Savage Sniper

Faraday looked out the window at the blue expanse of the sea below, reminded of the fact that the Pacific was a very wide ocean, and they were a very small plane in comparison. It was a long way back to base.

In the sunlight, the ocean was the color of emerald with just a hint of sapphire, exactly the shade of the tumbled bits of glass that beachcombers often found. There were times to admire the dazzling enormity of the Pacific, but this wasn’t one of them. Their aircraft was in trouble.

Not for the first time, Faraday was struck by the fact that the Pacific was also an empty ocean, the surface below them stretching uninterrupted by ships or land. They had lost air speed so that the rest of the squadron had faded from sight. Out here it was just sea and sky. Their plane was merely a speck limping along through that sky.

“Dammit, we’re low on fuel,” the pilot said. He flicked a finger at the glass face of the gauge, as if it might be stuck. The reading did not change. “We must have a leak, after all.”

“Enough to make it home?” Faraday asked.

Okie didn’t reply, which was all the answer that Faraday needed.

Faraday knew their situation wasn’t helped by the fact that bombing runs were made over incredibly long distances, which was why it was vital for American forces to take back the Philippines and reestablish their air bases. This would make missions to the Japanese home islands that much easier — if not exactly a milk run. There were still vast distances involved, crossing nothing but water, but at least the chances would be better of making it home when there was damage or mechanical failure.

Their plane was a B-24 Liberator, a class of plane semi-affectionately known as a “Flying Boxcar.” The plane had been manufactured at a Ford plant in Michigan, where the planes were built at the rate of one every hour. It was a rate of production that the enemy could never hope to match.

Although the B-24 had been the foundation for much of the initial bombing campaign against Japan, it was rapidly being replaced by the more advanced B-29 Superfortress, capable of high-altitude bombing runs beyond the reach of Japanese defenses. Even if a Japanese fighter managed to climb up to meet a squadron of the new bombers, it could not hope to keep up with them.

Blind Date couldn’t have kept up either. Though sturdy and nimble enough when not fully loaded, she was not fast. In all honesty, the B-24 never had been an ideal aircraft and was already showing its age when compared to the B-29.

The controls were so heavy that the plane was difficult to fly, especially at lower airspeeds when fully loaded. Even Okie had been known to bitch about that.

The systems leaked fuel constantly, to the point where they had to open the bomb bay doors periodically just to air out the fumes. It was a problem common to the Liberator. Smoking was out of the question, considering that lighting up might have turned them into a fireball.

Their B-24 had flown several missions and had all the dings to prove it. Faraday liked to joke that she was held together with bubblegum and good luck. He hoped that Blind Date held up one more time.

“C’mon, baby. You can do this,” he whispered, as if the plane could hear him.

Faraday knew that he could hope all that he wanted, but that didn’t change the fact that their current situation remained grim.

Then again, even with the hole in their plane, they were still alive. That was something, at least. Their Flying Boxcar was built to take a lot of punishment.

Faraday felt his nerves quiet as he looked over at the pilot. They were in capable hands. Maybe Okie could pull off yet another miracle. It wouldn’t have been the first time. It helped to have a pilot who was both skilled and lucky — and who had an ample supply of bubblegum.

His thoughts were cut short as an explosion rocked the plane. They had lost another engine.

“That’s not good,” Faraday muttered into the quiet. He could hear the wind beating at the metal skin of the plane, a noise that was usually hidden by the roar of the engines.

“Hold on tight, boys,” announced the pilot, the shrill tone of his voice showing that he was trying to hide his own fear. What scared Faraday even more than the shudder of the plane was the alarmed tone of the pilot’s voice. Normally there wasn’t much that rattled the pilot. “We’re going down!”

“Brace for crash landing!” Faraday shouted into the intercom as the pilot struggled with the controls. He grabbed at his seat belt and made sure it was as tight as possible, then braced himself. They had practiced crash procedures what seemed like a million times, so he did this automatically. But somehow it still didn’t feel real.