The Fly Boys (8 page)

“I hate it, too,” Cappy said. “But we can’t shoot them down because Uncle Sammy wouldn’t like it, and anyway, we’re guests
on their fucking webfoot island, and we’re going to behave like guests, God help us. Just do as I say: follow me up to thirty-eight
thousand and leave them behind.”

“But what are we going to do up there?” another pilot cut in. “Just wait them out?”

“I guess,” Cappy said helplessly. “Maybe they’ll get bored and go away.”

“Or maybe they’ll hang around and wait for us to come back down,” Steve said. “Like the damn bullies they are.”

“You got any better ideas, Steve?” Cappy demanded fiercely.

“Maybe I do,” Steve said. “You can’t run from bullies, Cappy. You’ve got to stand up to them! Do I have your permission to
try?”

“Try what, Steve?” Cappy asked, sounding apprehensive.

“I have to demonstrate, Major,” Steve replied, and before Cappy could stop him, he orchestrated his throttle and ram scoop
turbo supercharger to abruptly rise up out of the Marines’ box formation like a pigeon out of the bush. He next popped his
flaps to abruptly slow down, causing the surprised Marines to shoot past. Steve had no problem dropping down onto theirs tails.

He saw Captain Crawford turn his head to see what he was doing, and thought the captain gave him a friendly wave of acknowledgment,
but that might have been wishful thinking. As the formation of Corsairs broke apart to escape, Steve picked out one bluebird
and went after it. As he did, he wondered how long it would take Cappy Fitzpatrick to realize what he had planned, and stop
him from doing it.

The Corsair’s pilot had chosen to make a flat-out run.
Bad choice
, Steve thought gleefully.

The Corsair was a good mount, but at this altitude she was straining for breath, while the Jug was happy as a pig in shit
this high in the sky with room to gallop. For ten deliciously long seconds Steve stayed glued to the Corsair’s tail, waxing
the webfoot soundly. He’d made sure his guns were on safety, and then activated his gun camera to record the rout.

“Lieutenant Gold,” Cappy’s voice suddenly exploded in Steve’s headset, “what the fuck do you think you’re doing?”

Steve smiled. He’d known the major long enough to recognize when Cappy was truly pissed and when he was just acting like he
was.

“Aw, come on, Cappy,” Steve cajoled affectionately. “Can’t you just pretend you don’t see me for a little while longer?”

There was a moment of static, and then Cappy said, “Don’t … see …
who?
”

Thank you
, Steve thought, as just ahead the desperate Marine went into a dive to escape. Steve dived right after him, waxing the bluebird
for five seconds longer. He thought,
If this were real, I’d be a double ace right now
.

And then Steve had to break away.

The pursuit and power dive had cost him ten thousand feet, and the Jug wasn’t happy about it. Above his own excited breathing
into his rubber oxygen mask he could hear the difference in his engine: the liquid growl had dropped in pitch to a harsh rumble.
As he pulled back on the stick and worked his rudder pedals, he felt the Jug’s sluggish response. There was no problem, and
no danger. It was just that the lower the Jug flew, the more dimwitted she got. The altimeter was presently indicating sixteen
thousand feet. Drop her down another few thousand and she’d turn into a goddamned railroad locomotive: just as dependable
and rock steady as a choo-choo, but a little less responsive and agile.

He climbed slowly; it took him a couple of minutes to regain the ten thousand feet he’d lost in only a few seconds. While
the Jug was huffing and puffing up the ladder, Steve had plenty of time to search the sky. The Corsair he’d waxed was heading
for home. The remaining three bluebirds were a couple of miles away, at two-o’clock high. They were
coming toward him to intercept
.

Steve smiled broadly. He would have had no hope of catching up to the three Corsairs if they’d chosen to escape, but he knew
that they wouldn’t—
couldn’t
—run. He’d already blistered one of their brothers-in-arms. As far as they were concerned, the fucking honor of the fucking
Marine Corps was now at stake.

Cappy’s voice came over his headset, singing, “Oh where, oh where could my little Jug be …?”

“Cappy, this is Steve. Do I have permission to continue upholding the honor of the squadron awhile longer?”

“What squadron would that be, kiddo?” Cappy demanded.

