The Big One

“Bombardier to pilot. The fat lady has sung. Let’s get out of here and let’s get up high, back where we belong.” Cameron felt the engines of Victory Parade surge and the jets cut in. The aircraft banked around onto the course for home and started to climb. Cameron seized the chance to take a last look back. The whole length of the Champs Elyseé was a large smoke cloud, the site of the Arc de Triomphe hidden under explosions. He guessed the Strategic Air Command had made its point.

Salon Marat, Elyseé Palace, Paris

The three Marshals watched appalled as the long line of explosions snaked down the Champs Elyseé and ended with the Arc de Triomphe exploding under a group of hits. Gamelin was cursing incoherently, swearing foully at the Americans who could do such a thing to the center of world culture, Purneaux reflected that he wasn't actually making much sense; his swearing was disconnected and seemed to be more concerned with using obscenities than constructing elegant insults. Like a little boy whose parents were out of earshot. Petain was standing there with tears streaming down his face. For a moment Purneaux pitied him. He wasn't a bad man or a fool or an incompetent. He was an old man, frail with the burden of years. A man who had seen too much and simply wanted no more. Truly, old age was a shipwreck. He didn't deserve this humiliation. For a moment Purneaux himself raged at the Americans who had so casually carved the heart out of Paris and, in doing so, carved the heart from France.

“Who were they to do this? What are they telling us? What is their message?” Petain's voice was small, broken and weak, Gamelin was too busy swearing at “the anglo-saxons” to answer. It was Pumeaux who replied.

“They are telling us that we will not be holding a victory parade. They told us that we didn't win, that we were not on the winning side. They delivered the message airmail.”

It was more than that, Purneaux knew. Looking at the giant trench that stretched through the heart of Paris, he understood what the Americans, perhaps unwittingly, had done. In a superb display of airmanship, of technology, of precision, of power and of applied ferocity the Americans had told France who was leading the world now. Of who was dominant, who was the hegemon. And there was more than that. They'd destroyed the dreams of la Gloire de France. Oh, the Parisians would rebuild the Champs Elyseé and the Arc de Triomphe and hold their parades again but they would be imitations of the real thing. Everybody would know it and everybody would know why they were imitations. But French gloire had been a hearty healthy stew, a rich and genuine one, based on real history, of real achievement, of glorious victories, of gallant defeats, of great leaders and powerful armies. What would be left after today was packet soup.

Perhaps it was all for the better. Perhaps with the heart carved out of Paris, with the self-perpetuating elite that ruled it discredited, France would become more flexible, more open, less prone to dictating solutions to its neighbors. Perhaps but probably not. France would remain France, her leaders inflexibly committed to their own dreams of glory and their own vision of a Francophonic world.

Idly, Purneaux wondered if being a Marshal of France qualified him for an American Green Card.

Cockpit Go-229 Green Eight, 48,000 feet over Eastern France

Lothar Schumann kept his Fledermaus angling upwards. After years of flying low down, chasing the Ami carrier fighters through the treetops, he had gone straight to the opposite extreme, flying up here where the air was so thin that his wings could hardly find a grip. And instead of hunting the small fighters, he was now hunting the biggest aircraft the world had ever seen. The ones that had destroyed his country. From up here, he could see into Germany and the clouds that overhung it. Only they weren't clouds, they were pyres of smoke. How many people had the Amis killed today? Tens of thousands? Hundreds? Perhaps even a million? Who knew?

IV/JG-26 had watched the returning bombers flying overhead. There was no point in launching earlier; the BV-155s couldn't get up that high; Blohm und Voss had claimed a maximum ceiling of 17,000 meters but the BV-155C had never fulfilled its promise and its production had been cut short by the shortage of alloys needed for its turbocharger. The bombers were reportedly flying at 16,500 meters and, in reality, even the Vossies ran out of power 2,000 meters below that. But Green Eight could make it up there. Make it up there, stay there and maneuver there. And so, Schumann thought it was up to him to give the monsters the boot to the head they so richly deserved.

Harmann's plan was a bit different and Schumann had to agree it made sense. His Fledermaus could get up that high but he didn't have that much firepower. Four slow-firing 30 millimeter guns and 24 R4M rockets. Perhaps, on his own he could bring down two of the monsters. So, following him up were Harmann's nine operational Vossies. They had picked out one of the last formations of monsters returning from Germany. It had been a desperate race to get Green Right flying again but they'd made it. And luck had rewarded them, a group of nine Ami aircraft flying in loose formation. The plan was simple, Schumann would cripple as many as he could, force them to lose altitude so the Vossies could Gang up on them. With luck they could get all nine.

Tactics, tactics. Flying against the B-29s they had used a nose-on pass at first. But the closing speed was too high and they hadn't been able to get a good shot in. Word on the monsters were that they were fast, 700 kilometers per hour at least. Far too fast for a nose pass. Beam passes had worked down there, where the fighters could maneuver but up here even Green Eight was floundering. No. It had to be a tail-chase. Word was that the bombers had tail guns and knew how to use them. It didn't matter, it wasn't as if he had anything to go home to. Or a home to go to now.

Very good, he was level with the bomber formation now, saw them accelerating away from him. Well, he could play that game as well. Very well Amis,. You think 700 kilometers is good. I have 200 more than that. That means we are closing at three kilometers per minute. In three minutes time, I will have you and then, boot to the head my Ami friends. And to the hells with Harmann's plans.

Flight Deck, B-36H Texan Lady, cruising over Eastern France.

Dusk approaching. A sunset tike the crew had never seen before, spreading red and purples and oranges and golds across the whole western half of the sky. It was spectacular already yet it would be an hour or so before darkness really started to fall. Personally, Dedmon couldn't wait. Speed and altitude made Texan Lady almost invulnerable; darkness as well took the “almost” out of the equation. That was another little secret about the B-36; the combination of APG-41 track-while-scan radar and 20 millimeter guns made her tail cannon as dangerous to an enemy in the dark as they were to one in daylight. But Dedmon wanted darkness for another reason as well.

It was quiet on the flight deck, in the engineer station below them, in the navigator/bombardier station below that. In the electronics warfare pit aft. It had been ever since they had started the run back over Germany, twisting and turning to keep clear of the after-effects of the explosions. Germany had been covered by a dense low-level cloud, a combination of smoke and debris and the effects of the incredible concussion waves yet they could see where every city had been. All two hundred of them were glowing brightly through the cloud layer. A sickly white-yellow glow. One that made Germany look like it had leprosy. Nobody else had repeated Major Pico's cry but they were all thinking it. Some darkness would suit the mood in the aircraft.

“Enemy aircraft sir, formation closing from aft. One aircraft climbing, approaching our altitude, nine more holding about 6,000 feet below us.”

OK Dedmon thought, here we go again. “Full power all engines, turning and burning. All aircraft adopt tail-heavy. Stand by to repel fighter attack.” The enemy aircraft was a flying pancake, he'd thought the Navy had got all of those either in combat or on the ground. This one must have escaped. And he'd picked Texan Lady as his target. Watch him carefully now because as soon as he fires... like that. Now turn, not too hard we want to keep speed and energy up, just enough to turn inside the rocket salvo - and wave bye-bye as it passes. Dedmon grinned for the first time since Berlin, the rockets hadn't even been close enough to activate their acoustic fuzes. “OK guys, his rockets missed. Over to you John Paul.”

Back in the tail gunner's position John Paul Martin framed the oncoming fighter in his gunsight. The APG-41 had two antennas, one tracked a designated target while the other continued to scan for new targets. Once the designated target was selected and locked, the system would automatically compute the predicted position of the target and aim the guns at the correct point. All the gunner had to do was to press the trigger. Martin used his joystick to move the little box that selected the appropriate target then thumbed the button that locked the system. “Target locked sir, hold one.....wait........wait........wait....... Break right, break right break right.”

He felt the lurch as Texan Lady stood on her wingtip and racked a tight turn to starboard. The incoming fighter was sliding straight across the tail, straight into the stream of fire from the twin 20 millimeter cannon.

