Return of Sky Ghost (32 page)

Hunter knew the ancient Octocopter couldn’t take much more of this. It was time for him to either throw up or get his shit together. He decided to go with the latter. He began pushing buttons on his control panel, some to ON, some to OFF. At the same time, he set the flight computer to
preactivate
and killed all the weapons’ displays. His plan was to prejuice the engines with some reserve fuel, set everything to
standby
and then when he was finally dropped, throw everything into
activate.

Then hope for the best….

The problem was, the best hadn’t been happening much for him lately.

Was there any reason for it to start now?

The actions of the Beater and Hunter’s plane dangling underneath it were being watched with great interest and curiosity by the soldiers on Tin Can beach.

They knew the desperation in the plan mirrored their own, here on the beach. Still, they looked up into the cold windy sky and watched as the Beater and the Z-3/15 became smaller and smaller until they just about disappeared altogether.

It was at this point that the Roamer crew up on the cliff radioed down another chilling report. The Japanese landing craft had reached the west side of the sound and were now making for Ashmont Rocks. After that, it would just be a matter of minutes before they would be steaming onto Tin Can beach itself. After that, and following a valiant fight on the beach, no doubt some sort of slaughter would ensue.

“About a mile from the rocks now,” came the Roamer crew’s next report. “We can see the troops checking their weapons. They appear to be taking the weather-protection gear off their rifles.”

The Japanese troops were getting ready for action. It was time for the defenders to do the same.

The call to ready weapons went from Colonel Asten’s lips to his men’s ears. But the troops were spread so thin, it took several minutes to repeat the message enough times for everyone to hear the order. By that time, the Japanese landing craft had reached Ashmont Rocks. Now all they had to do was turn into the bay and make for the beach. There really wasn’t very much to stop them.

The Roamer crew was ordered to return—every gun would be needed now. Colonel Asten’s plan was simple, really. It would be defense in depth. They would fight the Japanese on the beach and then gradually fall back to the real site they were protecting: the farmhouse on top of the hill. The occupants of the house and those who worked inside the underground facility were all now deep down inside the sixteenth-level laboratory, along with the civilian occupants of Summer Point, who had been evacuated earlier. But this would offer only a temporary refuge, Asten feared. To some extent the invading Japanese knew what was here and their aim was to get it. Once they reached the farmhouse area it wouldn’t be too long before they would find and gain access to the underground lab.

After that, no less than the whole world would change—and not for the better.

Asten planned to fight to the last man all the way up to the front porch, if that’s what it took. No Japanese was going through that door, he vowed. Not while any of his men were still alive.

Another tense minute passed. The waves were hitting the beach very hard now, then rain sounded like the crash of a million cymbals. To make matters worse, from across the sound they could hear the roar of jet engines once again. First two, then four, then six Japanese airplanes were heard taking off. Moments later, they could be seen rising through the low clouds above the sound. More were following right on their tails. All of them seemed weighed down by multitudes of bombs hanging from their wings.

The first line of Japanese landing craft came around Ashmont Rocks and were now heading for the beach. Asten gulped out another order, and this one didn’t take but a few seconds to make it up and down the thinly spread line.

“Activate weapons. Be prepared to fight for your life….”

With all this going on, someone on the beach finally remembered to look up. When he did, it gave him cause enough to shout to his comrades, and now everyone was looking up.

Way, way up, in a patch of clear sky past 35,000 feet, the tiny speck of the Beater could still be seen. Beneath it, still spinning like crazy was the Z-3/15. But something was happening. Faint puffs of smoke were sprouting from the back of the sleek white jet. These were clear-out bursts—prerequisites to starting a double-reaction engine.

“Damn! He’s going to do it!” someone yelled.

Sure enough, a second later, the chain beneath the Beater let go, and the Z-3 started falling—very quickly.

Right away, the people on the beach could tell something was wrong. The airplane was falling and spinning and tumbling, all at the same time. Many puffs of black smoke could be seen coming out of the rear of the sleek jet, but not any telltale streaks of clean yellow flame. It was obvious to all those on the beach that Hunter was trying frantically to start his engines—and so far, failing miserably.

