Devil's Due (Destroyermen #12)(59)
“Spit it out.”
“Some of this is guesswork,” Ben defended, “piecing together things he didn’t know we didn’t know—or that we did. Macchi was an Italian aircraft company. Hispano Suiza was Spanish. That’s the same. But apparently, they floated BFW—the company Willy Messerschmitt worked for—when a civil war cooked off in Germany about 1933. Makes sense. Old Willy had already come up with the basic design for his BF–One Oh Nine by then, and everybody wanted their hands on it. So whatever got our plane, this Macchi-Messer was probably a joint venture between Italians, Spaniards, and Krauts, with—it sounds like—most of the good points of a One Oh Nine. No way to know if it’s as good. There might’ve been too many cooks spoiling the pot”—he paused—“but it might be better. The Eye-ties call it a Lightning.” He shook his head. “I never will. That was the same name as our hottest new ship, the P-Thirty-Eight, and I never got to fly one. Anyway, they come with Hispano Suiza or Daimler-Benz engines, depending on whose they are. Kraut planes have DBs and are faster, but based on the reported markings, these were probably Italian, with the HSs.” He considered. “Apparently, the French members of the League have planes of their own. On the other hand, the, ah, US in the world Fiedler came from had P-Forties, or was about to. He knew about ’em, anyway. And the Brits had Hurricanes. The bad thing is, the Macchi-Mess was considered a match for them. Maybe more than a match. They’d never tangled—yet.”
Matt glanced at Courtney, his treatment of the German flyer apparently vindicated more quickly than he’d hoped. He looked at Ben. “So, what’s the bottom line?”
“According to Fiedler”—Ben nodded at the satchel in Matt’s hands—“performance-wise, they’re probably on a par with my P-Forties. Similar speed and range, at least. We should be able to outrun ’em in a dive because we’re heavier. And we’ve got six fifties. They have two, and a pair of seven-sevens in their wings. That said, it’ll probably be like fighting Zeros because they’re more agile. The good news? They can’t get us here. They’re not carrier planes either. The bad news? Our P-Forties can’t get to them from here—and they’ll chew our P-Ones and Nancys apart as easy as we tore up the Jap-Grik planes. Worse news? They’ve probably got at least five of ’em, not counting the one Saansa nailed. I’ve got three operational P-Forties. I might make it four, if I can fix one of our busted ships. I could make it six, if you let me order the two left at Baalkpan forward. But we can’t fly ’em in, and getting them here might take longer than we have. I wish we’d known we needed them sooner; we could’ve shipped ’em out on Madras.”
“We can get your Third Pursuit Squadron close enough to use them. P-Forties can fly off of carriers,” Chappelle mused. “Hell, you’ve done it.” He shook his head. “They just can’t land on ’em, so that’s a one-way trip. And not only are there five—or more—modern planes on Zanzibar to worry about, but the League obviously has enough of them to loan out. Should we risk any of our modern planes now?”
“Turn ’em back into hanger queens, you mean, while our Fleashooters and Nancys get creamed? No way,” Ben said defiantly. “This is what they’re for! Finally!”
“I agree,” Matt assured him. “You said they hadn’t tangled with P-Forties before? They will soon enough. But we’ve got to figure out how to get your planes there to support the operation.” He smiled mirthlessly. “Operation Outhouse Rat has an appropriate ring, and should be suitably vague.” They’d also learned to be careful about operation and task force names. “But how do we use them—that won’t guarantee we’ll lose them, along with you and your pilots? We’ll get with Keje and figure out a better way to trap them on Big Sal than just stringing a big net across her deck.” Salissa was equipped for that, but no one had ever tried it, considering it too dangerous and potentially damaging to the planes. But that might be the only answer. Matt rubbed his chin. “In the meantime, I wonder how good a night fighter this Macchi Messer is? Especially if Kurokawa’s not expecting to need one.”
“What are you thinking, sir?”
“Jumbo’s Pat-Squad Twenty-Two has seven Clippers.” He shrugged. “Well, six, until they fix the broken one. One’s about to take Courtney to the Republic, and we’re going to start bombing Sofesshk with incendiaries by night. We’ll see how the Grik like it for a change. The good news, which I haven’t told Jumbo or anybody yet, because it’s almost as big a secret from our friends as it is to the enemy, is”—he looked around at the uncomprehending expressions—“since everybody wants the big mothers . . .” The quizzical blinking continued. “Oh, well, I guess I better spill it. Chairman Letts is sending the entire Baalkpan production of the newest Clippers here, to us, for the foreseeable future. Yeah,” he said, gauging their suddenly glowing eyes and Chack’s happy blinking. “Six more are on their way now, and we’ll be getting three, maybe four, every two weeks. How does that sound?”
“To say ‘swell’ is a pretty big understatement, sir,” Ben said excitedly. “General Alden’s been dying for heavy bombers, and he’s liable to . . . ah, urinate himself with glee—begging your pardon.”