Cockpit Go-229 Green Eight, 49,500 feet over Eastern France

Schumann watched the Ami bomber swerve out of the way of his rocket salvo. Damn it, how could something that big dance around like that? So it would have to be cannon then. And just one of the monsters downed. He'd hoped to get at least two. Still, he had his cannon and the Ami bomber was so big that he couldn't possibly miss. Just a little more time, a little closer and - that was not possible. The bomber was turning hard to starboard now, racking around much tighter than the turn to avoid his rockets. He tried to follow but felt the Fledermaus shuddering on the edge of a stall. Then he realized he'd fallen into a deadly trap. The bomber was turning inside him and he couldn't match the turn. If he tried, he'd stall out and spin then, by the time he recovered and climbed back up here the Amis would be long gone. If he turned as tightly as he could without stalling, he'd pass aft of the bomber without getting his guns to bear but giving the bomber a perfect deflection shot with its tail guns. If he went straight, same thing would happen. Break the other way, same again. If he accelerated, his turning circle would widen still more, if he slowed down he would stall, up here the margin between maximum speed and stalling speed was perilously slim.

Incredible, his fighter, the best the Luftwaffe had, was losing a dogfight with the biggest bomber the world had ever seen. This was not possible. Intellectually, he knew it was. The huge wing area of the bomber gave it enough lift to allow it to make these turns in the thin air. Those ten engine save it so much power that, combined with the wings, there was a large margin between maximum speed and stalling speed. Up here, big wings and engine power counted for everything. There was just one option left Schumann thought, watching the tail guns on the bomber tracking him. He heaved the control column back into his stomach, kicked the controls over to a hard starboard turn. The nose of the Fledermaus reared up in shock and Schumann squeezed the firing button. The Fledermaus arched up and around then flopped on its back in a stall, its cannon shots arcing towards the Ami bomber. “Boot to the Head!” Schumann was still squeezing the firing button when the 20 millimeter shells smashed into his cockpit.

Cockpit BV-155 Yellow One, 43,500feet over Eastern France

Harmann screamed in rage and pounded the instrument panel with his fist. He'd seen the Fledermaus sweeping up to attack the enemy formation, seen it fire its rockets and miss. Then it had gone in to make its cannon attack. He'd hoped it would bring at least one of the monsters down to where the Vossies could get at it. But now it was a ball of expanding smoke where the tail guns on the bombers had brought it down. The bomber had shot it out the sky with casual ease. He'd hoped briefly to see a parachute but this high? That wasn't an option. The Fledermaus pilot had gone, had joined all the other thousands who had died today. And for nothing. The Ami formation was unscathed. Then Harmann narrowed his eyes. One of the aircraft, the one Schumann had tried to attack. The contrail behind it had changed. Instead of pearly white, it was now gray and black on the port side. And the aircraft was losing height. And speed. Perhaps there was a chance after all? He and the remaining BV-155s set out in pursuit.

Flight Deck. B-36H Texan Lady, 49,450 feet over Eastern France.

It was a pure female scream of agony that came over the intercom “He hurt me. He hurt me. Get me home. I want to go home. Take me home now. He hurt me” At another time the flight deck crew may have appreciated the impersonation but now they had too much to do. Martin had reported getting the kill but it looked like the fighter had got them. That desperation stall, flicking a whip-like stream of shells had scored. There was damage out to port, how much they didn't know but the engineer station was a sea of red lights and both pilots were fighting hard to keep control. Below and behind them Gordon and King were trying to isolate faults and work around damage so they could see what had been hit and what hadn't. Looking out to port, Dedmon could see that black smoke was trailing from number six engine, the outermost piston engine on the port wing. That one at least was on fire. Number five was trailing light gray but seemed to be running OK. He heard King dumping ethyl bromide into Number Six and saw the smoke thin and vanish. Fire was out but the engine was gone. What else had happened? They'd lost a lot of power, Texan Lady was drifting downwards.

“Sir, situation report. We have lost both jets and number six on the port side. Number five is hit but she’ll run smoothly at 50 percent setting. Number Four is undamaged. We have all the starboard side engines. We have skin damage on the port wingtip. How bad we don't know. Cut the speed, we're losing the structure.”

Dedmon cut power back and watched the altitude loss pick up. In addition to losing engine power, they also had increase drag from the damaged wing and, much more critically, had lost the lift from that area. That meant going downwards “Sixth Crew Member and Barbie Doll we have damage and are losing height. Continue on at this altitude and get home. We'll follow as best we can.”

“Sir, we'll come down with you, help screen you.”

“That's a negative Major Lennox. Come down with us and you’ll just be another target. Your priority is to get the data in your cameras and instruments back.” Dedmon flipped to another channel. “Mayday, Mayday. This is B-36 Texan Lady calling. We have been damaged by enemy fighter attack and are losing altitude. Our position is exactly 47 North 6 east. Altitude 49,300 feet. There are enemy fighters waiting for us we need escort Immediately.”

There was a click and crackle on the radio. Transmission conditions had been appalling ever since the bombing. Then a burst of static. “Texan Lady This is Foxtrot Hotel we are Navy F2Hs out of Valley Forge. We can be with you in 30 minutes. Our maximum ceiling is 43,500. Hold on until we get there.”

30 minutes, 43,500. Dedmon looked down at the engineering bay. ''What's our descent?”

'“Stabilizing at around 300 feet per minute sir, if my guess is right we'll be able to maintain 35,000 feet indefinitely.” That was OK; the plan had been to drop to around 30,000 for the return across the Atlantic, to get in under the Jetstream. But with those fighters hovering under them like buzzards, getting across France was going to be the problem. By the time the Navy F2Hs would arrive it would be too late.

“Texan Lady this is Colonel Trynn Allen in Guardian Angel. What is your maximum speed?”

“310 miles per hour. Any more than that and bits start to fall off.”

“Very good. We are orbiting Reims and will be closing on you at 410 miles per hour. That gives us intercept in 15 minutes. Can you hold out that long?”

15 minutes, they'd lose 4,500 feet. He quickly checked the instruments. They'd be at 44,800. How high could those fighters beneath them fly? “'Guardian Angel this is Texan Lady it’s going to be very close. The fighters behind us are long-wing Messerschmitts.”

“Don't sweat it. Call us if you-all get into trouble earlier. We can help sooner. Watch it though, the later we launch, the better it is for you.” Launch? What were these guys talking about? Dedmon couldn't resist it any longer. “Who are you guys Guardian Angel?”

“Three GB-36J. Guardian Angel, Sweet Caroline and Golden Girl, 509th Composite Group out of Stewart AFB, New York. Now come to course three-five-zero , say again three-five-zero. We are on reciprocal to you.”

Cockpit BV-155 Yellow One, 43,500 feet over Eastern France

Harmann was waiting patiently, the big bomber was coming down slowly but surely. For a wonderful moment he'd thought its wing mates were going to come down with her in an attempt to give her cover. B-29s had tried that, when one was crippled others would stay with it to protect it. Futile of course, just meant they all got shot down. No such luck here, the Ami cowards had left their crippled wing-mate to die. They'd stayed up where they were safe and carried on heading west while this one had turned north and slowed down. Another few minutes, five, perhaps ten at the outside, and his fighters would have her.

Harmann's head snapped around suddenly, above them a formation of Amis had arrived. More big bombers, flying well above his reach. So there were aircraft coming to escort the cripple. Couldn't be standard bombers, the Amis had shown they'd learned that lesson. Perhaps they were repeating another failed experiment. Back in '45 they'd tried bombers with extra defensive guns to help protect the formations. B-29s with quad turrets replacing the twins.

Hadn't worked then but these new big giants? But the new arrivals weren't coming down to fight. There were three of them, Harmann could see that now. What were they up to? Come to watch one of their own being destroyed? While he watched them lie suddenly realized they'd changed. They'd opened up underneath - God, the bomb bay on those things was huge. And they were dropping bombs. What was this? Air-to-air bombing?

Now nothing made sense, They'd dropped a large bomb each. Air to air bombing had been tried on the B-29 formations with only mild success. Marginal, even against big lumbering bombers. Against fighters? Futile. Harmann started to sweat, My God, were they going to drop Hellburners on us? Take us out and destroy the cripple as well so we can't learn from it?

Until today, Harmann had never believed the Amis could be that ruthless. After seeing what had been done to Germany, now he'd believe anything. But his gut told him that was wrong. So what in hell was happening? Even as he watched, a second series of three bombs dropped.

