Firestorm d-6

by Taylor Anderson

  “How will we get the sets to General Alden?” Karen Theimer-Letts, Acting Minister of Medicine, asked. She’d quickly fastened onto the radios as something else they could send to First Fleet-anything to assist the mission her husband Alan was on.

  “We can send one of the ‘Buzzards,’ ” said the dark-haired Commander Perry Brister. He’d been Mahan ’s engineering officer and was now Minister of Defensive and Industrial Works.

  “Have to ask Ben,” Riggs said. “We’ve got only four of the things, and we’re working their asses off. One’s a dedicated trainer.”

  “We should have built more,” Karen murmured.

  “Ben argued, and I agree, that they’re underpowered,” said Riggs. He held out his hands. “We need bigger engines-or bigger planes to handle four of the ones we have. We’re working on both. We’ve taken the basic ‘Nancy’ design about as far as it can go. We might build more ‘Buzzards’ as light bombers-Ben really wants bombers!-but what we really need is a bigger, more powerful plane to carry more bombs, freight, or passengers.” He looked at Sister Audry, seated next to Adar. “Speaking of passengers…”

  “I told you all I am able,” the nun said tartly. “I gave my word. I personally owe the man a great deal, as do we all, and all I’m currently at liberty to say is that he got on the plane as ordered, but ‘left’ somewhere between Maa-ni-la and here. We made four stops, for fuel and sleep. Search where you like.”

  Adar grumbled a chuckle, unable to restrain himself. He enjoyed the idea that the young and apparently attractive-by human standards-but almost annoyingly principled holy woman, could feel so obligated to such a depraved creature.

  “Those Air Corps guys saw what happened,” Riggs said darkly. “I’ll get it out of them.”

  “I bet Bernie gets it first,” said Ronson. “They went down to the field to report to Ben Mallory and Mr. Sandison’s there.” He shook his head. “Is he ever gonna be hot!”

  Karen looked almost accusingly at the nun. “What will you tell Nurse Cross? I don’t want to be the one. Her little heart will break!”

  “I’ll speak to her, and Lieutenant Cross will understand,” Audry said. A strange expression crossed her face. “I don’t expect any of you to believe it, knowing the man, and I’m sure he would disagree, but somehow… I’m convinced God has a purpose for Dennis Silva.” She was confronted by astonished stares. “I didn’t expect you to understand. He’s a beast, true, but God created the beasts as well. In this case, I have come to suspect His influence over Mr. Silva’s behavior, since by pure coincidence, through no possible connection to the man’s senseless… notions, he always seems to be where he’s needed most.” She shrugged, at a loss. “Perhaps you would have to see it,” she ventured. “I grant he is profane, sacrilegious in the extreme, and routinely engages in every deadly sin. He may have even invented more, yet…” She shrugged again. “If something has prompted him to disobey your orders, I suspect he has a reason, vague though it may be, and I cannot discount the possibility he is unconsciously moved by a higher power.” She actually blushed. “I know I must sound mad… Silva, of all people I’.” She touched the cross at her breast.

  “O… kay,” Riggs said, eyes still wide. “Well, the sister’s right-we do owe him.” He shook his head. “We’ll write it off that he’s shell-shocked-moonstruck-whatever. ‘Temporarily and unwittingly employed as God’s attack dog’ might go to his head. No charges I guess, so long as he turns up soon.”

  “He’ll be trying to join Maaka-Kakja and go east,” Ronson predicted, “but she’s already sailed. “No way he could’ve gotten back to Maa-ni-la from wherever he wound up before she left. He’ll show in a few days.”

  “About that,” Adar interrupted. “I dislike that Saan-Kakja’s most formidable battle group will be leaving the vicinity of the Fil-pin Lands with these unknown Jaaps on the loose. We have already dispatched four of the precious five-point-five-inch guns to go to Okaa-daa’s Mizuki Maa-ru, but do you think he will find them?”

  “He’s got the best chance,” Riggs said, “and looking like just another Jap freighter that ‘came across,’ he might get close enough to take or sink them. Anything we’ve got never would, except maybe Walker , and she’s already pulled her hook for the American West Coast!” He paused. “Man, this war just gets bigger all the time!”

  “Can we trust Okaa-daa?” Adar asked pointedly.

  “I think so. Saan-Kakja, Minister Tucker, and Shinya do too. After what happened to his ‘shogunate,’ they all believe he’s extremely sincere. As for the Fil-pin Lands, I think they’re safe. Tarakan might be another matter. The same ship carrying Okada’s guns will stop there with more troops, and another five and a half to add to the one already there. If these rogue Japs try the place, their ’can will take a beating, and even if they knock out the long-range guns, there are enough troops and big, short-range guns to make a landing impossible.”

  Adar sighed and stood. “Very well, my friends. I must return to my peculiar duties, and you all have much to do. There is so much going on; Task Force Garrett has ground ashore and First Fleet will attack Saa-lon within days. Our new Imperial ‘allies’ will attempt to retake their ‘New Ireland.’ Even now, Captain Reddy steams into the void toward I know not what…” He blinked anxiety. “It seems, once again, our fates are beyond our control, and all is in motion toward multiple, inevitable crises to come over the next week or so that will again determine whether we are winning, losing, or still just holding on. The tension fairly tears my insides.”

  “That about sums it up, Mr. Chairman,” Riggs said. “It’s a war.” He looked at Karen. “I’ll try to get those radios out to Pete before the balloon goes up.”

