo. He looked at Soupy, Mackey, and “Shirley”-the shortest female ’Cat in the Air Corps-and the only other person besides himself and the previous two yet qualified in the P-40E. They’d all been gathered in the shade, waiting, since the first alert. “Let’s do it,” he said a little nervously. “If they’re popping rockets, the damn things must be in sight!”
Together, the four fliers, two human and two ’Cats, ran to the four planes parked two by two out on the strip. Ben leaped onto the trailing edge of the port wing near the fuselage of the plane now sporting a big white cursive M painted on the cowl, and stepped into the cockpit. He immediately flipped the battery switch on and reached for the primer handle with his left hand, unlocked it, and pumped it vigorously to give the engine a good gulp of fuel. Still pumping, his right hand found the starter switch under the throttle quadrant and flipped it from Off down to Energize. The high-pitched, dynamo starter wound up and Ben realized he hadn’t been counting thepriming “shots” he’d sent the big Allison V-1710 in front of him. If he’d given it too much, there’d likely be an induction fire.
“Crap!” he growled aloud. What a “newie” mistake! Of course, he was a “newie” when it came to a combat scramble! Thinking the number felt about right, he locked the handle with a twist and pushed the throttle forward about an inch. The dynamo had reached a fever pitch. “Clear prop!” he yelled, moving the starter switch to Engage. The plane shook violently when the clutch grabbed, and the three-bladed Curtiss electric prop began to turn. The engine chugged, popped, and then several loud blasts blew soot out the exhaust stacks and the big prop blurred. Quickly, he pushed the mixture to Auto Rich, released the starter switch, and jockeyed the throttle. “C’mon!” The Allison blatted up to 900 rpm, let out a string of explosive farts, then stopped firing. “Goddamn crappy gas!” he shouted in frustration, unlocking the primer pump again and waiting for it to refill while the prop windmilled down. He jammed the handle forward, eased the throttle just above idle, and the engine finally caught and roared to life. It hadn’t rained in two days, and a white cloud of dust erupted and gushed aft of the plane.
He buckled the lap belt, looking left and a little behind at the ship beside him. Soupy’s engine was alive, beginning to behave, and the ’Cat was looking nervously around, bouncing up and down on his cushion and parachute, trying to settle himself. Ben’s ears reddened when he saw Lieutenant Mackey in his mirror, looking back at him. Mack was grinning, his engine running smoothly. The prop on Shirley’s ship was still turning on its starter, and Sergeant Dixon trotted out where Ben could see him, shaking his head and waving them on. Mallory nodded irritably and stirred his stick, then lowered the flaps. They’d learned from experience to take off side by side, a little staggered-and try to leave the dust-spewing, chip-throwing strip as quickly as they could. Mackey, as tail end Charlie, would wait until the dust settled. Someday they’d have a grass strip, but in the short term, “paving” and rolling the crushed limestone and coral they had plenty of was easier than grading, filling a billion stump holes, rolling the soft earth-and then waiting for grass to grow. Ben held his brakes for a brief mag check and listened while the others did the same, then pushed the throttle forward. The plane didn’t move!
Damn it! The chocks! He pulled the throttle back to idle, cursing his jitters, but saw a ’Cat emerge from under the right wing, the triangular blocks from the left main already in his hand. He made a “hold on” motion, and pulled the right chocks from under the plane by the rope connecting them. Pitching the bundle of wooden blocks aside, he came to attention and saluted with a toothy grin. Ben grinned back, relieved, and returned the salute. Glancing at Soupy again, he briskly pointed down the strip.
The ’Cat nodded back; Ben shoved the throttle forward in a fluid motion and the Allison roared. The sudden noise and wind blast painfully reminded him he’d made another “newie” mistake. He’d neglected to don the leather helmet, headphones, and goggles still on his lap! Oh well, that would have to wait, but the noise was physically painful. He fed in a little left rudder as the plane accelerated, and he brought the tail up. Now he could see the strip in front of him when the P-40’s long nose leveled out, and he danced on the rudder pedals to keep it straight. Another quick glance showed him Soupy still beside him and not lost in the growing dust cloud.
The plane got light on the gear and he eased back on the stick, lifting off and accelerating. The “Nancy” hangars by the river were geing larger, but he waited a moment longer to make sure his ship wouldn’t bounce. Satisfied, he tapped the toe brakes to stop the spinning wheels, depressed the gear handle locking pin, and pulled the lever up. His head bobbled like a gobbler in a turkey shoot so he could keep track of his surroundings and watch the multitude of gauges, and he squeezed the hydraulic pump switch low on the stick that both raised the landing gear and allowed him to milk the flaps while the ship gained more speed. He confirmed that the strange landing gear position indicator was telling the truth when the left main completed its rotation and clunked into the port wing, followed moments later by the starboard, and the Gear Unsafe light went out. Now, with everything up, he had to resist the temptation to lift the nose and go straight at the enemy. He needed speed first; then he’d claw for altitude. He pushed the throttle past the established thirty-five inches of manifold pressure and immediately a loud glacker-ing sound reached him even over the buffeting wind and now almost-agonizing exhaust. “ Goddamn crummy gas!” he yelled again, unheard even by himself. He backed the throttle down half an inch or so, and the detonation quit. Guess we’ll have to settle for what we’ve got, he thought, finally closing the canopy and muffling the terrible noise.
Airspeed passed 190 as he roared over the river at a hundred fifty feet-just enough to clear the highest trees