Cockpit, F-85B “Hockey Puck” on board GB-36J “Guardian Angel”

Captain Charles “Chuck” Larry tightened his harness, made sure the cockpit was closed and waited for the launch mechanism to carry him backwards. His F-85B Goblin was sitting where the third bomb-bay on the GB-36 had been once. In front of him were two more Goblins, each occupying the space once taken up by a bomb bay. They must, Larry reflected by the oddest little fighters ever built, specifically designed to be carried in the bomb bay of a B-36. They were weird to look at, multiple control surfaces everywhere, five tailplanes, their numbers making up for size. They had a little J-34 jet engine and the pilot sat on top of it. Hence the in-joke. What did Goblin drivers have for breakfast? Toasted Buns. But the Goblin defied its appearance. It was fast, incredibly agile and a dream to fly. It was also short ranged and carried only limited ammunition supplies. Well, who needed those when one brought one's airfield along for the ride?

The little fighter had been born years earlier. The original plan was that every B-36 and RB-36 would carry one, launching it when it came under threat. The intent was that the bombers would fly over enemy defenses but it was always understood that some would be damaged or have mechanical trouble and be forced to fly lower. The first thought had been long range escort fighters but any fighter with the range of a B-36 would be about the same size. Aerial refueling had been developed for the bombers but for the fighters as well? Most of SAC would be tankers. So, the Goblin had been designed to provide a last ditch defense. The bombers would carry the fighters in their bomb bay. The idea had failed disastrously. The F-85A had flown just fine and the B-36s could launch them without too many problems. The catch was the turbulence under the B-36 was so strong they couldn't be recovered. Since the Goblin didn't have an undercarriage, this made life interesting for the pilot. So the idea had been put aside and the Goblins relegated to test flights and other experiments. The Navy had bought a few as well, heaven knows what for.

Then came the other half of the equation. LeMay had been thinking ahead as usual. The day would come when the B-36 couldn't penetrate defenses so it would need an air-launched missile it could fire at a target from a distance. The result had been the DB-36, a B-36 that carried a pilotless F-80C on a retractable trapeze. The initial experiments had been done with piloted F-80s and they'd hooked onto the bombers quite safely. Inspiration struck somebody and the launch trapeze was combined with the F-85.

A new B-36 was built with a hangar where its forward three bomb bays had been and a launch trapeze in the fourth. The Goblins could be launched and recovered. It was hazardous, if the engine on the Goblin couldn't be run on board and had to be started after the trapeze had been extended. If failed to start the only way to go was down. Once the hangar was closed, it could be pressurized and the Goblins could even be refueled and re-armed on board. The 5O9th, a composite bomber/fighter unit had been formed with 18 GB-36Js and 54 F-85Bs. And, today, all of them were over Eastern France, making sure the bombers got home safely.

Suddenly there was a jerk and the Goblin started to move backwards. The conveyor took the fighter aft where its carriage transferred to the trapeze. Then, the bomb bay doors opened and the Goblin was lowered into the airflow under the mothership. Larry thumbed the engine start and heard the howl as the J-34 spooled up. Press the release catch - and he dropped clear. The hook in front of him retracted into its housing and he was free to go hunting at last. Below him, a B-36 was trailing smoke and losing altitude. Nine German fighters, long-winged Messerschmitts were closing in on the cripple. They weren't quite in range yet but it was perilously close. Hockey Puck accelerated as Larry hit maximum power and angled down to intercept the German fighters. Two more F-85s had formed up with him, the other six would cluster around the B-36 to prevent the Germans from closing on her.

The combined effects of the dive and the thrust form the J-34 had pushed him up to nearly six hundred miles per hour. People didn't realize just how great the Goblin was lo fly until they tried one. It was so small that it felt like there was no aircraft at all around the pilot, that he was skimming through the sky with just his seat. The early J-34s had had problems with in-flight explosions, so sometimes that was just what the pilots had done. The same small size made them a pilot's dream; they felt like an extension of the pilot, not a machine he was controlling. Now, Larry was closing on one of the Messerschmitts, he'd curved around so he would hit the formation from the rear and cut through it forwards. He was gambling on something the Goblin pilots had learned while training against conventional fighters.

The F-85 was so tiny and so fast that other pilots thought it was further away and slower than it was. They saw what they expected to see - a normal size fighter far away, not a tiny one close up. And the Messerschmitt he had picked as his target was doing the same. Either he was concentrating on the B-36 to the exclusion of all else or he'd ignored Hockey Puck closing in on him. It was the last mistake he'd ever make. Larry saw the aircraft soar into his gunsight, saw the pipper run over the engine cowling towards the cockpit and fired a short burst. Brilliant white flashes all over the cockpit, the Messerschmitt reared up as the pilot was hit then stalled out. As it spun down, Larry saw its long wings start to crumple.

That had thrown panic into the situation. Another German was breaking into Larry's approach, trying get clear by turning inside him. Bad move, the F-85 had a fantastic roll rate. Larry spun Hockey Puck on her axis, reversed his turn and slid the pipper over the second target. Again, the short burst. This time black smoke erupted from the engine before the bullets raked the cockpit. No matter, the fighter was going down. Around him, the situation was chaos. The Germans had been flying in two neat “finger fours” with the leader between and ahead of them; Larry's section had taken the right hand finger four out completely. They'd just gone. He'd got two; his wingmen probably had taken down one each. Three Goblins were now between the Germans and the crippled B-36 while the last section of three were heading for the German leader. Even as Larry watched, the German pilot twisted and turned to escape the assault - and failed. He spun out, his wings crumpled and he was going down. Working out who got that one was going to be interesting.

Still, business first. There was one German group. Larry's section of F-85s set out for it. The neat German formation splintered as the pilots saw the little fighters closing in on them. For one it was too late. He tried to turn away but his engine erupted into flame as Larry's guns ripped into him. Then there was silence, Hockey Puck was out of ammunition. Never mind, the other three German fighters were disengaging and the Goblins let them go. It was hammered into their heads right from the start. The objective was not enemy killed but bombers saved. “OK Wolves. I'm taking first section to rearm and refuel. The rest of you remain with the cripple. Refueling at 20 minute intervals until the Navy show up.”

“Little Friends, this is Texan Lady here. We're happy to see you. What's the charge?”

Larry thought quickly. “Nine enemy fighters, so nine crates of beer for each mothership. Plus one crate for each fighter pilot who got a kill. Total, 33 crates. We'll be staying with you until the Navy arrive, there are F2Hs and F9Fs closing on you now. Resume course for home, we have you safe.”

“Thirty three crates it is. We're from Maine. You want Canadian or American”

Larry thought that was a dumb question. “Canadian of course. Thanks Big Sister, See you later.” Time to be retrieved by the mothership and gas up.

Bridge. USS Timmerman, DD-828, Position 46.8 North, 4.6 West

“Sink her with torpedoes.” By giving the order himself, Admiral Theodore had meant well. This was the hardest moment possible for any commander. Captain Madrick looked over at the wreck of Shiloh. She was deep in the water now, her hangar deck portside awash, he starboard side barely more than that. Yet she was going down painfully slowly. It was time to change that. In common with most of her class, Timmerman had lost five of her designed outfit often torpedo tubes in exchange for additional anti-aircraft guns and improved radar. Five would do. Captain Troy Matthews gave the necessary order and the quintuple mount swung out to bear on the blazing hull. It was dusk now, a fabulous, spectacular sunset whose rich colors seemed to reflect the fires that had consumed Shiloh. Another order and the mounting started to discharge its torpedoes.

The first slid into the sea and disappeared without trace. Motor failed to start. The second ran straight and true, striking Shiloh under the island with a dull thud. Fuze failure. The third ran straight and normal for about half its run then started to lose direction and curve off. Gyro failure. Everybody held their breath as the runaway headed straight for Fargo. For the second time that day, the cruiser dug her stern in as her engines went full aback. The torpedo passed about 20 feet in front of her bows. A few seconds later her signal lamp started to flash.

“Message from Captain Mahan on Fargo sir. Message reads, 'Do that again and you will have to marry me'. Message ends sir. Any reply sir?''

Captain Matthews made an indecipherable noise, threw his cap on the deck and stamped on it. Meanwhile number four torpedo discharged. This one managed barely a third of the distance to Shiloh before it broached, threshed on the surface for a moment then sank. Depth keeping failure. The fifth and last torpedo was a great disappointment to the crew, it simply followed the first, sliding into the water and disappearing without trace. Captain Matthews kicked his battered cover into a corner, American torpedoes were notoriously unreliable but that was ridiculous. He guessed the Admiral must be watching for a few dozens of yards away, Susan B Anthony was firing. A few minutes later, there were two explosions and water columns against the hull of Shiloh. She started going fast now, perhaps being betrayed by her friends had made her give up. As she slipped under, Madrick could hear the mournful blasts of the sirens around the gathered squadron, paying their last respects.

