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What If Tales: Fly Boys
Posted By: Jin1<jermevans1990@gmail.com>
Date: 3 August 2007, 1:51 pm
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What If Tales: Fly Boy
They lock a bunch of American pilots and British egg heads in a room, what do you get? One hell of fighter. God bless the English perseverance. They were flying patrol, the interceptor steady under Captain Young's control, his eyes scanned the fighter; Painted a navy blue with crimson star on each end of the wings. On the long nose of the fighter was the words "Lux Aeterna II".
It flew at a steady at just under three hundred miles per hour, below him was the British Isles; he saw dozens of ships at the port of London.
The Army Air Force pilot smiled and spoke over the radio towards his two wing mates who were twenty meters from his wing tip and slightly behind. "So, when we get back on the ground, how about we check out the pub and get a drink."
"I hear that…" The firs voice that replied was gruff but had a hint of joy; it came from Lieutenant Robert Hunter, a older man from the 332nd Fighter Group. He had fought over Italy and over fortress Europe and most of his squadron survived but they were pulled out for the simple fact they couldn't stop the waves of enemy fighters that swarmed over them every day.
Young directed his next question to his second wing man on his right, Lieutenant Kenneth G. Poles of the 56th Fighter Group. "What about you, Kenny?"
Poles was the youngest of gang, only twenty-two and he had seen more action than Poles and Young combined –the kid was young but one hell of a pilot.
Kenneth in his Alabama drawl replied. "Sure thing boss, but you have to make sure Sasquatch over there doesn't drink himself under the table."
"I heard that- jackass." A sharp quip came from the thirty year old's mouth and it's the voice was razor sharp.
Poles paid it no mind, he continued. "And we must remember the time he made us bet on him on when he was in a drinking contest. How much was it, Robert? Fifty bucks?"
"I'm warning you…"
"No… Actually thinking about it I'm pretty sure-"
Young stepped in, most likely base was listening to this and they weren't going to be happy about American pilots arguing over an open communications channel. "Cut the chatter, you do. We're on patrol, so keep your eyes peeled."
"Yes, sir." Hunter replied quickly and there was silence from his end and Poles didn't bother to reply to him.
Good. Finally some peace and quiet.
The three fighters were over the English Channel now; the water was lapping below, peaceful. The alien bastards hadn't attacked since they pulled back off Europe with the troops. Strange as it was, the creatures usually kept hitting until there was nothing left.
But he wasn't complaining, the less he had to face there military the better.
"Sir… I'm picking up something on radar." It was Pole's voice, and it seemed worried.
Young glanced down at his screen; the damn mechanics hadn't fixed his after his last aerial engagement so he wouldn't know. "What do you see, Lieutenant?"
"Somethin' big, sir. And it's coming our way. Fast."
Young looked up, and saw nothing but clouds which a brief period of sunlight shining in when the light broke through. "We need to get out of this cloud cover. Pull up to seventeen thousand feet, gentlemen. Most likely your getting an error. This technology is pretty new."
"Pulling up, sir." Young looked to his right saw Poles' plane pull up above him and disappear out of sight. He swiveled his head to his left and saw Hunter do the same thing.
Good.
Young followed suit, pulling up his fighter, the sinking feeling in his gut and eyes blinked rapidly clearing his vision. First his cockpit pulled out of the dense cover, it was a sea of white. He couldn't see Hunter nor Poles anywhere.
"Okay guys, where are ya?" He got no reply, just a eerie static. He frowned and switched channels trying to raise base. "This is Patrol Able to Base, this patrol Able to Base anybody read me?"
"Pa-ol, Ab-." There was the last transmission then nothing but the all too familiar static. Young murmured a swear silently and saw nothing ahead of him, and he looked to the left and right, nothing.
His eyes then began to peer upward further into the sky.
He wished he hadn't. He wished he didn't see the shark like ship come in through the atmosphere. It's silver metallic surface reflecting the sun, it's whole silver body must've been over a thousand meters long.
"Jesus…" He had never seen an alien craft up close, he was use to fighting bloody kraut planes. The bizarre thing he had fought was Messerschmitt Me 262 and those weren't as strange as what he saw now.
He keyed his radio again, his voice repeating what he had said earlier and he was answered by static once again.
His hands tightened around the control stick, and felt his heart race. A bead of sweat dripping down his brow as the ship only a few thousand feet away descended above him, increasingly slow and his fighter moving at maximum speed.
British egghead my ass… This supermarine spitfire better haul its weight… That thought flashed through his mind, he saw the ship's end.
