Devil's Due (Destroyermen #12)(56)

Standing the P-40 on its starboard wing, she came around, looking up to see what she’d done. She didn’t see the weird plane anymore, or any of the others she thought she’d glimpsed. But more explosions rocked the jungle, involving perhaps a third of the line of hangers she’d attacked as flames began to spread. Grik were scurrying to push planes to safety, but with the prevailing wind she doubted they’d succeed. Particularly since the rough grass strip seemed to have caught fire as well. With any luck, the flames would leap across to the opposite hangers and she’d have erased an entire airfield with almost no effort at all. A couple bombs would be nice, she wished again, Incendi-aaries, to really get the fire lit. But I don’t have any, and I’ve only got so many bullets and so much fuel. This was a scout, after all, not a full-blown attaack. The maap was pretty good, but it’s more important now that I get back to tell anything that struck me than it is to shoot up a few more planes.

Enough, she decided. She wasn’t concerned the strange aircraft she saw taking off might catch her, even if it made it in the air. Nothing on this world can catch this plane—except another P-40E without floats dragging it down, she amended. Still reluctant—her blood was up—she finally pulled up and away, quickly climbing to five thousand feet by the time she crossed the white sandy beach near “Head Point” on the southeast end of the island, heading out to sea.

“Kay-Eff, Kay-Eff,” she said in her mic. “Am feet wet, and the Maker is good.” The last was her confirmation that Fiedler’s map was accurate. Now, combined with her coded observations and additions, they’d be better off from a planning perspective even if something still happened to her. That was a relief. Things had hit her plane after all, and it was a long way to the AVD. She eased back on the throttle to conserve fuel and shifted her rear on the double parachute cushion, settling in.

Tracers streaked past her canopy.

Saansa instantly knew what they were, but they came as such a surprise, all she could do for about two seconds was stare at the bright, arcing lines in the morning sky. And once in a while, situations arise in which two seconds can be an eternity—or make the difference between eternity and survival. This was one of those. An instant later, the big P-40 thundered with the impacts of bullets and she felt stunning blows on the armor plate behind her seat. Without further thought, she pushed the stick forward and opened the throttle wide. Her plane was hit, probably hurt, and likely leaking precious fuel. But she had to survive the next few moments to worry about the rest, and speed was her only chance. More tracers whipped past and, incredulous, she craned around to see her pursuer. It was still back there, keeping up—and there were at least two more! She rolled out and pointed her nose at the sea, mashing the Push to Talk button on the throttle.

“Kay-Eff! Kaay-Eff! I’m attaacked by three planes at least as faast as me! They big, too. Bigger than any Jaap-Grik fighters we seen!” Her English was slipping with the stress, and gone was any attempt to contemplate codes. Codes worked only when the enemy didn’t know what you were talking about. Right now, no matter what she said, there’d be no doubt about the subject of her transmission. Best to describe her situation and the threat she’d discovered as carefully as she could, she realized. She eased back on the stick, looking up. Two planes were still above, odd zigzag markings on their wings, but one blew past, rolling left, with a red ball painted—over something else, it seemed—on the side of the fuselage. Her predatory instincts took over and she turned after it, greedily willing the gun site to get just enough ahead . . . She pressed the button to talk. “They got no floats, an’ wheels is up. Liquid cooled, an’ pilot way back. Funny markings on the weengs, but there’s a Jaap meatball on the side . . .” She squeezed the trigger and two 50s roared. Large chunks peeled off the target and fluttered away. She kept firing, added more rudder—and black smoke belched from the plane, turning to a thick, steady trail. “Got you!” she snarled, still firing, and yellow flames burst from the long cowl in front of the cockpit.

“I got one!” she practically screeched as the strange plane rolled over and dropped toward the purple-blue water. But more tracers zipped past, punching through her right wing. Something made a terrible crunching sound and she fought the stick as the P-40-something tried to pitch forward to the right. That was when she saw one of her floats tumble away through the corner of her left eye.

“Shit! I in for it,” she said, her voice tight with strain. The plane was suddenly very sluggish, trying to yaw. “They knock a float off. I think it hit the other, bend it up. I in for it now! Listen, Kay-Eff, these not Jaap-Grik planes. They metal, like Pee-Forties . . .” Another burst shattered the canopy, tore through her left shoulder, and riddled the instrument panel. Panic coursed in with the smoky gust through the broken, blood-spattered windscreen, but there wasn’t any pain. Not at first. Her beloved Allison coughed, its mighty heart faltering, and more smoke burned her tear-filled eyes as she lost power. Still she fought to keep the plane from falling to the sea, but hope had nothing to do with it. There were still two enemy planes, at least, and she couldn’t even look for them. Couldn’t avoid them. Couldn’t even think about them as the pain finally surged. But she’d never quit; it wasn’t in her. And whichever Maker she was about to meet would have no cause to criticize her for giving up. The engine started rattling and she pushed the stick forward. It didn’t matter. The battered plane was still trying to stall and there wasn’t enough altitude left . . . More bullets savaged the P-40 and the right wing folded up in a gout of flame just as the plane slammed into the sea with a fire-spewing splash nine miles off the southeast coast of Zanzibar.