Then there was vibration under his feet as the destroyer started to pick up speed. Captain Matthews came over, speaking quietly so nobody else could overhear. “Message from Admiral Theodore, Kevin. Washington wants a full report on what happened. The Admiral says to be careful what you say and suggests getting a lawyer might be a good idea.”

Madrick nodded and looked towards the setting sun. Shiloh had gone.

Forward 3 inch 50 battery, USS Kitiyhawk CVL-48, Position 46.8 North, 4.6 West

Lieutenant Wijnand leaned on the steel splinter plating and looked out and the ball of deep red now setting in the west. He'd started off bandaging wounds and setting breaks, done so well that he'd been put to harder cases. For hours. This was his first break. He had ten minutes then would have to go back. Somewhere behind him his SEAL escort was watching but Wijnand didn't mind. He'd have done the same if positions were reversed. He'd never really known wounds could be like this. The butcher's bill from Shiloh was dreadful, certainly over a thousand dead, maybe more. Something else had happened as well, something unimaginably terrible but nobody would say what it was. Whatever it was, what he'd seen here was bad enough. By the three inch gun in the growing gloom, Wijnand made himself a promise. He was going back to medical school and he was going to become a doctor. And never, never again would he touch a weapon.

Soldatnsender Nottingham, Occupied England.

David Newton snuggled the butt of the Delisle into his shoulder, picked out the guard on the left of the gate. A gentle squeeze of the trigger and - almost nothing, [f it hadn't been for the recoil he could have sworn that nothing had happened. The Delisle was so near to being silent it was eerie. Over by the gate, the chosen guard had slumped to the ground. Newton worked the bolt, even that was silent, and took down the second. Two guards down and nobody was even slightly alarmed. The resistance group moved forward. They'd used the dusk to shift position and it was the work of moments to get over the road and through the perimeter. The doors of the radio station were open. Inside there was a girl behind the reception desk and a guard dozing in one corner. The woman squeaked, waking the guard but both had common sense. The girl put her hands up, the guard put his Stg-44 down. His men would take them to the canteen, that was the best place to hold the prisoners.

The canteen was empty also except for the Women's auxiliary girls cleaning up after a hard day's use. Three of them, they joined the two prisoners. The resistance fighters spread through the building. It was the night shift on duty, the place was almost empty. Just three more station personnel and five guards. Eight in all. That was what the briefing paper had said. Now, it was time to get to the radio studio.

The door in lead to the control booth. There were two men and a woman in there, all quickly put their hands up and were taken to the Canteen. Newton lead the way into the studio section itself. If he had to shoot somebody over the air, the Delisle was the best weapon to use. A woman was preparing to read the English announcements while a man was readying for the German transmission. Two more for the canteen. And that was it. Newton dispersed his force, the RPG-2 teams to cover the road into the station, the rest to set up a perimeter defense. “Now, it was 2057, just ten minutes since he'd dropped the guards.

The station was playing the traditional Lilli Marlene. Newton could hear it as he pulled the plug at the precise moment required. “Mich dir Lilli Marlilli Marlene” That stutter was the only indication the transmission had switched from a small radio station in the UK to a flying radio station over the North Atlantic. And then a very familiar voice, one rich and well-lubricated by brandy and cigars started to speak.

EC-99E “Rivet Rider “ orbiting over the North Atlantic.

“You're on sir.” The Air Force Sergeant chopped downwards with his hand. In the seat next to him Winston Spencer Churchill put down his brandy and started his speech.

“Almost seven years have passed since an act of treachery by a few misguided fellow countrymen condemned our country to occupation and forced its citizens and armed forces to seek sanctuary abroad. These seven years that have passed have seen very terrible catastrophic events in the world - ups and downs, misfortunes - but all those listening to this broadcast tonight should feel deeply thankful for what has happened in the last few hours and resolve to use them to achieve a very great improvement in the position of our country and of our home.

“For what has happened today has been unparalleled in human history. A force of bombers took off from their airbuses in the New World and crossed the Atlantic Ocean to bring death and destruction upon our enemies. And what death and destruction they brought with them. They have unleashed the mighty power of the atom on Germany and have removed it from the map of nations. Even at a time when we, the British people, were quite alone, desperately alone, and poorly armed our American Cousins stood by us. Even though we are not so poorly armed today; we still have cause to be grateful for the immeasurable power of the air attack that has beaten upon our enemies.

“I expect you are beginning to feel impatient that there has been this long occupation that has lasted for years with nothing particular turning up! But we must learn to be equally good at what is short and sharp and what is long and tough, ft is generally said that the British are often better at the last. They do not expect to move from crisis to crisis; they do not always expect that each day will bring up some noble chance of war; but when they very slowly make up their minds that the thing has to be done and the job put through and finished, then, even if it takes months - if it takes years - they do it. As Kipling well says, we “meet with Triumph and Disaster. And treat those two impostors just the same.”

“We cannot tell from appearances how things will go. Sometimes imagination makes things out far worse than they are; yet without imagination not much can be done. Those people who are imaginative see many more dangers than perhaps exist; certainly many more than will happen; but then they must also pray to be given that extra courage to carry this far-reaching imagination. This is the lesson; never give in, never give in, never, never, never, never - in nothing, great or small, large or petty - never give in except to convictions of honor and good sense. Never yield to force; never yield to the apparently overwhelming might of the enemy. We stood occupied for seven years and to many countries it seemed that our account was closed, we were finished. Yet, there was no flinching and no thought of giving in; and by what seemed almost a miracle to those outside these Islands, though we ourselves never doubted it, we now find ourselves in a position where I say that we can be sure that we have only to persevere to return peace to a shattered continent.

“Do not let us speak of darker days: let us speak rather of sterner days. These are not dark days; these are great days the greatest days our country has ever lived; and we must all thank God that we have been allowed, each of us according to our stations, to play a part in making these days memorable in the history of our race. For it is now that we must show how we differ from those whose hideous policies lead them into the abyss of nuclear destruction. Our motto must be In defeat, defiance, in victory, magnanimity. Amongst us now are many thousands of Germans whose homes no longer exist. The Germans came as conquerors, let them remain as our guests. They tried to extend the hand of conquest, let us return the hand of friendship.

“Germany has committed grave crimes but her punishment has been equally great. Now is the time for us to show the mercy they denied to their enemies, I call upon the British to take those Germans who have occupied our country into our streets and farms. To offer them a refuge from the world they did so much to create. And I call upon the Germans to accept our offer, to help us rebuild our country as we shall help you rebuild yours so that what has happened today may never happen again. There will be those, on both sides, with hardened hearts that still cry out for revenge. To these I say, go to Germany, look at where the quest for revenge will lead you.”

Churchill leaned back in his seat “That'll get them cheering.” Next to him, King George VI was starting to speak. After him, there would be a broadcast to the German troops. It wouldn't ask them to surrender, it would ask them to take advantage of the offer of refuge that was being extended to them. If it worked, the UK would be liberated without a fight. If it didn't there was always the Navy and the Marines. If they failed, there was always the B-36 and its deadly cargo.

Soldatensender Nottingham, Occupied England.

The transmissions finished, Newton put the radio station back to playing its music tape. It would last for half an hour or so then it would run out and he didn't know how to change it or where the others were kept. Leaving the studio to run out on its own, he went back to the canteen. The prisoners were sitting on the floor, guarded by two resistance women. One of them was Sally; she was staring angrily at one of the German soldiers. “What's he do?” Newton asked. “Gave me clap once” was the sharp reply. The six German women immediately shot sympathetic looks at her then started to glare at the unfortunate soldier. It wasn't funny; women in Sally's profession who infected German soldiers tended to vanish and the words “medical experiments” were whispered. Newton remembered the incident, Sally's intelligence services had been so valuable that the powers had arranged a supply of a new wonder drug called penicillin for her. It had cured the problem before it had become an issue.

Outside a whistle sounded. It was supposed to sound like an animal, in reality it sounded like a human pretending to be an animal. Newton went to the doors and kept in the shadow. There were three half-tracks outside. And one of the little German utility cars. That meant roughly a German infantry platoon. They were Wehrmacht not SS but that made little difference, Newton had no illusions about the capability of his little unit to fight regular troops. Propaganda had guerillas fighting regulars all the time. In the real world, the guerillas who tried it got cut to pieces. Newton reached into his pocket and drew out an armband. All his men had them, wearing them made them partisans. That was one mistake the IRA had made. Carry your guns openly, wear an armband and respect the rules of war. Then the Wehrmacht might do the same. The SS wouldn't but then they didn't anyway. They only obeyed Lidice Rules. But the German vehicles were still sitting there. Doing nothing.

