Read Armageddon for Free Online Page A

brother gets to take in another plane, solo next week.” He belted down the drink, signaled for refills. “When Tim flies low they tell me he likes to count the dandruff in the German scalps.”
Oh, there ain’t no fighter pilots down in hell,
Oh, the place is full of queers ... navigators ... bombardiers ...
Oh, there ain’t no fighter pilots down in hell.
    Timothy O’Sullivan entered Pringle’s Blue Hawk with a big-busted redhead on his arm. Tim had a fetish for big-busted redheads.
    Nellie and Sean watched him thread his way toward their booth amid the turning of heads, the bulging of eyes.
    “Where in the hell does he find them?” Nelson Goodfellow Bradbury inquired with envy. “He’s only been in London for two hours.”
    “Hell, look at him,” Sean said. Sean was prejudiced, of course. What woman wouldn’t go for a strapping, handsome, twenty-four-year-old black Irishman with a fast glib tongue and wild ways. Maybe it was all brotherly pride, Sean thought ... but then, Tim’s always had to fight the women off. He and Nellie arose as Tim and the big-busted redhead reached the booth and Tim mumbled a name like Cynthia or Penelope or something like that and she was pleased to meet them, particularly Nelson Goodfellow Bradbury, whom she knew by reputation, of course ... as who didn’t. They were seated, ordered drinks. Tim and Sean traded letters from home. A wordless exchange of glances told them they were worried about their father’s heart condition; he hadn’t come out of it since Liam’s death.
    Sean said things were swell at Queen Mother’s Gate; Tim said they were swell at Braintree; Henry Pringle paid his personal respects; they drank some more.
    Tim was spotted and called to the piano, where the big-busted redhead delighted the flyers of Squadron Ten by standing next to him and wiggling in time to the music. Tim’s entrance on the scene dictated a round of Irish ballads. A third and fourth round of drinks led directly to a seizure of nostalgia and Tim sang his father’s very favorite in a handsome, rich Irish tenor ...
Kathleen Mavourneen! the gray dawn is breaking. The horn of the hunter is heard on the hill ...
    “The son of a bitch can do everything,” Big Nellie said. “He’ll be a cinch if he runs for Congress ...”
The lark from her light wing the bright dew is shaking ...
Kathleen Mavourneen! What, slumbering still?
    After the fighter pilots of Squadron Ten had been moved to tears, the redhead excused herself to tidy up and Tim returned to the booth.
    “Well done, lad. You’re in fine voice tonight,”
    “Nellie. I’m in a bind. I need a room.”
    Bradbury shrugged. “There’s an all-night party going on at the flat.”
    “So, take her to a hotel,” Sean said.
    “She’s got a mental block about hotels.”
    “Here. Take the key to my place. I’ll take a hotel room.”
    “Wouldn’t think of it, Nellie.”
    “Sure you would,” Nellie answered. “Besides I’m pushing off early. I’ll be flying on a special mission tomorrow.” He looked Tim squarely in the eyes as he handed him the key. “I’m going to ride an Invader. They’re taking a crack at a V-1 base.”
    Tim took the key, avoiding both the other men’s eyes. “Should be interesting,” he said.
    The correspondent rose to his full reaches of six feet six inches and lumbered across the room. His journey was punctuated by handshakes, back-slaps, and hi-Nellies.
    The brothers were alone. “What’s the matter, Sean? You look real down.”
    “We’ve got all weekend to talk about it.”
    “Christ, I’m sorry. I’ve got to get back up to Braintree first thing in the morning. Let me put whozits in a taxi and send her home. We can hole up at Nellie’s and talk.”
    “The gesture is out of character. I’ll slip into Nellie’s place later and sleep on the living-room couch. Well have a chance to talk in the morning.”
    Tim began to protest, but the big-busted redhead returned and her mere presence swayed