The Methuselah Project

I
owe a debt of gratitude to a number of people for this novel. First, thank you to all the publishing professionals at Kregel who believed in
The Methuselah Project.
Especially notable among these are Dawn Anderson, Steve Barclift, Noelle Pedersen, Janyre Tromp, and Sarah Slattery. Working with all of them has been terrific.

Others who read the manuscript and helped to comb out errors or offered advice include Kari Fischer, Dr. Dennis E. Hensley, Hilarey Johnson, Darren Kehrer, Deirdre Lockhart, Carol Matthia, Patti Jo Moore, Colleen Shine Phillips, Amy Wallace, and Margaret Wolfinbarger.

Huge thanks go to my literary agent, Linda Glaz of Hartline Literary, for representing the project.

I’m indebted to the pilots of the Fourth Fighter Group, some of whose debriefing sessions proved invaluable to me long decades after their missions ended. Likewise, the writings of journalist Ernie Pyle preserve details of life in wartime England and helped to add realism.

Of course, the book would not exist without my wife, Pam, who is my first reader and constant encourager as she endures the countless hours I spend at my keyboard when I could be with her instead.

A final word of appreciation goes to people like you, who are reading this now. Without readers, no book—regardless of how diligently researched and crafted—could achieve its goal of touching hearts and minds. Many of you have asked when my next novel will be published. Here it is.

F
RIDAY
, D
ECEMBER
17, 1943

T
HE SKIES OVER THE
T
HIRD
R
EICH

S
itting in his cockpit, Captain Roger Greene scanned the heavens. He searched left to right, overhead, below, and behind. No sign of enemy aircraft. Just formation after formation of B-17s droning along below, plus his own umbrella of Thunderbolts providing escort cover.

Come on, you cowards. Come and defend your precious Fatherland. I dare you.

He glanced into the sun, then jerked his eyes from the blinding glare. When searching for enemy planes, he preferred his naked eyes, but his eyesight would surely suffer if he kept doing that. He probed the pocket of his flight jacket for his green aviators. Instead of sunglasses, his gloved thumb and forefinger fished up a ten-dollar bill.

Ten bucks? How the …

Then he noticed the message printed along the edge in blue ink: “To my good buddy, Roger Greene. On loan until I bag the next German fighter! Walt.”

Roger laughed and glanced to his right, where Walt Crippen piloted his own Thunderbolt in the wingman position. Walt, too, was performing visual sweeps.

Good old Walt. He’d have to do some fancy flying if he hoped to score another kill before Roger. He found his sunglasses, then slid the ten-spot back into the pocket.

A movement below snagged his attention. The forward element of bombers altered direction, banking to the right. Behind them, the others followed the lead planes. The Initial Point already? So far, this mission was a milk run.

One after the other, he and Walt and the rest of the squadron banked their fighters to starboard, maintaining position over the four-engine bombers plodding below.

Roger pitied the poor slobs manning the B-17s. Yeah, somebody had to fly them, but … With his gloved hand, he patted the instrument panel and spoke to his fighter. “You’re more my style, baby. You take care of me, and I’ll take good care of you.”

Another peek into the sun. Nothing. How long could the blue yonder remain serene?

As if on cue, Colonel Chesley Peterson’s voice crackled over the radio. “Say, boys, looks like the Huns have decided to come and play. Eleven o’clock level!”

Personal thoughts vanished. Roger cocked his head slightly left. Now he saw the same thing the group commander had spotted: black pinpoints approaching. Within seconds they became unmistakable—roughly fifty bandits.

Roger’s pulse quickened. This was his element: fighter against fighter, pilot against pilot, his aviation skills pitted against the very best Nazi Germany could throw at him. Never did Roger feel more alive than in a cockpit. The risk of instant death only heightened the surge of adrenaline. At moments like this, he flew instinctively, as if the controls extended his own being. The thrill defied description. He’d given up trying to explain it to the British ground pounders in the pubs of North Essex.