Then, an officer came out, holding a white flag on the end of his rifle Actually it was his scarf stuck on the bayonet but the spirit was there. Newton slipped his armband on. slung the Delisle over his shoulder and went out to meet him. In the middle of the space, by the gates the two men met, eyeing each other suspiciously. Eventually the German spoke. A young man, painfully so but with the remote eyes of a veteran.

“You have heard the broadcasts?” Newton nodded. “Do you believe this can happen? Can this be so?”

Newton thought. It would be easy to say yes and it would be a lie. And the German would know it. Telling the truth was better. “It can be yes. But there is much to be forgotten and forgiven. I will say this. If peace is to come it has to start somewhere and we all have to forget. Our Prime Minister was right. If we seek revenge it will destroy us all.”

The German looked across at the radio station. “How many did you kill here?”

“Two. The guards at the gate. That could not be helped. But all the rest, military and civilian are safe in the canteen. We cannot keep prisoners, I will release them to you.” It was the right thing to say, Newton knew it as soon as he'd said it.

“Very well. Let those two be the last. We will have a truce here. Until things are better known we will have our own peace you and I. You will go your way and we will go ours and we will be careful not to see each other. And we will be careful not to fight. Perhaps this really will be the end.” The German looked curiously at the Delisle hanging on Newton's shoulder “What is that?”

“It's a Delisle carbine.”

“Ah I have heard of those. Or not heard them. May I see it?'' Newton flipped the action open so it was safe and handed it over. The German officer took it and whistled. “You would like to see mine?” Newton nodded.

The German had an Stg-44 with an infra-red nightsight. Newton looked through it; he could see clearly. Not only could he see but the position of each of his men was clearly marked by the infrared searchlight mounted on one of the vehicles. If it had come to a firefight, he would have been slaughtered. The two men returned weapons and saluted. Then they went their separate ways.

CHAPTER TEN WELCOME HOME

Flight Deck, B-36H Texan Lady, Approaching Kozlowski AFB

The return trip across the Atlantic had been anything but routine. Number six engine was out, it would need replacement. The two jets on that side were out, the entire unit would have to be replaced. Number five engine was giving out, losing power slowly but surely. They'd throttled the engine right back and that had slowed the rate of power loss but it was still there. That left them dependent on engine number four. In fact, a B-36 could be flown with three piston engines and two jets out but not all from the same side. So losing number four meant losing the aircraft. About halfway back, they'd started losing oil from both number four and five, probably the effects of wing damage. Gordon had gone out into the wing, topped up the oil tank from the 55 gallon drums stowed in the aft compartment for just that purpose and tightened the seals and joints in the oil system. That had cured that problem.

Navigation hadn't been hard. Colonel Dedmon had elected to make a great circle approach back, skipping a refueling over the Azores. Most of the bombers did that anyway, a weather system up north made a southerly flight path a bit more attractive so they'd planned to hit the coast at New York then fly up. Fuel wasn't a problem, Texan Lady's vast fuel tanks saw to that. They could even have managed without the refueling on the way out but the damage to their wing would have left them very tight. As it was, they had reserves enough. Then, he'd gone back to the aft compartment and got some sleep. A few hours at least.

When he woke, they'd already spotted the glow hundreds of miles out. When they got in, it looked like every light in New York had been turned on. It had. Searchlights were sweeping the sky, every light in every building was lit, every curtain thrown open to allow the glare to stream up. Even the commercial advertising floodlights and billboards were on. The city fathers had guessed there would be bombers limping back across the Atlantic, systems down, engines down, dead and wounded on board and given them a beacon for home they couldn't miss. As they'd crossed the coast, the radio had come on,

“New York here. Aircraft crossing coast, identity please.”

“This is B-36 Texan Lady, 100th Bomb Group out of Kozlowski, Maine. We have onboard damage, three engines down one sick. No casualties to crew,”

“For your information Texan Lady, every airfield on the East Coast has been cleared to receive damaged aircraft. Just let them know you are coming, then go straight in. And Texan Lady, Welcome Home. New York Out.”

Now, as they flew up the East Coast, they had started the long descent into Kozlowski. After a while, people on the ground could hear the curious rhythmic throbbing snarl that was the B-36s signature. It must have been quite a night for them; the B-36s would have been coming back in an almost continuous stream. In Connecticut, a small town had rigged a light display, probably the High School football field or something. As they heard Texan Lady approaching they started to flash the lights. They read “Welcome Home”. Dedmon wondered if anybody on the ground stopped to think what the night was like in Germany. Behind them the lights went out then started to flash again, Must be another B-36 following them.

Hartford-Springfield was brilliantly lit, the runways clearly defined. It was the biggest airfield in Connecticut and a primary divert field. They were low enough down now to see a B-36 parked in the dispersal area, lit up and with vehicles all around. Somebody had trouble. “Hartford-Springfield, this is B-36 Texan Lady.”

“Welcome Home Texan Lady, come on in if you need. The runway's clear, the food is hot and the beer's cold.”

“Thanks Hartford-Springfield. We have to get back to Kozlowski, Momma's calling. But you have a 36 down there?”

“Affirmative Texan Lady, she's Death and Taxes from the 35th, out of Macdill. Diverted to us with casualties and damage. We'll pass your best wishes.”

“Thanks Hartford Springfield, please do that for us. Texan Lady out.”

Still dropping, now passing over Massachusetts. It wouldn't be long now before they were making their final approach. Still a couple of hours until dawn. Time to secure everything. They were down below 10,000 feet now and engine temperature was an issue. Number five was still cranky and they didn't want to push her too hard. They'd been airborne for almost 44 hours now and Dedmon didn't want to lose it at the last minute.

Eventually, they slipped into the traffic pattern at Kozlowski AFB. Dawn was just beginning to lighten the eastern edge of the sky now but it was still a night landing.

Dedmon saw the brilliant lights and huge runways of Kozlowski on his left. OK, he was on the downwind leg now. Airspeed 150 IAS, altitude 2500, extend landing gear, set flaps to ten degrees, set TBS at zero. Now swing around, a 90 degree turn, the damaged port wing was dropping from the asymmetric power. They completed the leg across the end of the field and were now down to 1500 feet, flaps 20 degrees. Dedmon read the landing checklist, got the crew answer-backs then another 90 degree turn, now they were heading parallel with the runways again, this time with them to their right. Flaps 20 degrees, maintain 150 IAS. Another 90 degree turn, engineers confirm that landing configuration was set. Engines 2600 rpm. Final approach now, 90 degree turn, drop to 1000 feet. Flaps 30 degrees, 90 degree turn, and line up with the flarepath. 500 fpm descent rate established. Now for the tricky bit. “Full power number five engine.”

The engine surged and the drooping wing leveled out, engine temperatures climbing fast, almost immediately the power from Number Rive started to drop again but they were almost in now. Speed 135 percent of stall, and - touchdown. “Full reverse power on three and four”. They were supposed to use reverse thrust on all six piston engines but the asymmetric load would spin them. So they'd have to make do with two. It had been raining up here and the runway was coated with water. The reverse thrust was throwing up a cloud of spray and mist that formed a ball around Texan Lady, as she shot down the runway. It was a surreal picture, the first light of dawn illuminating the ball of spray with just the nose and tail of the aircraft emerging from it. At 50 miles per hour, Dedmon locked the controls and waited for Texan Lady to come to a halt. She did so and Dedmon sneered to himself. AM the Hollywood films of damaged aircraft landing had them stopping on the end of the runway. They'd got that wrong as well, there was at least 50 feet of runway left. Still, Texan Lady was home, safe.

The “Follow Me” jeep was already in front of them and Texan Lady obediently taxied after it. Down the taxiway, behind the line of bombers that had made it back earlier. Each was bathed in lights as their ground crews worked on them. A couple showed damage. Juicy Lucy seemed to have half her rudder shot away. Mack the Knife looked undamaged but there was an ambulance beside her and a covered stretcher in the back. Further down Sixth Crew Member and Barbie Doll were already in their bays, the ground crew washing them down and polishing their magnesium skins. The follow-me jeep took Texan Lady, past them and towards the “Oh-My-God” hangar. That was the vast indoor facility where B-36s were repaired. It got its name from the first words anybody said when they looked inside. By the entrance, and Dedmon cut the power. Texan Lady would be towed in for her repair work.