“The … Double Vee Squadron, sir.”

“The
what
?” Cappy persisted.

Steve had to swallow hard before he could bring himself to say it. “The Vigilant Virgin Squadron, sir—”

“Good enough,” Cappy laughed. “You’ve got my permission to show those webfoots what it means when a virgin says no!”

“Roger that, Cappy,” Steve said.

Now that the Jug was back up to 22,000 feet, she was again feeling her oats. There was a little less than a mile separating
Steve from the Corsairs, which had come around to approach him head-on. He didn’t expect them to break; it was three against
one, after all. He knew what they expected
him
to do: break sharply, either to port or starboard, and then they’d have him broadside in their sights. In real life he’d
be a tough deflection shot for the Marines, but since this was a mock dogfight, all three webfoots would simply run their
gun cameras and claim a “likely victory,” one that would counter the embarrassment they suffered over the waxing Steve had
inflicted on the other Corsair.

The webfoots were expecting Steve to break, because that was all a typical airplane was capable of doing, but the Double Vees’
Thunderbolts weren’t typical. They had been factory equipped with an emergency water injection system that shot water into
the engine cylinders, temporarily—
very temporarily
—increasing horsepower from 2,100 to 2,800, increasing the Jug’s top speed to about 470 miles per hour. The Corsairs were
due to be fitted with the water injection system, but Steve was pretty sure that hadn’t yet happened; otherwise the pilot
he’d just waxed would have used the system to try and save his tail.

Steve and the Corsairs—still rushing toward each other —had closed the gap between them to-about a quarter mile. Again, if
this had been a real fight, both sides would have begun firing by now, but gun cameras would have a problem clearly filming
a head-on airplane at this distance. Steve still had a few seconds before the Marines could claim victory.

He cut in the Jug’s turbosupercharger as he dropped into a shallow dive, offsetting the Jug to one side by banking hard, beginning
his turn virtually beneath the Corsair’s noses. He held full throttle as he continued what amounted to an aerial U-turn. The
Jug’s bones groaned in protest, and Steve’s vision dimmed as the G-force flattened him, but the maneuver worked. The Corsairs
badly overshot him. The Marine pilots were sparing their bodies and their airplanes as they began a leisurely turn to come
after him. They were obviously confident that in a tight dogfight their Corsairs were more than a match for the Jug.

Surprise, surprise
, Steve thought as he came out of his U-turn well behind the tail of the last Corsair. Steve kept his throttle wide open as
he activated the water injection system. The Jug howled like a goosed dame, and then the great silver airplane leapt forward.
Steve glanced at his air speed indicator: 475 miles per hour! His pulse was zinging just as fast. He was going at least 50
miles an hour faster than what the Corsairs were capable of doing. He barely had time to activate his gun camera before he
overtook the first bluebird. He shot past it and got the next webfoot on film for a good five seconds before it broke away.
He didn’t chase it, but went after the last plane; he wanted all four. Four fucking Marines waxed by one Army airman—he was
going to be famous, assuming he wasn’t court-martialed.

Steve’s finger was reaching to activate his camera on the last Corsair when “Break! Break!” filled his headset. He reacted
automatically, veering off sharply, giving up the pursuit.

Break
. It was the signal from a fellow pilot that the enemy was on your tail, that at any instant gunfire might be rattling through
your cockpit. A fighter jock was trained to react instinctively to the warning. He couldn’t afford to think about it, because
the time it took to think might be all the time the enemy needed to kill him.

It had taken Steve less than a second to almost involuntarily react. By the time his consciousness had caught up to remind
him that this was a mock dogfight and that there could be no enemy behind him, the Corsair was long gone, and in hot pursuit
was the son of a bitch Thunderbolt pilot who had issued the phony warning. As the Jug flashed past, Steve had barely enough
time to read the Pilot’s personal name for his airplane plastered beneath the canopy, written in yellow script against a blue
background:
Miss Bessie
.

You bastard!
Steve cursed the pilot who had ruined his perfect run against the Marines.
You bastard, you stole my kill!

It was the oldest asshole’s trick in the book: the asshole waited for a fellow pilot to do all the hard work of lining up,
hammering, and hamstringing an enemy. Then, at the last possible second, the asshole yells, “Break!” The rightful pilot takes
evasive action, allowing the asshole to move in, put a short burst into the falling enemy, and in that way get to claim false
credit for the kill.