Following Colonel Peterson’s example, Roger banked to intercept the incoming horde head-on. The black specks he’d barely detected seconds ago rapidly swelled into distinct shapes with wings and red noses. Focke-Wulf 190s. Harder to shoot down than Messerschmitts, but they’d still go down.

Another fleeting glance to the right and slightly backward revealed Walt sticking where he should be, ready to keep enemies off Roger’s tail.

His gloved finger flicked the guns’ arming switch. He squinted toward the onrushing planes. “I was born to fly. Were you guys?”

Whenever possible, Roger liked to hit the enemy from the high ground, diving out of the sun and pouncing on the Germans before they knew what hit them. The “zoom and boom.” But at nineteen thousand pounds, a fully loaded P-47 Thunderbolt would never win awards for climbing. A Thunderbolt’s redeeming quality was that its massive weight and eight .50-caliber machine guns made it a highly destructive force, especially in a dive.
No zoom and boom today, though. The Huns are swarming in from the same altitude.

Like medieval knights on horseback charging each other with lances lowered, American and Luftwaffe fighters closed the gap at a combined air speed near eight hundred miles per hour. Roger focused on the FW 190 directly before him. To its right was another that should give Walt a clean shot. With both sides roaring head-on, split-second timing became critical.

Wait … Wait … Now.

No sooner had Roger depressed the trigger than he saw flashes from the edge of his opponent’s wings. In the same instant he heard a series of rapid
wham-wham-whams.

“I’m hit!” he blurted into his oxygen mask.

To his right, a puff of oil and smoke erupted from an enemy plane. It slumped and careened earthward.

“Blast!” Walt had just won back his ten bucks.

The blue sky became empty as the antagonists flashed past. Some of his rounds had scored, but his target had charged on, evidently intact. His Thunderbolt still operated normally, so Roger banked tightly to the left. No time to lose if he wanted to protect those B-17s. That was the bottom line: to keep the Flying Fortresses intact so they could demolish German industry.

Roger locked onto an FW 190 beginning its dive toward the Flying Fortresses.

“No you don’t, Adolf!” He rammed the stick forward and closed the gap. When the distance closed to eight hundred yards, he chopped the throttle to avoid overshooting. Seconds later, his tracers and .50-caliber rounds bored into the Focke-Wulf.

Roger matched move for move as the enemy plane broke away. Its pilot twisted sharply, first left, then right, trying to shake him. Roger expected the German’s next maneuver. It was one of the enemy’s favorites, but also the least effective—the Focke-Wulf nosed over and sped toward mother earth with all the speed it could muster.

Roger rammed his fighter into a dive.
Nice try, but no cigar.
No light Hun fighter could outdive the weighty Thunderbolt.

“Stick like glue to the target until you polish him off,” the colonel had admonished more than once. “Many a Hun has been lost because he wasn’t followed down.”

I’m not losing this guy.

The enemy plane twisted every which way, desperate to stay clear of Roger’s sights. But as Roger continued to trigger the guns, his rounds penetrated the target. Dark smoke billowed from the Focke-Wulf.

Roger yanked back on the stick. Using his momentum, he clawed for altitude while dodging shrapnel. Immediately remorse sickened his gut, as it did every time. Yes, he exulted in outflying another pilot. But the stark truth was that he’d just snuffed out a human being. That idiot Hitler … If not for him, these guys could be his friends, off flying air shows together instead of trying to blow each other to smithereens.

A swift look confirmed that Walt stuck tight, keeping Roger’s six o’clock position clear. As Roger and his partner reclaimed altitude, he saw that, far from leaving the battle behind, they were drawing nearer to the dogfight as Americans and Germans wove circles in efforts to gain the upper hand.

Jumping into the thick of it, Roger stitched rounds along a Focke-Wulf that raced past him.

In the distance he spotted a Messerschmitt 109 smoking and losing altitude, probably limping for home. Should he chase the injured enemy? It would add an easy seventeenth kill to his tally. But no. Forget him. Fight as a unit, not for glory. The injured plane posed no threat. He let it go. Other enemies still prowled for blood.