After shutdown, Dedmon went out through the nosewheel bay and stood looking up at the aircraft. He was having difficulty standing, 44 hours of vibration made steady ground seem unfamiliar. The port wing was mangled, skin and the jet pod hanging off, two engines chewed. The ground chief was already shining spotlights on the damage and making notes on his clipboard. “Don't worry sir, she's safe with us. It’s not as bad as it looks, the main structure is OK, we'll just replace the engines and re-skin. 72 hours and she'll be ready to go. We'll look after her for you.”

“Colonel Dedmon sir, the boss wants to see you.”

It was an airman with a small truck. One of a type LeMay had ordered so his crews could be picked up after their missions, not have to walk back. “The Boss” meant General Tibbets, commander of the 100th. His office was in the block next to the Oh-My-God hangar. Even that was further than Dedmon would have wanted to walk right now.

Tibbets looked exhausted, much more so than any of the bomber crews walking around, Dedmon doubted very much whether he'd slept since The Big One had started. Still there was a question he had to ask.

“General Tibbets Sir, How many did we lose?”

Tibbets looked even more tired “The 100th? One down two damaged. You know what happened to Angel Eyes, the Me-263s got real lucky. Juicy Lucy had engine trouble and lost altitude. Dropped low enough for one of those big new German fighters to get at her over Hamburg with a missile. The tailgunner got the German and the missile just missed. Tore the rudder up and she lost the rest over the Atlantic. Came in steering with her engines. Fine bit of piloting. And your Texan Lady of course. Raid as a whole? Every nuclear bomber got through but we lost seven others down, a dozen or so damaged. Case Ace was the only RB-36 we lost. She took a Wasserfall near Kiel. Ditched in the North Sea. Haley's Comet and Dragon Lady had the same problem as Juicy Lucy, engine trouble then fighters got them. The rest? We don't know yet. They crossed the French coast but haven't shown up here yet. Probably damage got them over the Atlantic.”

“Mack the Knife Sir, I saw ambulances by her?”

“Accident. After landing. Ground crewman walking beside the undercarriage but didn't put his hand on the door. So he stopped and the aircraft didn't. General LeMay wants a standing report tomorrow.”

Ouch that was bad. A standing report meant just what it sounded like. The report was given standing in front of LeMay's desk. That made certain it was short, sweet and didn't contain circumlocutions or evasions.

“The good news is, Colonel, Germany surrendered at 0300 our time. Unconditionally. Apparently Goering survived, styled himself President and surrendered. Showed more sense than he has for years. We're not going to leave him in power of course, but somebody has to sign on the dotted line. The bad news is, the German Army in Russia and the SS out there are disputing the surrender. All the units are digging in and holding their ground. I suppose they've got nothing left to go home to so they think they'll stay where they are. God knows how it’s all going to end. One more bit of good news, the Germans in the UK have, well surrendered is the wrong word. Agreed to co-operate with and accept the authority of the new British Government. King George appointed Churchill the new Prime Minister in place of Halifax. Who is now in the Tower of London by the way, Churchill sweet-talked the German troops into ‘accepting’ British hospitality”.

“Germany Sir, how many did we?”

“How many did we kill? The Targeteers are working that out now. They're analyzing the information from the camera film, instrument tapes and data from the escorts now. The one who works with us will be coming up as soon as they have an answer.”

The Targeteers. However, did a creepy bunch of civilians ever get to decide the bombing plans and target selection? In fact, that was a good question. Tibbets might know, he'd been with the Manhattan Project from the early days,

“Sir, However, did a bunch of civilians ever get to decide the bombing plans and target selection? I would have thought it was an Air Force job?”

“It is. We decide where to put them. The Targeteers just give advice. Of course we always take their advice. In the early days, nobody understood just how powerful these new bombs were. We thought we would need thousands to destroy Germany. Then people realized we were hitting the same place over and over again, dropping two bombs on two targets even though they were in the same place. Trouble was nobody would give up their priority targets. In the end President Dewey and General LeMay did their good-cop/bad-cop thing and demanded an independent study. So studying the effects got farmed out to a bunch of analysts. They honed and refined the target lists, did the research, came up with the answers. If you like, they make the recommendations and their words go up, the people at the top decide and the orders come back down. They don't do much else now.”

The buzzer went and the Targeteer entered the office. The Seer, they all had crazy code-names like that, was the one assigned to the 100th. As usual, Dedmon got the feel the temperature in the room was dropping and he could swear the plant in the corner of Tibbets office was wilting. “You hear about Germany?” Tibbets and Dedmon nodded “Very gratifying. Not that there is much left to surrender of course. Initial bomb damage assessment is in now. All 200 primary targets were hit, some by multiple devices. Estimated German casualties are in the region of twenty million dead. Industry, transportation, supplies, communications, have all ceased to exist. There is significant radioactive contamination being detected, the instruments on the aircraft picked up way more than we expected. That's going to be a factor we'll have to recalculate for later drops.”

“Dear God, are you serious? Twenty million?” Dedmon remembered Major Pico's words and at last understood what it was that they had done and the thought stunned him.

“For an initial figure, yes. Germany was a peculiarly vulnerable target for the current generation of devices. The cities were almost perfectly sized for mass destruction. The casualties will be far greater than that of course. By the time the wounded have died and the rest of the effects have worked through the system, the final death toll will be twice that, probably even higher. It was inevitable. We were contracted to work out an attack plan that would totally destroy German industry, transportation and their ability to continue supporting a modern military machine. That is, of course, what we did.

“The trouble is that nobody can do that to a country without effectively wiping out the civilian population. Mark those words gentlemen. Nobody can do that to any country without effectively wiping out the civilian population. Including this one. What happened to Germany could, one day, happen here. Will happen unless we do something about it.

“And this is only the start. The Mark Threes we used are obsolete, in a very real sense, this raid cleared the arsenal of them. We're replacing them with new generations of devices. The Mark Four that's entering the arsenal now yields almost fifty kilotons. There's a new design coming down that will give us eighty. And there is always Super.

“I don't think anybody quite understands yet how much The Big One changed the world. Perhaps when they see the film and data from the instrumented aircraft, they will. In that sense, the escort aircraft may turn out to be more significant than the bomb droppers themselves. That was a nice term you used Colonel, Laydown. We'll have to adopt that.”

“But twenty million? Was there no other...”

“There were many other ways and we looked at them all. That's what Uncle Sam pays us to do. We looked at all sorts of limited operations, one was to make a demonstration by initiating a device on a worthless offshore Island, Heligoland was a good candidate. Then tell the Germans that if they didn't throw it all in, they'd get the lot. Then there were plans involving dropping two devices, six, fifty, many more. They all had advantages, all had problems. There were two that were common to all the limited plans though.

“Studies of artillery barrages, air bombing all show the same thing. It’s the initial blow that's most effective from both the physical damage and psychological effects point of view. Bach successive blow has about half the effect of those before it. People learn to accept and adapt and the physical damage gets to be just re-arranging the rubble.

“The other thing was that a limited initial ... laydown .....enormously increased the risk to you people. The Germans didn't know what was coming and had no real defenses yet still managed to knock down about 1 percent of the bombers. That means, over a tour of duty, a crew would have about a 70 percent chance of survival.

“But, if the Germans knew what was coming and how we were going to do it, they would have thought of defenses. Even given a few hours they could have done something - note how all the aircraft we lost - almost all - were hit coming home. They could have stripped their fighters of guns, armor, everything, given them enough fuel to climb up and intercept and ram the bombers. Better to lose a fighter than a city.

“You can bet every government in the world is looking at their fighter programs right now and thinking how to get their interceptors higher. We don't think they can, not for some years, the engine power just isn't there. But they will.

“There were other things the Germans could have done. Moved large numbers of people from occupied countries onto the targets, fortunately most of the PoW camps were in Poland and bits of Germany that will be going to Poland, we left those alone. But the Germans could have moved them. Used them as, ohh, human shields if you like. You can bet somebody will think of that as well. After all, we did.” The Seer grinned. Across the base, dogs started howling.

“In the end, we did a series of options, each with its positives and negatives, and sent them up. All the way, to the very top. They made the decision to go for the option we called The Big One. Personally, I think it was the right decision.

