As he climbed with the rest of the squadron, he was glad now that he had the thing. His mission was to accompany the flight of P-80s in, and to engage only if needed. He had never exactly been a team player.
The sky ahead was blue as the background curtain in Bronzino’s Venus, Cupid, FoUy and Time, with a two-fifths cloud to the north. The sun stood over his left shoulder. The squadron angled up. He wigwagged the wings. They spread out in a staggered box and cleared their guns.
Chunder chunder chunder chunder went his 20mm cannons.
Tracers arced out ahead from the six .50 cals on each P-80. They left the prop planes far behind and pointed their noses toward Manhattan.
They looked like a bunch of angry bees circling under a hawk.
The sky was filled with jets and prop fighters climbing like the wall clouds of a hurricane.
Above was a lumpy object that hung and moved slowly on toward the city. Where the eye of the hurricane would be was a torrent of flak, thicker than Jetboy had ever seen over Europe or Japan.
It was bursting far too low, only at the level of the highest fighters.
Fighter Control called them. “Clark Gable Command to all squadrons. Target at five five zero… repeat, five five zero angels. Moving ENE at two five knots. Flak unable to reach.”
“Call it off,” said the squadron leader. “Well try to fly high enough for deflection shooting. Squadron Hodiak, follow me.” Jetboy looked up into the high blue above. The object continued its slow track.
“What’s it got?” he asked Clark Gable Command. “Command to Jetboy. Some type of bomb is what we’ve been told. It has to be a lighter-than-air craft of at least five hundred thousand cubic feet to reach that altitude. Over.”
“I’m beginning a climb. If the other planes can’t reach it, call them off, too.”
There was silence on the radio, then, “Roger.”
As the P-80s glinted like silver crucifixes above him, he eased the nose up.
“Come on, baby,” he said. “Let’s do some flying.”
The Shooting Stars began to fall away, sideslipping in the thin air. Jetboy could hear only the sound of his own pressurebreathing in his ears, and the high thin whine of his engines. “Come on, girl,” he said. “You can make itl”
The thing above him had resolved itself into a bastard aircraft: made of half a dozen blimps, with a gondola below it. The gondola looked as if it had once been a PT boat shell. That was all he could see. Beyond it, the air was purple and cold. Next stop, outer space.
The last of the P-80s slid sideways on the blue stairs of the sky. A few had made desultory firing runs, some snap-rolling as fighters used to do underneath bombers in the war. They fired as they nosed up. All their tracers fell away under the balloons. One of the P-80s fought for control, dropping two miles before leveling out.
Jetboy’s plane protested, whining. It was hard to control. He eased the nose up again, had to fight it.
“Get everybody out of the way,” he said to Clark Gable Command.
“Here’s where we give you some fighting room,” he said to his plane. He blew the drop tanks. They fell away like bombs behind him. He pushed his cannon button. Chunder chunder chunder chunder they went. Then again and again.
His tracers arced toward the target, then they too fell away. He fired four more bursts until his cannon ran dry. Then he cleaned out the twin fifties in the tail, but it didn’t take long for all one hundred rounds to be spent.
He nosed over and went into a shallow dive, like a salmon sounding to throw a hook, gaining speed. A minute into the run he nosed up, putting the JB-1 into a long circling climb. “Feels better, huh?” he asked.
The engines bit into the air. The plane, relieved of the weight, lurched up and ahead.
Below him was Manhattan with its seven million people. They must be watching down there, knowing these might be the last things they ever saw. Maybe this is what living in the Atomic Age would be like, always be looking up and thinking, is this it?
Jetboy reached down with one of his boots and slammed a lever over. A 75mm cannon shell slid into the breech. He put his hand on the autoload bar, and pulled back a little more on the control wheel.
The red jet cut the air like a razor.
He was closer now, closer than the others had gotten, and still not close enough. He only had five rounds to do the job. The jet climbed, beginning to stagger in the thin air, as if it were some red animal clawing its way up a long blue tapestry that slipped a little each time the animal lurched.
He pointed the nose up. Everything seemed frozen, waiting.
A long thin line of machine-gun tracers reached out from the gondola for him like a lover.
He began to fire his cannon.
From the statement of Patrolman Francis V (“Francis the Talking Cop”) O’Hooey, Sept. 15, 1946, 6:45 P M.
