#rocket interceptor

[redarmyscreaming]

The Mikoyan-Gurevich I-270 (Design Ж ("Zh") was a response to a Soviet Air Force requirement in 1945 for a rocket-powered interceptor aircraft for the point-defense role. https://www.flickr.com/photos/bud_scotland/9184756582/in/photostream/

[redarmyscreaming]

Yokosuka MXY8 Akigusa (秋草, "Autumn grass") was a training glider built in parallel with the Mitsubishi J8M rocket-powered interceptor aircraft.

[dieselfutures]

Messerschmitt Me 163 Komet

[dieselfutures]

Rockets Over The Desert - Part 2

The dogfight was not going well, even the most optimistic of Carsley’s pilot conceded that. Jumped on from on high shortly after beginning the escort, Carsley had just about maintained the squadron’s cohesion but only at the cost of seeing three Demons plummet into the desert floor. Tight radio silence had been abandoned after the message back to HQ, the squadron’s pilots kept up a constant chatter plotting the direction of the next attack. "We can’t keep this up for long, sir" Flying Officer Patterson said. "Well we shouldn’t have to, can’t be long till Sampson gets here." Carsley tried to keep morale up. But he couldn’t help wondering where the hell Sampson was. Barely had he finished the thought than a series of very loud booms were heard from beyond the horizon, the noise even overpowering the frantically spinning Kestrel engine in the nose of his Demon. "What the hell was that?" Patterson asked, confusion just edging out fear. "Only one thing in the world makes that kind of noise." Ward cut in confidently. "A Supermarine Spartan breaking the sound barrier." Ward was proved right as a dozen sleek shimmering Spartans raced into view, sunlight glinting off their highly polished bodies and the front edge of their wings sparkling as the Hispano auto cannons spat out their deadly load. The first pass accounted for four of the raiders, none of the enemy had been expecting any interruption and had been focusing on the mail plane and her beleaguered defenders. The squadron’s supersonic speed carried them straight past the fight and into the distance before the group turned and broke formation, each pilot seeking his own target. "What sort of time do you call this, Wing Commander?" Ward mock-scolded Samspon over the radio. "We’ve been waiting ages for you chaps to come to the party." "We may be late but we’ll make up for that by working quickly, sir." Sampson responded in kind. Glancing at his fuel gauge he realised he’d better work quickly, it had taken over a third of a tank just to get here. Pulling back on his control stick he lifted the nose, trying to catch one of the bandits diving towards the mail plane. Taking a best-guess at the aim point he pulled the trigger, feeling his plane shake around him as the cannons roared. The first shells hit the tail section, tearing big dirty holes in the fuselage, he compensated and pushed the nose down, the cannon tearing a line of holes along the bandit till it hit and detonated the fuel tank, turning the raider into a nose diving fireball. As he raced back through the mele he glanced at the rest of the squadron having similar success, throwing his Spartan into a wide banked turn he heard the radio squawk into life. "I thought we were supposed to try and leave identifiable wreckage?" Carsley teased. "I’ll try and leave the next one mostly intact just for you." Samspon grinned. Surveying the skies for his next target he picked out a lone raider, seemingly isolated from his wingmen. Pushing the throttle forward to full power he felt the surge as the pumps pushed ever more fuel into the Spartan’s rocket motor, catapulting him forward towards his target. As the distance closed he tried to line up his cannons with the rapidly jinking target, only to lose it completely when the pilot pulled the raider into a sharp downward spiral, far tighter than the Spartan could manage. It wasn’t an unusual problem, Rocket Patrol depended upon speed and surprise for their success’, once the enemy got over the shock and discovered how un-manoeuvrable the Spartan was the odds became a lot closer to even. Just as Samson tried to line up his next target he got the message he’d been dreading. "This is Reid, I’m joker for fuel and heading back to base. I’ll get the first round in at the bar." Reid waggled his fighters wings then turned for home. His squadron was starting to run out of fuel, planes were having to return to base as their tanks ran dry. The stunning speed of Rocket Patrol came at a steep price, the thirsty engines ate fuel at an astonishing rate, draining a tank dry in less than half an hour. Checking his own gauges he saw he was down to just over a third of a tank, he’d have to hurry before he too ran out. Lining up a pair of raiders he pushed his