With all the trepidation of a circus crowd watching the tightrope walker fall, the soldiers on the beach followed the Z-3/15 as it tumbled, end over end, spitting out desperate puffs of black smoke, but not even the spark of a flame. Their hearts fell along with the struggling airplane.

Hunter’s valiant if bizarre attempt to get airborne was about to die a violent death.

And soon after that, so would they.

Not every member of the Special Tank Service unit was down on the beach.

Third Squad, made up primarily of the unit’s mechanics, were in place around the farmhouse. These twelve men were positioned inside the trenches which were blown out of the small house’s front lawn. They had two antipersonnel rocket launchers, three .50 caliber triple-barreled machine guns, two heavy mortars, and one SuperChieftain tank with only its driver and a single gunner on board.

These men represented the STS’s last line of defense. If and when the enemy made it off the beach, only Third Squad, and their surviving comrades, would stand between them and the farmhouse.

Because they were up on a hill, the members of Third Squad also had an excellent view of Tin Can beach, about 2,500 feet away, as well as Point Curly bay, Ashmont Rocks, the sound, and McReady field over on East Falkland. Third Squad had a front row seat for the events unfolding this desperate morning.

What they would see they would not soon forget.

The Japanese landing craft had all rounded Ashmont Rocks by now. They were approaching the beach in two waves, one behind the other. It was a distance of about 1,500 yards and the invasion craft were opened to full throttle. Meanwhile, the first squadron of Japanese jets to take off from McReady had formed up about two miles offshore and were now coming in low over the water. Four Japanese warships, two cruisers, and two destroyers had steamed up Falkland Sound and were now in position about three miles off Tin Can beach. Already their gunners had lobbed several smoke shells onto the beach in order to give them aiming points when it came time to fire.

In all, 2,237 Japanese troops, fifty jet aircraft, and fourteen major naval guns would be used against the seventy or so defenders of West Falkland. There was no reason to believe that the battle would last more than an hour.

The men in Third Squad, watching from the farmhouse trenches, would see it all.

The first noise that reached Third Squad’s position was the scream of the Japanese warplanes roaring toward the beach. At almost the same moment, the naval guns offshore opened up. The landing craft were about one-third of the way to the beach. The Japanese soldiers were hunkered down in their flat, open boats, crouching as low as they could go. There was lots of lethal stuff flying over their heads at the moment, some of it so low they could hear it sizzle as it went by.

The first three Japanese warplanes roared over the beach. They were SuperKate attack jets. They let loose two bombs each, and all six missed their targets. The naval gunfire increased, the disruption shells plastering the shallow waters off the beach, sending tremendous shock waves out in all directions and creating even larger waves, but not causing any casualties among the defenders.

There was even machine gun fire coming in from the approaching landing craft themselves. On the beach, the defenders were holding their fire. When the real shooting began, every shot would have to count. There was no sense in wasting ammunition now.

Up on the hill, the members of Third Squad found the noise beyond deafening. Jet engines, booming naval guns, disruption shells exploding, the screaming wind, the pounding rain. Like a gigantic fiery monster with huge steel jaws, the incoming Japanese force was about to tear through their friends down on the beach without mercy—then move on them as well.

When it really seemed that all hope was lost, another noise was heard above all else.

From the low clouds hanging drearily over the beach, there came a bright flash of white-hot light. It crackled like lightning. There was a huge clap of thunder. From the bottom of the cloud, a gleaming white aircraft appeared. It seemed to hang in midair for the longest of moments, as if everything on Earth had stopped for one eternal second.

Then, surrounded by fire and smoke, another roar shook the entire island. It was the unmistakable screech of a double-reaction engine finally kicking in. In a snap the ball of light turned into the Z-3/15
Stiletto.
A cheer went up from the defenders. It was Hunter! He had somehow gotten the engine to kick in just seconds before he would have impacted on the beach. There was another roar and then the sleek jet took off like a shot. The people on the beach were now startled. One moment the white jet was there, the next it was gone. The sonic boom it left in its wake was louder than all the other noises going on around them combined.