We was watching from the street over at Sixth Avenue, trying to get people from shoving each other in a panic. Then they calmed down as they was watching the dogfights and stuff up above.
Some birdwatcher had this pair of binocs, so I confiscated ‘em. I watched pretty much the whole thing. Them jets wasn’t having no luck, and the antiaircraft from over in the Bowery wasn’t doing no good either. I still say the Army oughta be sued ‘cause them Air Defense guys got so panicky they forgot to set the timers on them shells and I heard that some of them came down in the Bronx and blew up a whole block of apartments.
Anyway, this red plane, that is, Jetboy’s plane, was climbing up and he fired all his bullets, I thought, without doing any damage to the balloon thing.
I was out on the street, and this fire truck pulls up with its sirens on, and the whole precinct and auxiliaries were on it, and the lieutenant was yelling for me to climb on, we’d been assigned to the west side to take care of a traffic smash-up and a riot.
So I jump on the truck, and I try to keep my eyes on what’s happening up in the skies.
The riot was pretty much over. The air-raid sirens was still wailing, but everybody was just standing around gawking at what was happening up there.
The lieutenant yells to at least get the people in the buildings. I pushed a few in some doors, then I took another gander in the field glasses.
“I’ll be damned if Jetboy hasn’t shot up some of the balloons (I hear he used his howitzer on ‘em) and the thing looks bigger-it’s dropping some. But he’s out of ammo and not as high as the thing is and he starts circlin’.”
I forgot to say, all the time this blimp thing is got so many machine guns going it looks like a Fourth of July sparkler, and Jetboy’s plane’s taking these hits all the time.
Then he just takes his plane around and comes right back and crashes right into the what-you-call-it-the gondola, that’s it, on the blimps. They just sort of merged together. He must have been going awful slow by then, like stalling, and the plane just sort of mashed into the side of the thing.
And the blimp deal looked like it was coming down a little, not a lot, just some. Then the lieutenant took the glasses away from me, and I shaded my eyes and watched as best I could.
There was this flare of light. I thought the whole thing had blown up at first, and I ducked up under a car. But when I looked up the blimps was still there.
“Look out! Get inside!” yelled the lieutenant. Everybody had another panic then, and was jumping under cars and around stuff and through windows. It looked like a regular Three Stooges for a minute or two.
A few minutes later, it rained red airplane parts all over the streets, and a bunch on the Hudson Terminal…
There was steam and fire all around. The cockpit cracked like an egg, and the wings folded up like a fan. Jetboy jerked as the capstans in the pressure suit inflated. He was curved into a circle, and must have looked like a frightened tomcat.
The gondola walls had parted like a curtain where the fighter’s wings crumpled into it. A wave of frost formed over the shattered cockpit as oxygen blew out of the gondola.
Jetboy tore his hoses loose. His bailout bottle had five minutes of air in it. He grappled with the nose of the plane, like fighting against iron bands on his arms and legs. All you were supposed to be able to do in these suits was eject and pull the D-ring on your parachute.
The plane lurched like a freight elevator with a broken cable. Jetboy grabbed a radar antenna with one gloved hand, felt it snap away from the broken nose of the plane. He grabbed another.
The city was twelve miles below him, the buildings making the island look like a faraway porcupine. The left engine of his plane, crumpled and spewing fuel, tore loose and flew under the gondola. He watched it grow smaller.
The air was purple as a plum-the skin of the blimps brut as fire in the sunlight, and the sides of the gondola bent an torn like cheap cardboard.
The whole thing shuddered like a whale.
Somebody flew by over Jetboy’s head through the hole in the metal, trailing hoses like the arms of an octopus. Debris followed through the air in the explosive decompression. The jet sagged.
Jetboy thrust his hand into the torn side of the gondola, found a strut.
He felt his parachute harness catch on the radar array. The plane twisted. He felt its weight.
He jerked his harness snap. His parachute packs were ripped away from him, tearing at his back and crotch.
His plane bent in the middle like a snake with a broken back, then dropped away, the wings coming up and touching above the shattered cockpit as if it were a dove trying to beat its pinions. Then it twisted sideways, falling to pieces.
Below it was the dot of the man who had fallen out of the gondola, spinning like a yard sprinkler toward the bright city below.
Jetboy saw the plane fall away beneath his feet. He hung in space twelve miles up by one hand.
He gripped his right wrist with his left hand, chinned himself up until he got a foot through the side, then punched his way in.
