Read Online Omnibus.The.Sea.Witch.2012 by Stephen Coonts - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Stephen Coonts
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where airfields didn’t exist and do a nice job of patrolling vast expanses of ocean. The performance penalty they paid to carry the floats was too great to allowthem to go toe-to-toe with land or carrier-based fighters. They could slice and dice a Catalina, though.
“Shit, it’s coming back.”
I kept the Cat descending. We were a couple hundred feet above the water, far too high. I wanted us right on the wavetops.
“He’s coming in from the port stern quarter, curving, coming down, about a half mile …”
I could hear someone sobbing on the intercom.
“I don’t know who’s making that goddamn noise,” I said, “but it had better stop.”
We were about a hundred feet high, I thought, when the float fighter opened fire. I saw his shells hit the water in front of us and heard the fifty in the port blister open up with a short burst. And another, then a long rolling blast as the plane shuddered from the impact of cannon shells.
The fighter pulled out straight ahead, so he went over us and out to my right. He flew straight until he was well out of range of our gun in the starboard blister, then initiated a gentle turn to come around behind.
“Anybody hurt?” I asked.
“He ripped the port wing, which is empty,” Dutch Amme said.
“Good shooting, since he had to break off early.”
I was down on the water by then, very carefully working the trim. I didn’t have much altitude control remaining—if we hit the water at speed our problems would be permanently over.
I thought about turning into this guy when he committed himself to one side or the other. The island dead ahead had me paralyzed though. There it was, a strip of green between sea and sky. Instinctively, I knew that it was our only hope, and I didn’t want to waste a drop of gas in my haste to get there.
Perhaps I could skid the plane a little to try to throw off the Zero pilot’s aim. I fed in some rudder, twisted the yoke to hold it level.
And the lousy crate began sinking. We bounced once on a swell and that damn near did it for us right there. We lost some speed and hung right on the ragged edge of a stall. Long seconds crept by before we accelerated enough for me to exhale. By then I had the rudder where it belonged, but it was a close thing. At least the plane didn’t come apart when it kissed the swell.
Pottinger was hanging on for dear life. “Don’t kill us,” he pleaded.
On the next pass the Zero tried to score on the starboard engine, the only one keeping us aloft. I could feel the shells slamming into us, tearing at the area just behind the cockpit. Instinctively I ducked my head, trying to make myself as small as possible.
I could hear one of the waist fifties pounding.
“Are you gunners going to shoot this guy or let him fuck us?”
With us against the water, the Zero couldn’t press home his attacks, but he was hammering us good before he had to break off.
“He holed the right tank,” Amme shouted. “We’re losing fuel.”
Oh, baby!
“He’s streaming fuel or something,” Hoffman screamed. “You guys hit him that last pass.”
They all started talking at once. I couldn’t shut them up.
“If he’s crippled, the next pass will be right on the water, from dead astern,” I told Pottinger. “He’ll pour it to us.”
“Naw. He’ll head for home.”
“Like hell. He’ll kill us or die trying. That’s what I’d do if I were him.”
Sure enough, the enemy fighter came in low so he could press the attack and break off without hitting the ocean. He was directly behind, dead astern, so both the blister gunners cut loose with their fifties. Short bursts, then longer as he closed the distance.
Someone was screaming on the intercom, shouting curses at the Jap, when the intercom went dead.
I could feel the cannon shells punching home—the cannons in Zeros had low cyclic rates; I swear every round this guy fired hit us. One fifty abruptly stopped firing. The other finished with a long buzz saw burst,
“Shit, it’s coming back.”
I kept the Cat descending. We were a couple hundred feet above the water, far too high. I wanted us right on the wavetops.
“He’s coming in from the port stern quarter, curving, coming down, about a half mile …”
I could hear someone sobbing on the intercom.
“I don’t know who’s making that goddamn noise,” I said, “but it had better stop.”
We were about a hundred feet high, I thought, when the float fighter opened fire. I saw his shells hit the water in front of us and heard the fifty in the port blister open up with a short burst. And another, then a long rolling blast as the plane shuddered from the impact of cannon shells.
The fighter pulled out straight ahead, so he went over us and out to my right. He flew straight until he was well out of range of our gun in the starboard blister, then initiated a gentle turn to come around behind.
“Anybody hurt?” I asked.
“He ripped the port wing, which is empty,” Dutch Amme said.
“Good shooting, since he had to break off early.”
I was down on the water by then, very carefully working the trim. I didn’t have much altitude control remaining—if we hit the water at speed our problems would be permanently over.
I thought about turning into this guy when he committed himself to one side or the other. The island dead ahead had me paralyzed though. There it was, a strip of green between sea and sky. Instinctively, I knew that it was our only hope, and I didn’t want to waste a drop of gas in my haste to get there.
Perhaps I could skid the plane a little to try to throw off the Zero pilot’s aim. I fed in some rudder, twisted the yoke to hold it level.
And the lousy crate began sinking. We bounced once on a swell and that damn near did it for us right there. We lost some speed and hung right on the ragged edge of a stall. Long seconds crept by before we accelerated enough for me to exhale. By then I had the rudder where it belonged, but it was a close thing. At least the plane didn’t come apart when it kissed the swell.
Pottinger was hanging on for dear life. “Don’t kill us,” he pleaded.
On the next pass the Zero tried to score on the starboard engine, the only one keeping us aloft. I could feel the shells slamming into us, tearing at the area just behind the cockpit. Instinctively I ducked my head, trying to make myself as small as possible.
I could hear one of the waist fifties pounding.
“Are you gunners going to shoot this guy or let him fuck us?”
With us against the water, the Zero couldn’t press home his attacks, but he was hammering us good before he had to break off.
“He holed the right tank,” Amme shouted. “We’re losing fuel.”
Oh, baby!
“He’s streaming fuel or something,” Hoffman screamed. “You guys hit him that last pass.”
They all started talking at once. I couldn’t shut them up.
“If he’s crippled, the next pass will be right on the water, from dead astern,” I told Pottinger. “He’ll pour it to us.”
“Naw. He’ll head for home.”
“Like hell. He’ll kill us or die trying. That’s what I’d do if I were him.”
Sure enough, the enemy fighter came in low so he could press the attack and break off without hitting the ocean. He was directly behind, dead astern, so both the blister gunners cut loose with their fifties. Short bursts, then longer as he closed the distance.
Someone was screaming on the intercom, shouting curses at the Jap, when the intercom went dead.
I could feel the cannon shells punching home—the cannons in Zeros had low cyclic rates; I swear every round this guy fired hit us. One fifty abruptly stopped firing. The other finished with a long buzz saw burst,
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