Look at it this way. Nazi Germany and the things it stood for were a cancer in the body of the human race. It had to be cut out. With cancer, you can take half measures, you can go for just the least possible, you can take chances. And mostly doing that will kill you. The longer you leave cancer, the harder the treatment gets and the more needs to be cut out to get rid of it.

“If Hitler had been stopped in the 1930s, or if the UK hadn't caved in 1940, perhaps The Big One wouldn't have been necessary. Perhaps Nazi Germany could have been destroyed by invasion or conventional bombing. Perhaps. But we have to face what is real and reality is that we had left everything terribly late.

“You've seen the information on the death camps in Nazi Germany. They killed nine million Jews there before declaring Europe Judenfrei. At least nine million Romanies and homosexuals and communists and trades unionists and freemasons and anybody else they hated. We know they've killed at least 20 million Russians.

“Before The Big One, they were starting on the next list, the ones they didn't like. Slavs, Poles, anybody who didn't have fair hair and blue eyes? When were they going to stop? We may have killed forty, fifty million by the time it’s all over but we still have saved more than we killed. And we cut out a cancer; any nation that is thinking along those lines is going to look at the smoking, radioactive hole that was Germany and think twice. Or at least that is what we hope.

“My guess is that the decision to launch The Big One is going to be discussed and argued, and applauded and condemned for as long as people study history. Learned papers will be written arguing that the decision was wrong and criminal and others will be written saying it was the only thing we can do. All sorts of motivations will be alleged and argued and some may even be right. But here, now, based on what we know here, now and based on our national interests, here, now, the people who made the final decision did the best they could.

“In doing that they created the world we're going to have to live in. And that, gentlemen, is all we can do. Live in the world we have and make the best of it we can.”

EPILOGUE

SAC Wing, USAF Museum, Dayton, Ohio. Forty years later

Genera] Dedmon was finding it harder to walk the alley now and he needed his cane to do it. Bomber Alley never failed to impress visitors. Few visitors got the organization though, penetrators and recon birds on the left, load carriers on the right. It was arranged so the latest and most modern exhibits were nearest the entrance and visitors could walk back in time to the earliest days of SAC. Nearest the entrance as befitted the latest aircraft into SAC service were the prototypes of the B-100 orbital bomber and the GRB-105 strike-reconnaissance aerospace plane. A little bit further down were a B-70 Valkyrie and an SR-71 Blackbird on the right, with the B-74 Devastator on the left. The Devastator was still the largest aircraft in SAC service. Still, if you looked at her just right and squeezed your eyes a little bit, you could see her B-36 ancestors peeking through. A little bit further down still were the first jets. The B-58 Hustler, a B-60 Dominator and a B-52 Stratofortress. Those had been Dedmon's contribution to SAC. Curtis LeMay had founded the force, Dedmon had taken it over and brought it into the jet age; higher and faster. His successor had brought SAC forward to hypersonics, higher and faster still. And now SAC was in space.

Almost at the end were the two B-36s, an RB-36 Ain’t Mishehavin' on the left and a GB-36 Golden Girl on the right.

But ahead was what he had come to see. Bomber Alley ended in an arch. One that carried the names of all the SAC crews who had died since the service was founded. Above it, in gold letters was SAC's unofficial motto “SAC DOES NOT TURN BACK.” Dedmon walked through the arch, watched by the pictures on the plaques, and there she was. Texan Lady still standing proud and beautiful. She was in a display area all of her own, the bomber that had lead the strike on Berlin and ended World War Two. She was in perfect condition, it was the museum boast that if somebody cut off the end of the museum, they could taxi Texan Lady out and fly her.

As soon as they saw Dedmon the Honor Guard, four Russians, four Americans, cracked to attention. As usual, Dedmon stopped to read the Honor Guard plaque. He knew the words by heart but he still stopped to read them, partly out of respect to the guard and partly due to them being the most hopeful thing around in an uncertain world. The plaque was the text of the letter from President Zhukov when Bomber Alley was founded.

We do not know and cannot tell what the future holds for our countries. Whether we shall remain friends and allies or find ourselves opposed is a story our grandchildren will tell But we do know, and can tell, what the past holds. That together our two nations stood together at a time of grave peril and together they defeated a great evil. This is a story that we must tell our grandchildren. It is right and proper that the B-36 Texan Lady be preserved in your new museum for it was she who took nuclear fire to the heart of the enemy and killed the fascist beast. In commemoration of this, the Russian armed forces and the Russian people respectfully request that they be allowed to provide, in perpetuity, an Honor Guard for Texan Lady.

President Patton had agreed and, three years later, when the Russians founded their Great Patriotic War museum, the US provided an Honor Guard there. It would have been an easy agreement to destroy, it was painfully easy to imagine a politician trying to make a cheap point by withdrawing or expelling one of the Honor Guards but somehow it had never happened. Somehow, politicians, even the most venal, realized that they represented something much more than an easy target for political gestures.

So, through good times and bad, the Honor Guards had stood their watch. Nor were they entirety ceremonial, a few years ago some “peace activists” had tried to attack Texan Lady. The guards had beaten them senseless. The demonstrator's political supporters had demanded an “enquiry” and the Air Force had responded with a full-scale court of enquiry into the incident. This concluded that, while the four American guards had hit the demonstrators more often, the four Russian guards had hit them harder and, therefore, the honors due for duties well and enthusiastically performed should be evenly divided between the two contingents. Most of the country had burst out laughing, the “peace activists“ had gone ballistic but there had been no more trouble.

Surrounding Texas Lady were a series of displays, some permanent, some transient. This month, one of the latter was on the loss of the Shiloh, the carrier that had died to open the way for the B-36 strike. Dedmon grinned to himself, there were still diehard fanatics who claimed that Shiloh hadn't been sunk at all, that she'd been scuttled. Still, the staff had done the display well. A big model of the ship, showing where the bombs had hit and the progress of the fires that had finally killed her. Photographs, descriptions, history. A series of plaques of members of the crew. Headed by two that had a pale blue ribbon with stars. Ship's Chaplain Westover and (by special order of Congress) Surgeon Commander Stennis. The Navy had honored them both its own way. The USS Westover was a hospital ship that spent her time bringing aid to American allies struck by disaster. One of the Navy's nuclear-powered cruisers, CGN-174 was the John C Stennis.

One name was not mentioned. Postwar Captain Madrick had been court-martialed for the loss of his ship and, in a verdict that remained controversial to this day, found guilty of hazarding his ship by negligence. Dedmon's eye was caught by one Silver Star Citation, to Ensign Pickering - now Admiral Pickering of course. Describing how he had lead his damage control team to put down the worst fires and, when cut off by fire and explosions, had lead them to safety. Dedmon knew Pickering well, a good officer whose only quirk was a nervous tic that developed every time somebody mentioned Democrats. The citation was not the way Pickering told the story.

One of the permanent displays was of President LeMay. Dedmon stopped to look at that. After leaving SAC LeMay had been President Patton’s Secretary of War, then had been elected President in 1956. He'd won again in 1960 although for a while it hadn't looked that way. A charismatic Democrat called John F Kennedy had given LeMay a hard run for his money. Kennedy would have been a disaster as President but fate had taken a hand. Late for a party meeting in Massachusetts, JFK had accepted a ride from his brother Edward. At Chappaquiddick Island, near Martha's Vineyard their car had gone off the road into the water. JFK had been trapped and Edward Kennedy had run off “to get help''. By the time he got back, some hours later, JFK was dead.

It was said every American remembered where they were and what they were doing when JFK's death was announced. Dedmon had been in India dining with Sir Martyn Sharpe. Lady Sharpe and an old friend of theirs. Sir Eric Hoahao. When the news that JFK had been killed in a car crash was brought in. Sir Martyn had gone straight to the Washington Diplomatic List, looked something up then showed the result to Sir Eric. Both men had spent the rest of the evening with rather foolish smiles on their faces.

President LeMay finished his second term in office and retired from public life. Having achieved the highest offices in both civilian and military life, to retire loaded with honors and distinction, respected and admired by his friends, respected and feared by his enemies, President LeMay had died a bitter and unhappy man. In his eyes. The Big One had failed and the goal of his working life had been a debacle. He had despised war; the object of The Big One had been to make the ultimate statement that war was lunacy, and in a nuclear age it had to be avoided at all costs.