Steve clicked his throat mike. “Hey, Miss Bessie, you son of a bitch! You stole my kill.”

“Steve, this is Cappy. Calm down.”

“Cappy, did you see what that son of a bitch did?”

“We all saw it. But this is just a mock dogfight, Lieutenant. Don’t take it so seriously.”

“Well, I
do
take it seriously, Cappy!” Steve protested. “I’ve got three of them on film. I was about to wax the last one, and then that
bastard goes and pulls a dirty stunt like that. Who the fuck
is
he, anyway?”

A new voice cut into the conversation. “Lieutenant Gold, the name’s Detkin. Lieutenant Ben Detkin.”

Steve mentally ran through the members of the squadron. He knew the name, of course, but he just couldn’t attach it to a face.
“Detkin, just wait till I get my hands on you.”

“Gold, you’re talking to a fellow officer,” Detkin chuckled. “You’d better watch your tone.”

“Oh, yeah, Detkin, I’ll watch it. And
you
can watch
me
shove those louie’s bars of yours right up your fucking, deceitful ass.”

“That’s enough!” Cappy cut in sharply. “Benny, you were wrong to cry wolf the way you did. And as for you, Steve, come on!
Lighten up, for chrissake. You got three of those webfoots, and you ought to be satisfied with that. We’re going home. I want
to get your gun camera film developed. I can’t wait to send it over to the Marine group commandant, along with some pillows
for his pilots to sit on.”

Steve was tempted to go after Detkin and wax
his
tail, but by now the water squirted into the engine had been used up. He could inject water again, of course, but he couldn’t
see straining his Jug that way in a noncombat situation. The Jug’s power plant was already sounding rough—complaining about
the abuse. Anyway, his fuel supply was low, and the loss of altitude was further hampering his performance.

“Cappy, this is Steve. I’m returning to base.” He put the Jug into a gentle coasting turn back toward Santa Belle.

Detkin—I’ll wax your tail on the ground
.

Steve had the Jug’s canopy up while he was still taxiing toward the hangar area. He cut his engine, coasting to where he wanted
the Jug to stop with just a feather touch on the brakes. He was out of his plane the instant the wheels stopped turning.

“Get my gun camera
film
into the lab,” Steve ordered his mystified crew chief as he strode past the man without stopping, heading for the squadron’s
ops-ready room.

Most of the pilots—Cappy excluded—were already there as Steve banged through the double screen doors. They froze in front
of their lockers in their various states of undress, staring back at Steve as he stood with his hands on his hips, glaring
into the room. One wall was taken up with a bank of narrow dark green metal lockers and long wooden benches, where the pilots
could change into their flying gear. The other side of the room had folding wooden chairs haphazardly arranged in front of
a low, raised platform. Attached to the wall behind the platform were a large rectangular blackboard, a duty roster, and a
set of roll-down maps. The squadron’s ops officer had his desk and file cabinets next to the podium. Next to him was where
the radio operator sat in front of his equipment. In the hut’s far corner a bar had been set up for the use of the officers.

“Detkin!” Steve roared.

“Take it easy, Steve. That’s an order,” Captain Crawford said as he stowed his gear.

Steve, pissed off, ignored him, despite the fact that he was a superior officer. When Cappy wasn’t around, Crawford or any
of the other three captains in the squadron were in charge, but a guy who pulled his weight in a combat unit could get away
with a certain amount of insubordination. Anyway, Steve disliked schoolteachers telling him what to do.

“Detkin!” he repeated. “You in here? Or are you too chickenshit to show yourself?”

“I’m Detkin,” a pilot Steve’s age, or maybe a couple of years older, replied softly, stepping away from the others. He was
barefoot and wearing just his boxer shorts. He was about five feet ten inches tall. Like all the pilots, he was built thick
through his shoulders and arms, thanks to the effort it took to work a fighter plane’s controls at high speed. “You ought
to know your squadron mates by now,” he mocked.

“I’ll know you from now on,” Steve said. He stripped off his Mae West and shoulder holster, threw his gear into his locker,
and advanced on Detkin.