Should England Fall Read online

  THE FIGHITNG TOMCATS

  BOOK 4

  SHOULD ENGLAND FALL

  ROSE HILL PRESS, OLYMPIA WASHINGTON

  Should England Fall

  Book Four of The Fighting Tomcat Series

  First Edition

  ©2020 by Sofia R. Maki and Megan L. Maki

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, any information storage and retrieval system, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without prior permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

  The views presented are those of the author and do not necessarily represent the views of the DoD.

  Should England Fall is a work of historical fiction and speculation using well-known historical and public figures. All incidents and dialogue are products of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Because of the speculative nature of this work, we have changed some present-day timelines, such as the fact that the aircraft carrier battlegroup depicted in this book has never existed. Also, we have changed the historical timeline in the present to suit the nature of the work. Any resemblance to persons living or dead who are not historical figures is entirely coincidental.

  BOOKS BY M. L. MAKI

  THE FIGHTING TOMCATS

  Fighting Her Father’s War

  Divided We Stand

  We So Few

  HUNTER/KILLER SERIES

  Shark Among the Minnows

  NOTES

  When starting a novel of this type it is necessary to decide at the outset how to tackle a number of issues. The Navy uses a great deal of jargon, technical terms, and acronyms that are used in speech. Eliminating this techno-speak from dialogue would remove the character of the whole story. We also recognize that leaving jargon in could be confusing to readers not familiar with the military. It was decided to include a glossary and leave the language as it would be spoken with a few exceptions. When ships communicate over radio each ship has a code name that is used in place of the actual ship’s name. As this would be confusing, we opted to use the ship’s actual name.

  Many complex procedures are simplified to keep the story flowing and reduce confusion. Aircraft numbers are generally based on the bureau (serial) number of the plane, regardless of who the pilot is. The exception is the commanding officer’s plane whose number is always one. Though this may be confusing, generally the reader should be able to follow the dialogue without the number cue.

  Where events are occurring simultaneously, yet in different time zones, the author chose to adopt Greenwich Mean Time for clarity. In all other sections, local time is used. A number of other technical details were changed to prevent revealing classified information.

  A note on naval rank structure. In other services an enlisted person is addressed by rank, “Corporal, Sargent,” etc. In the Navy, sailors are addressed with rate and rank. An E-6 is not normally addressed as “Petty Officer First Class.” He or she is addressed as “MM1, BT1, BM1,” etc. The rate is the job classification of the sailor, be that machinist mate (engine room equipment operator), or mess specialist (cook). A more comprehensive list of rates can be found in the glossary or on line. The ranks of enlisted sailors are in three groups of three ranks. E-1 through E-3 sailors are non-petty officers. These are new sailors who may or may not yet have a rate. E-4 through E-6 sailors are petty officers. These sailors are the technical experts and watch-standers who keep the navy running. E-4’s are third class, E-5’s are second class, and E-6’s are first class petty officers. E-7 through E-9 sailors are middle management. They are Chief, Senior Chief, and Master Chief. Chiefs are systems experts who train, lead, and guide instead of operating equipment. The colloquial for E-7 is “Chief,” for E-8 is “Senior,” and for E-9 is “Chief.” No one calls a Master Chief “Master.” Calling a senior of master chief “Chief” is not an insult.

  There are essentially two types of officer. Line officers can command vessels and aircraft. Non-line, or limited duty officers are doctors, dentists, chaplains, civil engineer corps, or have other specific duties.

  CONTENTS

  Copyright

  Books by M. L. Maki

  Notes

  Contents

  Acknowledgements

  Dedication

  Epigram

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Glossary

  About the authors

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  We would like to thank everyone who contributed advice and help on this project. Without your kind help, it would never have happened. Our family cheering section kept up our spirits when it got tough. Unfortunately, 2019 was a challenging year for us. So, we also thank all of you for your patience. We especially want to thank our beta readers, Penny Sevedge and ETNC (SW) Scott M. Richardson.