He had sought to demonstrate that the cost of war was so terrible that it shouldn't be fought, but if it had to be, then it should be fought to win. That hadn't happened. Overt invasion and conquest had vanished certainly but states had found other means to make war, ones that didn't expose them to the terrible threat of SACs bombers. Terrorism was one such way. As Dedmon had feared so many years ago, once the cult of terrorism and suicide bombing had started it was proving terribly hard to root out. The simmering Cold War in the Pacific had been another - and there were rumors that Chipan and The Caliphate states were becoming closely aligned.

Still, Texan Lady had tried her hardest and fought a good fight. Dedmon unlocked the security panel that surrounded her, as the President of the Museum he had a key of his own, and let himself in by the familiar route. Up the steps into the nosewheel bay, through the hatch into the bombardier navigator compartment. Then up steps to the Engineering section, then up some more to the flight deck. And there was his seat. He'd kept his promise to Texan Lady. nobody else had ever flown her. He and his crew had picked her up from the factory in Fort Worth, he and his crew had flown her here to her honorable retirement.

He slipped into the pilot's seat and. once again, felt the comfort of being with an old friend. When his wife had died some years earlier he had grieved for her here, sitting alone in Texan Lady, feeling the bomber's familiar presence and talking quietly to her. For eight years after The Big One, they had ruled the skies together, the B-36s cruising serenely anywhere they chose and over everybody they wished. Then, one day, one of the Air Force's new F-100 fighters had flown up alongside them, kept them company for a while then become bored and accelerated away. A sobered crew had brought Texan Lady in to land. Two years later, the last B-36s, the GB-36 units, had been retired.

The crew had mostly gone as well. Major Pico had left SAC after The Big One to join SACs defensive equivalent NORAD and devoted his life to designing defenses against the sort of attack that had destroyed Germany. America had a strong shield now, one that could take on any threat. Just like the Germans had believed they had designed. The brief missile scare in the late 1950s had caused SAC a problem but sanity had prevailed. After all, who seriously believed that missiles could replace bombers? A missile, coming in on a fixed trajectory at set speeds was an easy target compared with a manned bomber that could twist and turn at will. NORAD had shot down missile after missile showing off its new defense systems. In the end the obvious had happened; a new breed of bomber had arrived that combined the speed of missiles with the evasiveness of manned aircraft. The new orbital bombers equipped SAC now and were leading the drive into space. If the bombers couldn't be stopped and mankind couldn't be persuaded to play nice, then space was the only way out.

That had meant SAC didn't mean SAC any more. In the early 1960s, Strategic Air Command had become Strategic Aerospace Command. It looked after the military applications of space while another organization called NASA had looked after civilian space exploration. NASA had been a politicized, bureaucratic disaster. They'd got to the moon alright but only after one of the big Saturn rockets had burned on the pad, killing its three-man crew. After that disaster, much of NASA's responsibilities had been transferred to SAC. The President then was a man called Johnson and the only reason why he had saved NASA was that it operated out of Texas.

Then, a few years later, NASA had got into the shuttle business, building a re-usable space cargo carrier. They'd built five and lost two, one on launch, one on re-entry. Another enquiry, by this time under a new President, an ex-Hollywood actor who, nonetheless, had a profound understanding of space and science. He'd asked the head of NASA one question. “NASA has five shuttles and lost two. On the same budget, SAC operates over a hundred orbital bombers and hasn't lost any. Why?” NASA was abolished and its responsibilities transferred to SAC. SAC officially then got changed to Space Administration Command but everybody still knew what it really meant.

Outside the Honor Guard changed and the lights were dimmed. The Museum was closing but it didn't matter. Dedmon could sit here all night if he wished. Sometimes he did. What sort of world had he and Texan Lady created? One where American power was absolute certainly. American policy was simple, there was no better friend and no worse enemy than the USA. One American ambassador had ended an international crisis by licking his finger and holding it up in the air. Asked what he was doing he replied '“Checking wind direction, we don't want fallout landing on our friends.” But outside that simple certainty, the world was split between the power blocks whose enmity was bitter. All they had to do to keep America off them was to play nice but that left plenty of ways they could fight their proxy wars. Terrorism was just a part of it. There was a sort of brinkmanship in the world; how close could a country come to playing nasty without incurring American wrath.

Nobody wanted to do that. Germany was still a terrible example Goering's attempts to surrender, sensible though they were, had been hard to enforce. Especially in the East. The German Armies hadn't wanted to go home and hadn't wanted to surrender. So they'd kept fighting. The German generals had become warlords, setting up their own feudal states in the occupied areas of Russia. Some of them had been little more than Gangs of bandits hiding in the woods and had been finished off accordingly. Others had assembled real mini-states with industrial production and a functioning society. Some had become well-organized and well-governed, others had reverted to a barbarism that insulted the description “Dark Ages”. Some had been peacefully re-absorbed into Russia, some had gone down fighting.

It had taken years to finish them all off, the last one had only been finally defeated in 1960. That had delayed Russia's recovery and even now, the country was still an economic basket case. Germany itself was a patchwork agrarian state, almost a park in the middle of Europe. A park where people frightened their children by telling them of the day a monster called SAC had flown over their country and burned it into ashes. Much of the country though, especially the Ruhr Valley, was still a wasteland.

In contrast, the UK had been a shining example of what could be done. The Germans there had mostly stayed, those who had family surviving in German had brought them over. They'd been absorbed quietly and without fuss. Most historians today concluded that Churchill would have been an indifferent wartime leader but had been an outstanding peacetime prime minister; Dedmon had read a novel once that tried to suggest what would have happened if the Halifax-Butler Coup had failed. The suggestion had been that the war ended two years earlier without using nuclear weapons. Well, anything was possible in fiction.

The years following The Big One had been bad for Europe. Epidemics had developed among the surviving German population, particularly food poisoning, dysentery, and typhoid. Displaced populations, including the millions of burned, were particularly affected; those with radiation sickness were particularly vulnerable, since it increased susceptibility to disease up to fivefold. That year and the next, crops withered throughout Europe since sunlight, temperatures, and rainfall were all below normal. In many areas concentrations of ozone, smog, and other pollutants in the lower atmosphere were still high enough to afflict plants; and in restricted areas plants suffered from fallout.

Even in 1948, temperatures in the northern hemisphere were 2 degrees F below normal on average, shortening growing seasons and prolonging agricultural disruptions. In Germany, farming was still at subsistence level. Even the long term devastation had proved worse than the Targeteers had predicted, fish from the North Sea and Baltic was still too radioactive to eat. Oddly, the great fear, genetic defects were much less prevalent than feared, found only in a few percent of the population born in the northern hemisphere after the war; even then most were not noticeable or handicapping. Malnutrition had caused far more profound physical deficiencies.

That hadn't been the ultimate though. Five years after the Big One, Dedmon had been one of the spectators to the first test of Super, the first fusion device. The event had been stunning - quite literally. The scientists told him that the single Super initiated in the test had developed more raw explosive power than all the devices SAC had dropped on Germany during The Big One. Later that day, Dedmon had met The Seer again. He was standing in the navigation compartment of the flagship, staring at a map of Chipan and smiling. “Problem solved,” he'd said.

Chipan, now there was a mystery. Nobody knew who had defeated who in the long war between China and Japan. Japan had claimed it had won, China that it had. Get a historian from either country alone, get him drunk and ask the question and both would admit that even they didn't know. The war hadn't even officially ended, it had just faded away as each nation absorbed the other. Chipan had the Japanese Emperor as head of state but the Government was Chinese Communist. Or something. Whatever it was, the combined state was as ruthlessly expansionist as Imperial Japan had ever been.

Sitting comfortably in his pilot's seat, Demon felt the familiar presence of Texan Lady comforting him. The world wasn't the way he wanted it or would have liked it but it was what they had and they had to live with it. What was it The Seer had always said “See things the way they are, not the way you would like them to be. You may not be as comfortable but you'll be less likely to get caught flat-footed.” Dedmon was taking that advice now. He ran his hands over the familiar controls and instruments.

“This is probably goodbye, Texan Lady. I don't think I'll be back, the Doctors don't give me much longer. But you're safe here, in honorable retirement, looked after by people who love you and surrounded by your children and grandchildren.” The silent, empty aircraft seemed to be waiting for more somehow. He ran his hands over the seats and quietly said “I love you, Texan Lady”

And the female voice that had puzzled them all for years replied “I love you too Bob.”

The End