There were two people left inside. One was at the controls, the other stood in the center behind a large round thing. He was pushing a cylinder into a slot in it. There was a shattered machine-gun turret on one side of the gondola.
Jetboy reached for the service .38 strapped across his chest. It was agony reaching for it, agony trying to run toward the guy with the fuse.
Thewore diving suits. The suits were inflated. They looked like ten or twelve beach balls stuffed into suits of long underwear. They were moving as slowly as he was.
Jetboy’s hands closed in a claw over the handle of the .38. He jerked it from its holster.
It flew out of his hand, bounced of the ceiling, and went out through the hole he had come in.
The guy at the controls got off one shot at him. He dived toward the other man, the one with the fuse.
His hand clamped on the diving-suited wrist of the other just as the man pushed the cylindrical fuse into the side of the round canister. Jetboy saw that the whole device sat on a hinged doorplate.
The man had only half a face-Jetboy saw smooth metal on one side through the grid-plated diving helmet.
The man twisted the fuse with both hands.
Through the torn ceiling of the pilothouse, Jetboy saw another blimp begin to deflate. There was a falling sensation. They were dropping toward the city.
Jetboy gripped the fuse with both hands. Their helmets clanged together as the ship lurched.
The guy at the controls was putting on a parachute harness and heading toward the rent in the wall.
Another shudder threw Jetboy and the man with the fuse together. The guy reached for the door lever behind him as best he could in the bulky suit.
Jetboy grabbed his hands and pulled him back.
They slammed together, draped over the canister, their hands entangled on each other’s suits and the fuse to the bomb. The man tried again to reach the lever. Jetboy pulled him away. The canister rolled like a giant beach ball as the gondola listed.
He looked directly into the eye of the man in the diving suit. The man used his feet to push the canister back over the bomb door. His hand went for the lever again.
Jetboy gave the fuse a half-twist the other way.
The man in the diving suit reached behind him. He came up with a .45 automatic. He jerked a heavy gloved hand away from the fuse, worked the slide. Jetboy saw the muzzle swing at him.
“Die, Jetboyl Diel” said the man. He pulled the trigger four times.
Statement of Patrolman Francis V O’Hooey, Sept. 15, 1946, 6:45 PM. (continued).
So when the pieces of metal quit falling, we all ran out and looked up.
I saw the white dot below the blimp thing. I grabbed the binocs away from the lieutenant.
Sure enough, it was a parachute. I hoped it was.
Jetboy had bailed out when his plane crashed into the thing.
I don’t know much about such stuff, but I do know that you don’t open a parachute that high up or you get in serious trouble.
Then, while I was watching, the blimps and stuff all blew up, all at once. Like they was there, then there was this explosion, and there was only smoke and stuff way up in the air.
Thepeople all around started cheering. The kid had done it he’d blown the thing up before it could drop the A-bomb on Manhattan Island.
Then the lieutenant said to get in the truck, we’d try to get the kid.
We jumped in and tried to figure out where he was gonna land. Everywhere we passed, people was standing in the middle of the car wrecks and fires and stuff, looking up and cheering the parachute.
I noticed the big smudge in the air after the explosion, when we’d been driving around for ten minutes. Them other jets that had been with Jetboy was back, flying all around trough the air, and some Mustangs and Thunderjugs, too. It was like a regular air show up there. Somehow we got out near the Bridge before anybody else did. Good thing, because when we got to the water, we saw this guy pile right in about twenty feet from shore. Went down like a rock. He was wearing this diving-suit thing, and we swam out and I grabbed part of the parachute and a fireman grabbed some of the hoses and we hauled him out onto shore.
Well, it wasn’t Jetboy, it was the one we got the make on as Edward “Smooth Eddy” Shiloh, a real small-time operator.
And he was in bad shape, too. We got a wrench off the fire truck and popped his helmet, and he was purple as a turnip in there. It had taken him twenty-seven minutes to get to the ground. He’d passsed out of course with not enough air up there, and he was so frostbit I heard they had to take off one of his feet and all but the thumb on the left hand.
But he’d jumped out of the thing before it blew. We looked back up, hoping to see Jetboy’s chute or something, but there wasn’t one, just that misty big smudge up there, and all those planes zoomin’ round.
Thirty Minutes Over Broadway!
We took Shiloh to the hospital. Tbat’s my report.