  THIS BOOK IS DEDICATED TO

  To all our wonderful readers. You have given us so much help and have been so patience through this difficult year. Thank you.

  Out of every one hundred men, ten shouldn’t even be there, eighty are just targets, nine are the real fighters, and we are lucky to have them, for they make the battle. Ah, but the one, one is a warrior, and he will bring the others back.

  CHAPTER 1

  GERMAN AIRFIELD, OCCUPIED FRANCE

  0645, 23 September, 1942

  General Lieutenant Ludwig Weber, commander of the 3rd Air Group, listens as Oberstleutenant Albrecht Meyer, a 1990 East German pilot, reports, “I think the Drachendame was shot down by Oberst Getz before he was lost. I saw her plane falling.”

  “How many Tomcat fighters are left?”

  Meyer shrugs, “Three or four. No more than that. The British are fielding a jet fighter with fixed swept wings. At its best it is equal to our 163.”

  Weber smiles, then frowns, “So, they are behind us in development. That is good. But we must control the skies above our operation. Meyer, you and the 76th will cover the landings. I will send Jagdgeschwader 78th and 8oth to hit the British fleet.”

  BRIDGE, GERMAN CARGO SHIP MARGERET, IN THE MOUTH OF THE TYNE RIVER

  An aide approaches Field Marshal Erwin Rommel with a radio and salutes, “General Weber, Herr Field Marshal.”

  Rommel returns the salute and takes the radio, “Rommel.”

  “Herr Field Marshal, we have destroyed at least three of the cursed American fighters. Losses are high, but so is production.”

  “Does she still live?”

  “She shot down Oberst Getz, but I’m told he hit her plane as well. It was seen falling toward the sea. Perhaps your men will find her corpse.”

  “Perhaps, or perhaps not. She is extremely hard to kill. We must assume she is alive, well, and still in command. Tell me Herr General, what would you focus on in her place?”

  “Herr Field Marshal, it has always been the British Navy that protected the British Isles fr
om invasion. It is the British, combined with the Americans, that may deny us resupply. She must protect the fleet. And, also, she is a naval officer. What would be more natural?”

  “What kind of woman do you think she is, Herr General?”

  “From news accounts, her people are devoted to her. She cares for them as a mother would, but she also sends them to fight. She has grappled with Baron Clausewitz and grown as an officer. I think she is aptly named. She is a hunter and a protector. She is singularly courageous, but more than that, she is an effective leader. Still, she does not revel in her victories. I think she is more the protector and less the killer.”

  “Good. Use her need to protect her fleet against her.”

  “Yes, Herr Field Marshal.”

  WINGNUT AND CUDDLES F-14, BEACH NORTH EAST OF NEWCASTLE ON THE TYNE, UK

  0650, 23 September, 1942

  Men dig franticly to free the two airmen seeing the German invasion craft getting closer and hearing sporadic rifle fire from the bluff above them. Finally, LT Tommy “Wingnut” Urland is pulled from the cockpit. The pain in his left arm and shoulder is so intense, he struggles to keep from passing out. He focuses on the man in front of him, “Do you have explosives?”

  Uncle Tucker says, “No, friend. We have a farm.”

  “Fuck.”

  LT Gus “Cuddles” Grant is finally pulled from the backseat. He’s barely conscious and head and right arm are bleeding.

  Wingnut looks around, then smells the JP-5, “Anyone have a lighter?”

  Tucker smiles, “We’ll get you boys clear, then the lads will light her up.” Wingnut and Cuddles are helped up the steep embankment and away from the beach and their stricken plane. Wingnut turns when he hears a ‘whumpf’ and sees black smoke rising behind them.

  BASE INFIRMARY, RAF ALCONBURY

  0652, 23 September, 1942

  Commodore Samantha ‘Spike” Hunt, commander of Task Force Yankee and U.S. Naval Forces, UK, follows the gurney carrying her RIO, LT Eric ‘Puck’ Hawke, as orderly and nurse wheel him into the surgery. His clothes are streaked with blood and his skin is pale. He makes eye contact with her and smiles, “I’m good.”