A few hundred feet away.
He looked up, staring at the belly of the beast, nothing, but he saw what looked like the craft bristling with turrets. They didn't focus on him. Yet.
The Captain glanced down at his fuel gauge, half a tank left… Good.
And like that, he was clear. The suns rays flooded back into his cockpit. "Luck like that happens once every blue-"
"Look out, John!" The voice screamed from the radio.
He turned the control stick to the right avoiding the cyan beam that flowed just under his left wing.
"Goddamn."
Too close. Way too close.
His head turned around, there was a single fighter trailing him, a tear drop shape about it with pink-purplish metallic armor. And it was picking up on him… Very fast.
The Supermarine Mk XIVe had a max speed of what? 448 miles per hour, this thing must've been going three times as fast.
Maybe more.
He saw the front end of the ship glow, and his head spun back around to focus on the sky ahead which seemed to be much darker.
He glanced over his shoulder, the boiling hot beam flowed over his right wing and his eyes saw the metal burn like tissue paper exposing the innards of the fighter.
"Where are you guys?" He murmured, he pushed the stick forward pushing the plane downward into a steep dive. The enemy fighter followed and did something else that John didn't expect, it matched his speed. With ease. And brought itself to be right next to him.
Giving him a full view of the craft, it was at least fifty feet long and a tear drop shape.
He had to face that?
Young pushed the fighter further, entering back into the sea of white clouds, and watched the enemy fighter disappear. Not seeing the enemy brought him a bit of peace. Knowing that he wasn't about to be blown to hell.
He saw the altimeter tick away quickly, down to fifteen thousand feet in a blur. The clouds began to thin out. He saw the coast below, and he instantly recognized it as Normandy beach, voided of all the German military. After all, they had retreated with the British and Americans across the channel as well.
But that wasn't the only thing he saw, he saw hundreds of tear-shaped craft zoom around and then he saw thousands of his fellow piston aircraft fighting them and with every orange fire ball that went up in smoke he knew it was one of theirs.
Bloody hell. That was why the enemy ship didn't pursue him, it wanted to help his buddies in the largest aerial battle in European history. His radio finally came to life with men shouting over the COM, yelling- screaming for help. None of the voices he recognized.
Pulling up, he even out his craft around ten thousand feet before letting his eyes settle on a unaware enemy fighter and pushing the craft to its limits. He dove again, into the fray.
He decelerated and focused on the tear-shaped fighter in front of him and thumbed the trigger. The enemy fighter dove, downward avoiding the other dogfights in progress and Young chased after.
Rounds tore through the sky, every third round a tracer so he was able to see the angry bees pursue its quickly moving target. The only reason he was able to stay behind the bastard was that neither of them wanted to crash into a enemy or friendly fighter.
John's eyes widened when he saw the explosion in front of him, his opponent evaded it with ease with a quick barrel roll. He couldn't do that unless he wanted to go careening into a P-51 Mustang that was dedicated to its own personal quest.
So what he could do?
God… Let me take out this sonofabitch down.
He yelled a roar that could've shaken the heavens. Pushed the throttle forward felt the g's pushing him into his seat and went nose first into the black smoke.
Darkness.
And the large shard of metal flying at him.
The canopy shattered. His eyes squeezed shut.
He didn't feel a thing. Death. His world seemed to spin.
But that never came.
His eyes winced open, and saw that his canopy was indeed truly shattered but instead of imbedding inside his skull the six inch, a foot long shard of metal chose to nick his ear. And place itself on the right side of his head embedded into his seat.
John inhaled, finally remembering to breathe. Too close.
He shook his head, clearing his thoughts and focused. Things just got worse.
The enemy fighter he was chasing pulled a switcharoo and now running away came at him. The pink-purple fighter charged up its weaponry, targeting him.
"You want to play some chicken? Let's play."
His thumb jammed down on the trigger as the distance decreased. Four twenty millimeter guns erupted to life. Rounds tore at the enemy fighter to no avail. They pinged off its invisible shield that all their fighters seemed to have.
I wish I had rockets.
Young pushed forward, looking at the enemy, hearing the roar of his guns and seeing the blue-brown back drop of the English coast.
The hull of the fighter strained as he sped past its operational limits, watching the beach become the dominating view. He looked up, wind rushed through his open canopy window.
He squared his view on the tear shaped fighter and it fired its primary weapon. The beam sliced through his starboard wing, the metal layers peeled away.
Looks like going up or down was out of the question.
He wasn't planning to anyway.
"I hope you have insurance, split-chin." The distance was only five hundred feet and it was late.
