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Authors: L. Ron Hubbard
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their foe.
Forsythe clamped the earphones over his helmet and twisted a dial to get the Japanese signal band.
A falsetto voice shrieked in upon him. A pilot was calling his headquarters.
âHe is sighted! Shall we attack or wait?â
There was a pause and then, âATTACK! Captain Shinohari is taking off immediately and should be there within two hours.â
The phone clicked off but Forsythe let it crackle in case other orders whipped across the flaming sky.
The planes were high above them now, banking, starting to come over the top and down.
Patricia saw the blurring flash of the props stabbing straight at her. Above the roar of tortured steel she heard the shattering crescendo of machine guns.
The Kawasakis dropped like shot gulls out of a sky the color of flame, spattering long black lines which wove a spiderâs web about the attack plane. Tracer shredded as their props blasted through it.
Down, down, down, gun and engines going full and raving.
Forsythe held it until it seemed the Japanese would smash them out of the sky. And then, abruptly, Forsythe stabbed the nose of the attack skyward, straight at the nearest prop.
Louder guns battered at Patriciaâs ears and she knew they were Forsytheâs. She looked straight ahead, conscious of the world upended crazily and twisting further yet.
In the blink of an eye the Japanese planes had vanished, but even before she realized it, the world had tipped over in the other direction like a mad compass being rocked wildly on its gimbals.
She had a sick sensation as the bottom dropped out. Centrifugal force crushed her into the pit, and then as they banked violently she felt herself flung against the retaining cleats of the Matsubi.
She had shut her eyes and now she opened them again to see the Rising Sun emblazoned on a fuselage straight ahead. The Japanese was rolling down and away, broadside to them. They spanned the distance like a horse taking a hurdle and suddenly the Japanese was gone.
Patricia lightened and pressed upward against the belt; the bottom was falling out again. Her ears ached to the screaming blast of engines and guns. She was choked with acrid cordite and felt blinded with noise.
Straight over her head she saw a Japanese plane. It was upside down. Straight over her headâand yet the earth was there and the Amur was a flash of yellow in the sun.
An unseen fist slammed her down again and the earth was gone, the plane was gone. She was clutching the cowl so hard that pain was white-hot in her fingers. But she dared not let go.
Slammed bodily against cowl, Ching, seat and belt, head whirling as she strove to keep her long-gone sense of balance, she glimpsed the tail of a ship straight ahead. She heard Forsytheâs guns open up.
She was crushed downward once more. She looked up as they looped. There was the plane, inverted, overhead, against the earth. As she stared, it fell off on one wing. Streamers of smoke, like a stab of ink through white water, shot from the reeling plane.
She saw a Japanese with a parachute pack trying to get out and then sky had replaced the sight.
Far off she heard the triphammer chatter of machine guns. The horizons tipped smoothly and whirled like a merry-go-round. The remaining Japanese plane was coming head-on, trying for a last resortâa collision.
Forsythe hurdled it. The earth tipped the other way and then slid upward in a long sheet of brown and green and yellow until it was on top of them.
Machine guns were loud. Forsythe was firing once more. Patricia opened her eyes. The vision of a punctured Rising Sun fled across her sight, gone in an instant.
The world went right once more. The left wing slapped over to point at the earth and the attack flew smoothly around and around, seeming to stand still while the earth spun.
Forsythe stayed there for a full minute, turning, looking over the side with the dying sunlight crimson on his goggles.
Patricia followed his gaze. She could hear a
Forsythe clamped the earphones over his helmet and twisted a dial to get the Japanese signal band.
A falsetto voice shrieked in upon him. A pilot was calling his headquarters.
âHe is sighted! Shall we attack or wait?â
There was a pause and then, âATTACK! Captain Shinohari is taking off immediately and should be there within two hours.â
The phone clicked off but Forsythe let it crackle in case other orders whipped across the flaming sky.
The planes were high above them now, banking, starting to come over the top and down.
Patricia saw the blurring flash of the props stabbing straight at her. Above the roar of tortured steel she heard the shattering crescendo of machine guns.
The Kawasakis dropped like shot gulls out of a sky the color of flame, spattering long black lines which wove a spiderâs web about the attack plane. Tracer shredded as their props blasted through it.
Down, down, down, gun and engines going full and raving.
Forsythe held it until it seemed the Japanese would smash them out of the sky. And then, abruptly, Forsythe stabbed the nose of the attack skyward, straight at the nearest prop.
Louder guns battered at Patriciaâs ears and she knew they were Forsytheâs. She looked straight ahead, conscious of the world upended crazily and twisting further yet.
In the blink of an eye the Japanese planes had vanished, but even before she realized it, the world had tipped over in the other direction like a mad compass being rocked wildly on its gimbals.
She had a sick sensation as the bottom dropped out. Centrifugal force crushed her into the pit, and then as they banked violently she felt herself flung against the retaining cleats of the Matsubi.
She had shut her eyes and now she opened them again to see the Rising Sun emblazoned on a fuselage straight ahead. The Japanese was rolling down and away, broadside to them. They spanned the distance like a horse taking a hurdle and suddenly the Japanese was gone.
Patricia lightened and pressed upward against the belt; the bottom was falling out again. Her ears ached to the screaming blast of engines and guns. She was choked with acrid cordite and felt blinded with noise.
Straight over her head she saw a Japanese plane. It was upside down. Straight over her headâand yet the earth was there and the Amur was a flash of yellow in the sun.
An unseen fist slammed her down again and the earth was gone, the plane was gone. She was clutching the cowl so hard that pain was white-hot in her fingers. But she dared not let go.
Slammed bodily against cowl, Ching, seat and belt, head whirling as she strove to keep her long-gone sense of balance, she glimpsed the tail of a ship straight ahead. She heard Forsytheâs guns open up.
She was crushed downward once more. She looked up as they looped. There was the plane, inverted, overhead, against the earth. As she stared, it fell off on one wing. Streamers of smoke, like a stab of ink through white water, shot from the reeling plane.
She saw a Japanese with a parachute pack trying to get out and then sky had replaced the sight.
Far off she heard the triphammer chatter of machine guns. The horizons tipped smoothly and whirled like a merry-go-round. The remaining Japanese plane was coming head-on, trying for a last resortâa collision.
Forsythe hurdled it. The earth tipped the other way and then slid upward in a long sheet of brown and green and yellow until it was on top of them.
Machine guns were loud. Forsythe was firing once more. Patricia opened her eyes. The vision of a punctured Rising Sun fled across her sight, gone in an instant.
The world went right once more. The left wing slapped over to point at the earth and the attack flew smoothly around and around, seeming to stand still while the earth spun.
Forsythe stayed there for a full minute, turning, looking over the side with the dying sunlight crimson on his goggles.
Patricia followed his gaze. She could hear a
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