  She schools her expression, “Of course, you are.” The 20mm round that hit their bird severely damaged his left leg and arm. That he is alive and conscious is a bloody miracle. She forces a smile, “You get better, Puck. I need you.”

  He smiles, “I know,” and they push him into the surgery.

  A nurse stops her, “Commodore, you have to wait out here.”

  She watches as the doors close, absently rubbing her right fist. She looks down at her hand and shakes her head, “It hurts, and it was worth it. But I just decked a Brigadier General. Damn.”

  She thinks back on the damage Brigadier General Altman did to the war effort and her people by hiding parts and ordinance from her unit to stockpile them for when the Army Air Corps took over in England. “My God, I don’t care. I did the right thing. I guess, I’m not as afraid of the brass as I used to be. Oh, I am the brass. I am the man. God, help me.”

  She sees her reflection in a window. Her blonde hair is a mess and needs cutting. Her eyes are sunken. Her flight suit is covered in Puck’s blood. She sees lines on her face that were not there before, “I’m 28 years old, going on fifty. That about sums it up.” She sits down and puts her head in her hands, “God, please save him. Please. I need him. I’m sorry for all I’ve done. So sorry. Just don’t let Puck be the one to pay for my sins.”

  She feels herself drifting into sleep and shakes herself awake. “Not now. Too much to think about. Too much to do.” Her body stiff and sore, she forces herself to sit upright and to go over events in her mind, waiting to hear if the most important man in her life, her RIO, her flying partner, is going to live or die.

  HOTPANTS AND GQ’S BIRD, RAF OUSTON, 8 MILES NW OF NEWCASTLE

  LT Gloria “Hot Pants’ Hoolihan and LTJG Byron ‘GQ’ Standley are guiding an airport crane to lift their F-14 onto a trailer when a grey sedan races up. A Group Commander in flight uniform exits the car and runs up, “Say, I believe you should know we are evacuating southward to Duxford.”

  Gloria, still working, says, “We could use some help tying this thing down. We need to get it to Alconbury.”

  The Group Commander looks over the F-14. The left wing is crumpled upward and the left landing gear is broken. There are bullets holes all over the right side and the right tire is deflated from a bullet hit. “I understand how valuable these jets are, but yours looks a goner.”

  “If we can get it to Alconbury, the guys will have it in the air overnight. Can you help?”

  “I came to tell you to abandon your efforts, but I see your point. I’ll see what can be done.” He does a crisp about face and gets back in the car.

  FLIGHT LINE, RAF ALCONBURY

  CDR Stephan ‘Swede’ Swedenborg, CO of the Black Knights, VF-154, and Commodore Hunt’s Chief of Staff, walks to the lead A-10 and waits as the engines spool down.

  Major Floyd B. Parks, USMC, commands VMA-324, the Devil Dogs, the first squadron of navalized A-10 Warthogs. He climbs down out of his bird, turns and salutes, “Good morning, Commander. Where can I find Commodore Hunt?”

  “She’s at the infirmary. I’m her Chief of Staff. When can you get back in the air?”

  “We just flew across the Atlantic from the States. We need to recover and acclimatize.”

  “No time. England is being invaded. Pick your freshest pilots to launch as soon as you can load and fuel your birds. Put the rest to bed. You’ll be flying around the clock until we stop them.”

  “You’re serious.”

  Swede stares at him, his eyes hard and distant, then he shakes his head, “I’m sorry, but that’s the way it is right now. I assume you’ll want the first hop. I would. Come with me.” He leads him into the HQ to brief him and go over the maps.

  Swede sees LT Jerry ‘Gandhi’ Jacobs, his RIO, and motions him to walk with him. “When the other squadron leader lands, send him to me at HQ.”