Pushing himself out of the cockpit, and locking the plane on its current heading. He tapped the straps on his shoulders and gave a farewell to his bird.
The craft shuttered, it crunched like a beer for a mere two feet before it's tanks ruptured. The extra ordinance on board detonated as well, adding to the ball of flames. Exploding, engulfing both craft in orange-crimson ball of smoke and fire. The tear-shaped craft wasn't so lucky either, its shield's flickered and died and its alien pilot failed to react.
Its own craft failed, power draining and fell towards the Earth.
John saw it all. From the relative safety of his deployed shoot drifting toward the ground. He saw the enemy fighter spiral towards the ground, falling like Mount Everest against the Earth's gravity. It hit hard. There was a puff of smoke, mixed with sand and water. A smile formed on his face. "Score one for the US of A."
He hit the ground, water lapping at his feet. The parachute descended on him. He unlatched it from his shoulders, pulled the parachute off of him and walked through the ankle high water towards the small impact crater.
The enemy ship's tale jutted out of it.
John looked up, the aerial battle was dying down and it looked like the aliens were winning. He reached down and felt the grip of the M1911 Pistol and yanked it out of it's shoulder holster. He dumped the magazine, checked that it was still loaded and jammed it back into place. He cocked the weapon and pointed it directly at the ground.
A smile came to his face, another kill to add to his collection.
Young moved up the ridge. It was steep, the sand slowed him down but he managed to get over it and slide down into the center. He looked at the side of the craft, sleek, built for speed and maneuverability.
He moved his way to the front, rubbing a hand through his slick black hair and blinked his green eyes. Focusing. He looked at the front, its tail in a sixty degree angle protruding well outside of the crater. John saw what looked to be a hatch but it was too high, and on the slick surface-
The hatch flew open. Thrown by some great force high into the air, impacting the sand on the crater's ridge. Just like out of the War of the Worlds… He thought raising his weapon.
The hands reached out and grabbed each side of the hatch and its head pushed outward. "Wort, wort, wort."
He heard those words before, the first time he was shot down by those creatures. It was broadcasted on their radios before the infamous words that started the war.
"We shall burn your planet until the surface is but glass."
That didn't settle well with Roosevelt or Churchill and they took it quite personally.
The creature then looked down; it didn't say anything but instead stepped out with its hoofed foot and slid down the craft toward him before stopping a scanty meter away.
It tilted its head to the right, with a look of amusement. Its voice shook Young to the bone. "Surrender, and you may have an honorable death."
Young raised his weapon. "Don't move, squid face. Unless you want another hole to breathe out of." Every ounce of courage he could muster formed those words.
The reply was a laugh, or what sounded like one. The creature approached, taking a step forward.
Young fired.
The creature flinched, but the bullet did nothing. They have shields too?
He fired again, and again. He squeezed the trigger until he heard the unfamiliar click. He had never fought a enemy long enough for him to run out of ammo in his weapon.
Oh, hell.
The Elite moved fast, and Young moved slower. The blow was sharp to his gut, air exploded out of his lungs and he felt his feet lift off the ground for a sharp moment. He was on the ground, on his hands and knees in pain.
Another demonic laugh.
This is hell… He thought. But if you're going through hell, keep going.
Young reached for his vest pocket and yanked out another magazine. He ejected the last one and jammed a new one into the receiver; he pushed himself up onto his knees holding the gun up. The creature looming above him.
He fired; the bullets pinged off of him. Round after round tore into the shield and he counted them in his head, five. He fired another one. Silence.
No ping.
He looked up, and saw purple blood trickle down a hole from the center of the eight foot tall monster. Through his blood stained teeth, Young grinned. "Have another"
The gun bucked. And this round entered through the being's skull and exited through the top. The creature fell to its knees; it was still two feet taller than John. It then fell backward. Lifeless.
He struggled to his feet. Pain lancing through him. There are worst one liners. He looked back up the ridge, hearing yelling. And finally seeing a head pop over the ridge, a human head.
"Hey up, you okay?" The voice was British.
Better late than never.
He slumped into the sand, weak. Energy escaping him but he was able to shout back up the ridge.
"Yeah… Call in a tow! I think I have something our governments want!" He then felt his eyes settle on the ground. His wing mates were most likely dead. And he had lost the only real friends he had in this war. John cradled his heads in his arms. It didn't matter; Twentieth Century technology versus these alien bastards didn't give them a chance anyway.
The one thing he would miss was flying against the krauts. They at least provided a real challenge.
He forced a smiled.
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