Now the defenders of West Falkland watched in awe as the Z-3/15 went to work.

It might have seemed strange that the first target of the white jet was one of the warships off shore. However as soon as it had attained forward flight, the blur went three miles out to sea and began a murderous strafing pass on one of the two cruisers. This particular ship had more radar antennas and communications gear sticking out of its mast, and that was the clue why it was the first to feel the
Stiletto
’s sting. For this operation, the cruiser was serving as the command and control ship, the brains of the attack. It was important to knock it out of action first.

The
Stiletto
’s first pass severed all the electronic trees sprouting from its mast. A three-shell burst from the white jet’s cannon also found the massive communications room right below the bridge and set off three explosions, killing all its communications technicians as well as half its crucial radio gear.

The white jet then climbed, looped, and came back down again, this time lining up its needle nose with the stern of the ship. Its guns opened up again at about fifty yards out. A string of cannon shells walked along the deck and up the superstructure, each one perfectly placed to destroy something vital on the ship. One naval bombardment gun, one antipersonnel rocket launcher, and one antiaircraft array were knocked out—in less than two seconds.

The white jet veered off and climbed again. By this time the cruiser’s forward sections were smoking heavily. Huge clouds of sparks could be seen emitting from its rear end. Electrical short circuits of explosive magnitude were running throughout the ship, starting many secondary fires. It was soon going dead in the water.

But the Z-3/15 had already moved on. It was now climbing through the low cloud cover, the unearthly screech of its superengines sending out sonic waves so intense that even the soldiers protecting the farmhouse had to plug their ears for fear of going deaf.

The needle-nosed plane cut into the low clouds like a knife. A short series of machine gun bursts could be heard—and a Japanese Super Kate suddenly fell out of the clouds, like a bird that had been killed on the wing.

The plane came down about fifty yards off Tin Can beach, its flaming wreckage creating an instant water hazard for the incoming landing craft. Another sonic boom, another series of machine gun bursts, and a Super Zero came down right behind it. Just like that, two enemy airplanes were gone and nearly one-fifth of Tin Can beach was blocked.

The white jet was then seen streaking back out to sea. Flying low, its nose lit up in yellow flame, a destroyer was its victim now. The fusillade from the airplane concentrated on the destroyer’s naval guns and its bridge. Twisting wing over wing as it bore down on the suddenly swerving ship, the airplane’s cannon rounds once again went up one side of the destroyer’s hull and down the other. Another twist and suddenly the jet was firing directly into the ship’s bridge, where all the officers were. There was a two-second delay, and then a huge explosion shook the destroyer’s entire superstructure. In one stroke, its entire command staff had been killed, along with all its controls and weapons systems. The white jet climbed, its engine emitting another terrific sonic boom. Very quickly the destroyer went dead in the water too.

By this time, the Japanese landing craft were just 1,200 yards off Tin Can beach. The defenders had still not fired a shot—this surely would be a whites-of-their-eyes situation. Above the beach the clouds were literally shaking with sonic booms and jet engines screaming. The rain and wind had also increased, adding much to the confusion.

Now another SuperZero came down out of the clouds. It was on fire, its pilot desperately trying to pull up before hitting the water, but failing miserably. His left wing fell off about 200 feet above the waves and that put the big fighter into a mighty spin. It corkscrewed itself into the beach not 250 feet from the front trenches. It was heads-down for the defenders, as a cloud of burning jet fuel went right over the trenches. The wreckage itself exploded once more as it buried itself near the low water mark, creating yet another obstacle the invaders would have to get around.

The white jet disappeared again, but not for long. More sonic booms ripped the morning air. Then it was back, turned over, streaking below the clouds, its machine guns glowing, two streams of tracers ripping into the three leading landing craft.