  Gandhi salutes, “Yes, sir. I’ll have our guys service these birds until their ground crew arrive.”

  3 ZUG, 2 KOMPANIE, 28TH RIFLE REGIMENT, BEACH NORTH OF NEWCASTLE

  Private Aldus Muller runs off the boat ramp and stumbles in the surf. The man next to him goes down and falls on him. He struggles to get his head out of the icy water and get free. He can barely hear Sergeant Zimmerman shouting, “Schnell! Schnell!”

  Muller gets his head up enough to get a deep breath, and heaves up, pushing the body off. He wriggles out and manages to move forward out of the water. He stumbles and weaves, stiff from being confined in the boat for over a day. He sees more men fall, but the firing from the dunes ahead is lighter than he feared. Others are kissing the sand before the grassy dunes, but he keeps running. Muller pops over the dune in front of him and sees only three British behind it. They roll to bring their rifles to bear and he shoots them. Kids. Their young faces burned into his mind.

  All the anger he had built inside for the fight flows out. He kicks the rifles away and asks, “Sprechen sie Deutsch?”

  A blonde boy, hands pressed against his abdomen, blood spilling between his fingers, looks at him, “Why? Why?”

  “Krieg. Ah, war.” He shrugs and shakes out a cigarette for the kid, kneeling next to him. He looks at the others, one he shot in the head, the other is gasping, blood on his lips, a round through his lung.

  The blonde takes the cigarette, “My mom…”

  Muller realizes most of the firing has stopped. He looks down at the boy, “Wie alt vist du? Ah, how old?”

  “14.”

  “Es tut mir leid. I’m sorry.” He rises and continues inland, tears streaming down his face.

  BRIDGE, HMS CUMBERLAND (57), 12 MILES NORTH OF THE INVASION FLEET

  Captain Alexander Henry Maxwell-Hyslop stands still as a statue on the starboard wing as the forward mounts lay fire on a German cruiser. Three damaged German vessels, pouring smoke,
are approaching at an angle. He shouts into the speaking tube, “Hard to port. New course, 160.”

  The reply is drowned out by shell fire, but the ship starts turning.

  Rear Admiral Sir Philip Vian joins him as their heavy cruiser heels over in the turn. “Quite a hullabaloo, don’t you think?”

  “Yes, sir.” Rounds form the German heavy cruiser Prinz Eugen fall short and the Cumberland’s guns return fire.

  A rating runs onto the bridge wing and salutes, “From Scapa, sir. Air raid warning. German jets.”

  Vian nods, “They will likely attack ashore.”

  Hyslop, still focused on the battle, says, “I agree, sir. Yet best to be cautious.” To the rating, “Pass the word for possible air attack. Assign secondary batteries to air defense.”

  The rating salutes, “Yes, sir,” and runs into the ship.

  Then, the entire vessel shakes with a violent concussion and they see the light cruiser, USS Omaha, explode.

  The Cumberland takes a hit aft of the third funnel, and the two men fight to keep their feet. The blast causes flame and smoke to billow up from their stern. Another round hits near aboard aft of the bridge and a wall of water soaks them. Hyslop picks up a microphone, “Damage control parties out.”

  Vian, pointing to dark specks getting larger as they dive toward them, “Are they ours, do you think?”

  “I think not. Excuse me, sir.”

  Hyslop enters the bridge and Vian continues tracking the approaching German aircraft. He watches the planes changing course as they choose their targets. Three choose the Cumberland. As one, two objects detach from each aircraft. He smiles, “Too soon. They dropped too soon.”

  But these are radar guided bombs, and they continue straight toward the ship as the AA batteries open up. The German jets pull up unharmed.

  Three 1000-pound bombs fall short and one falls long, but two hit the British cruiser. One strikes amidships and the other just below A turret. The initial blast knocks the admiral off his feet. The second explosion from the ‘A’ turret magazine going up knocks him unconscious.