“Wherever those planes came from, they could interfere with our plans, especially if there are many of them,” Hirch replied, continuing to watch as more and more marks of Japanese fighters taking off to intercept the Chinese planes lit up on the virtual map. “We need to stop their production, and first we need to at least understand where they are made.”
“Probably in the U.S. or Great Britain. Germany would not supply weapons to China, and everyone else is certainly not up to to this kind of technology,” the engineer suggested.
A scattering of red dots flashed on the hologram.
“Observing Chinese fighter-bombers taking off from a base near Chongqing,” the space control operator reported, “These are the same type of planes as the ones that sank the Japanese aircraft carrier. Fifteen machines are already in the air, forty-three more are preparing for takeoff.”
“Well, we've already seen them in the night fight,” grinned Hirch, “let's see what they're capable of during the day. How many planes will the Japanese have time to pull in to the battle site?”
“One hundred and thirty Marine Zero planes and about a hundred Army I-1 Falcon planes. Almost a threefold preponderance.”
“Computer, give me a prediction of the results of the fight.”
“There is little data on the capabilities of Chinese aircraft,” the artificial intelligence replied in a colorless voice. “In combat with Japanese ships they carried different types of weapons. There may be a high margin of error in this estimate.”
“Report the most likely scenario.”
“Losses on both sides of up to 70 percent of the machines with an overall uncertain outcome. Combat will stop on its own due to the exhaustion of ammunition and fuel by the surviving enemies.”
“That suits us,” the destroyer commander's lips curved into a satisfied chuckle.
I seemed to have passed out or fallen into a semi-conscious state for a while, but I nevertheless didn't let go of the control column. When I was able to perceive my surroundings again, there was a mountainous coastline ahead, riddled with coves and bays.
“Come to your senses, Lieutenant! You're about to be shot down!” Letra's voice is screaming in my head.
The dawn sky blazes with thousands of lights. Tracer bullets and shells tear up the air. Flashes, plumes of smoke, and burning debris falling into the water and onto the rocks. In front of me I see the silhouette of a Zero plane trying to approach an IL from behind. My hands pull the control column to the left, adjusting the course. Burst! Flash! Some debris flies from the tail of the Japanese plane…
“Irs, what are you doing?!” It's Letra.
“Commander, can you hear me?!” it's Kudryavtsev. “Get out of the fight! You can't fight in this damaged plane! They'll meet you on shore. Lebedev and his men are already in the air. Stay out of this fight!”
“Lieutenant, you're only preventing your pilots from fighting!” Letra throws in a new argument, “They are covering your plane and are forced to fight at low speeds. Fly to the shore!”
Yes, this is serious. Letra is undoubtedly right, and so is Kudryavtsev, and I'm not thinking clearly right now, and I'm acting on reflexes. What did my girl-friend say about the right engine? Perhaps it's about time. My IL twitches and spits out a long and uneven stream of fire from the nozzle of the damaged engine, but I am noticeably pressed into the seat. The air roars into the hole in the glazing. Good thing the shrapnel didn't hit the front of the cockpit.
I'm heading toward shore with a descent, breaking out of the "dogfight." A Japanese Falcon is coming after me, but one of ours immediately cuts it down with a burst of his cannon. I see an IL burning ahead-right. Its engine, engulfed in flames, is enveloped in smoke and steam – the automatic fire suppression system is triggered, but the damage is too extensive. The airplane's wing bends at an unnatural angle and fractures, and the plane plummets into a disorderly fall.
All this I note only at the edge of my consciousness. I'm still very sick, and I can hardly keep my focus on the shoreline, which is doubling and bouncing from side to side. My plane keeps accelerating. Letra is muttering something in my head, and somewhere in the background I hear Kudryavtsev's foul language, and I squeeze the control column and try not to pay attention to the fact that the plane begins to shake and rock more and more.
A sharp pain pierces my neck. It seems that Letra used a last resort, causing the implant to deliver a shock discharge. This brings me to my senses a little and Kudryavtsev's scream bursts into my ears:
“Commander, you're on fire! Jump immediately!”
The right wing is engulfed in flames. The plane vibrates as if struck by dozens of heavy hammers, but the hills, sparsely forested, are already glimpsed below. I fumble for the catapult lever and pull it sharply toward me. The cockpit hood flies up and backwards with a pop, and the mighty kick of the gunpowder charge throws me out of the dying plane along with the seat. It's a good thing I insisted on equipping the new ILs with this device, made for us in the U.S. – I certainly wouldn't have made it on my own.
The canopy of the parachute opens overhead with a pop. Another jerk sends me back into unconsciousness, but it does not last long. Letra makes me come to my senses again in the same disastrous way. A Japanese Zero emerges from somewhere on the side, and begins to turn in my direction. Apparently, these are the last seconds of my life. It seems, I'm finishing badly, and it's a shame, it was going so well.
Why is Letra silent? She probably has nothing to say to me – there's nothing one can do in this situation anyway. A few seconds more and I'll be in the sights of the Japanese pilot… I want to close my eyes, but I force myself to look at the approaching death. The rumble of air cannons bursts into my ears, but for some reason I don't see any flashes. Perhaps my vision is failing me, or I'm just already dead and it's a quirk of my fading consciousness… Several tracer streaks of cannon shells are crossed over the Japanese fighter that is about to attack me. The Zero is literally torn apart. It does not even burst into flames, but rushes to the ground as a pile of shapeless debris. Right above my head, three ILs roar through the air. It seems that a few more lines have been added to my list of debts in this world.
The ground hits my feet. I don't feel pain, it's too weak compared to my head, which feels like it's splitting apart. I look around and sluggishly collapse the parachute. There is no wind. At least I was lucky on this, otherwise I would have had problems landing. The air battle is still raging overhead, but its intensity is clearly diminishing.
I unbuckle the cords and try to get to my feet.
“Lieutenant, you're almost done,” Letra's voice cuts through my head again. “There's not much left. You need to take cover under the trees. Do you see a small grove right in front of you? It's relatively safe there. It's only eighty meters downhill. Come on, you can do it.”
I can't get up, but I can crawl. It's a good thing it's downhill. Everything floats before my eyes. My knees and elbows rake the dry earth, dust and some dry plant chaff are stuffed into my mouth and nose. How long have I been crawling? Five minutes? Ten? It gets noticeably darker around me, and after a few meters I stop, trying to understand what happened.
“All right, Irs, you're here,” Letra's voice sounded distinctly relieved, “The plane with Colonel Lebedev's group is on its way. You can safely pass out.”
I groan and roll over onto my back and close my eyes. The world around me fades away.
Chapter 4
The phone call interrupted Colonel Schliemann who was writing another analytical report, which was suddenly required by the General Staff of the Ground Forces.
“Erich,