Spartan downwards into a steep dive, setting off another sonic boom as he passed the sound barrier again. As the pair split in different directions he focused on the left hand raider, lining up his shot only to see his target sharply turn away from him. Turning his head to watch the escaping raider in frustration he was amazed to see it burst into flames, the mystery lifting when a Hawker Demon raced through the smoke. "Thought you could do with a hand old bean." Ward’s voiced came over the radio. "That blighter was so busy watching out for you I could sneak up on him." "Very much appreciated, sir." Sampson replied. "I think we’ve got them beat, only a couple more to mop up." Ward continued. Samspon started replying then heard a loud tinging noise to his right, turning he saw a neat line of bullet holes appearing along his right wing. Violently yanking his stick left the line abruptly stopped, the chasing bandit suddenly firing at thin air. Sampson instinctively reached for the throttles to leave his pursuer in the dust, then checked himself as he remembered how low on fuel he was. Desperately racking his brains he remembered the intelligence briefing and had an idea. Pushing the stick all the way forward he put his Spartan into a steep dive, the on rushing ground filling his entire canopy, the raider following suit and loosing off short bursts of machine gun as it did so. Trying to ignore the bullets whistling either side of him Sampson left it as late as he dared before yanking the stick back, pulling out of the dive barely 50ft clear of the deck. The pursuing raider tried to follow but, true to the RAE engineers guess, the joins between the two halves couldn’t take the stress, the wings shearing straight off, sending the fuselage crashing into the sand with it’s shocked pilot still inside. As Sampson pulled himself together his radio squawked again. "That was a hell of a close call, damned clever idea though." Said Carsley who been an unwilling observer, unable to keep up with the furious pursuit he’d been forced to watch it unfold. "Your telling me chum!" Sampson replied. "Well that was the last of them, the rest of your boys got the other one while you were diving around down there." Carsley said. "Good work gentlemen, time for most of us to head for home I think." Ward announced, completely forgetting his promise to let Carsley keep operational control. Carsley sighed and turned his nose towards base, leaving the now safe mail plane to soldier on with a reduced escort. Later that night, long after the formal debrief, Group Captain Ward was holding the informal debrief in the mess. "Well gentlemen I’d say it was a complete success. We’ve heard from the local Camel Corps troops that they have found all our chaps who pranged their crates safe and sound, as well as picking up a few of the raider pilots London was so keen to question." Ward began. The assembled pilots cheered the news, save those who indulged in some light ribbing of those pilots who had been shot down. As the noise died down Ward continued. "London is sending a squadron of large transports to take the remains of those crashed raiders back to Blighty along with the raider pilots. I’ve been assured we’ll be told everything they find out from both the prisoners and the wreckage." Ward said, raising his eyebrows over the last part, setting off much derision from the pilots who didn’t believe it either. "Now for the bad news, we will have to bid farewell to Wing Commander Sampson and his boys. They’ve done their job here and now must leave, their kites have been loaded, the transports fuelled and they’ve orders to ship out tomorrow morning. However that still leaves time for a proper goodbye celebration at the bar, dismissed and mine’s a double!" Ward concluded to general cheering and a rush to the bar. Stepping down from the platform Ward caught up with Sampson. "Pleasure flying with you Wing Commander, it was a damned good brawl hey?" "Indeed it was, sir." Sampson replied. "Definitely one of our more memorable missions." "I don’t suppose you could say where your going next?" Ward asked. "No, sir I’m afraid not. Even if I did know, it would probably be a secret." Sampson said. "Thought that would be the case. And I suppose you would have to equally quiet over your squadron’s past missions?" Ward inquired "Yes sir." "No matter what your offered or threatened with?" "No matter what sir." Sampson said with conviction. "Even in the face of exceptionally fine whisky?" Ward tempted. "I suppose rules are made to be broken, provided it is exceptionally fine whisky." Sampson smiled The two men grinned at each other and headed to the bar. The End

Written by El Pip.

[dieselfutures]

Unpowered Replica of the Messerschmitt Me 163 Komet flown by Wolfgang Späte.