  ArmyNavy Air Corps Training Center Kaufman Field Baalkpan

  Colonel Benjamin Mallory was stripped to the waist and sweating in the steamy, humid air beneath the glaring sun. A squall had pounded the airstrip in the broad clearing northeast of the city that bordered the Saanga River. All the tarps they’d rigged to shade the laborers and shield the sensitive machines had gulped as much water as they could before collapsing. A few “hangars” were already up, protecting several of Ben’s precious machines, already partially assembled, but they needed more every day. There were many “hangars” down at the broad river mouth, more like boathouses really, where the trainers and PB-1Bs of PatWing 1 were guarded from the weather and hoisted from the water.

  Ben was exhausted, like everyone else, but the longer they waited to open what remained of his fifty-six roughly forty-by-ten-by-six-foot “Christmas boxes,” the more likely were the contents to suffer irreparable harm. Each mighty crate, arranged along a crushed and packed limestone “taxiway” near a massive warehouse structure weighed about eight thousand pounds, and contained either the fuselage or wing assembly of a Curtiss P-40E fighter. Many crates had been damaged by time, the elements, or flooding down in the hold of the Santa Catalina. The salvage effort to rescue the ship and her priceless cargo from its swampy grave near distant Tjilatjap (Chill-Chaap) had been monumental, and cost more than a few lives. Ben figured he owed it to the dead to put as many of the planes in service as he possibly could, and besides, he wanted them.

  Six were definite write-offs. That was how many fuselage and wing boxes-twelve total-were almost entirely submerged in the flooded ship. Even now, dozens of ’Cats, supervised by the former torpedo officer and Minister of Ordnance Bernie Sandison, were cannibalizing the corroded carcasses of anything potentially useful as spares for other planes, or parts for other projects. The aluminum was badly oxidized after its long immersion and sudden exposure to the sultry, salty air. It was being sent to the smelter where the salvaged remains of the dead PBY had already gone, to be turned into ingots more precious than gold.

  That left twenty-two planes that might be made to fly. Ben grimly accepted that the realistic number might be closer to eighteen or twenty, but that was still a heady, and quite reasonable figure. Santa Catalina had been transporting the planes to J
ava, far too late as it turned out, but for probably the first time in the annals of military history, the shipment included everything needed to immediately pitch the planes into action, except fuel. There were spare engines, tires, radiators, hoses, propeller blades, instruments… everything. There were crated. 50-caliber Brown-ings, drums of Prestone and hydraulic fluid, cans of grease, bundles of priceless, specialized tools, and despite the manifest, closer to three million rounds of ammunition. The men who’d been on the ship, the crew, pilots, and ground crews that went with the planes, had evidently scrounged more ammo at the last minute. Sadly, when they found Santa Catalina a year after her grounding, there were no men aboard. There was evidence they’d left-well armed-and all hope for them wasn’t lost, but the wildly dangerous, primordial jungle of South “Jaava” was full of appalling and often utterly unexpected terrors.

  Once the prizes were safely in Baalkpan, getting the heavy crates here from the dry dock where Santa Catalina lay had been almost anticlimactic. First, they were hoisted out and set on barges that brought them within a mile of the airstrip Adar and Brister had been preparing since the planes were discovered. The most nerve-racking job had been getting them ashore and brought near the warehouse where they could be opened and the planes assembled. Ben was still at a loss to describe the sight of using balky teams of “brontasarries” to drag crates containing modern, high- performance aircraft, on rollers, to their present location. Now, all that remained for Ben and his highly motivated but technically unprepared Air Corps cadets, consisting of the 4th and 7th Bomb Squadrons-reassigned to PatWing 1-and the 3rd, 4th, and 5th Pursuit, detached from the 2nd Air Wing for “extra training,” was to put the things together.

  In that respect, the Curtiss-Wright Company came to their assistance across the chasm between worlds. They’d foreseen the need to assemble the planes inades, mitive conditions and done everything they could to ease the process. The engine was already installed on the fuselage assembly, and the landing gear was likewise mounted in the wing. Each crate also contained a hefty volume of assembly instructions. The problem was getting the two bulky, heavy objects suspended, properly oriented, and bolted together. After that, it was a supposedly simple matter of installing the tail surfaces, propeller, and attaching all the hydraulic, electrical, and cable connections-supposedly. Without a proper building to work in, most of the heavy stuff was being done in the open air with a pair of mighty timber hoists Ben designed on wheels of their own, that could be moved from one crate to the next. In this manner, a crate was cracked, the top and sides removed, and the contents inspected. If found satisfactory, one of the hoists was manhandled into position by dozens of’Cats, either pushing or pulling until it stood ready to lift the assembly from the iron brace cradling it. With several chain hoists, lifting the heavy wing or fuselage wasn’t that hard. Moving the two together and positioning them just so was an unmitigated bitch.

  “Easy there, you pack of fuzzy runts!” Ben roared. “Stop! Belay! Quit lowering the damn thing!” He was heaving on a tagline, trying to torque the tail ever so slightly to the left as a fuselage descended toward a wing. What seemed a gallon of sweat had just burst through his eyebrows and gushed into his eyes. “Just hold on a second, wilya?” he said less forcefully. “Here, take this a minute,” he growled to a swarthy, 3rd Pursuit Squadron Lemurian beside him, handing over the rope. “Keep the same tension,” he warned, then trotted over to a bench where his grimy T-shirt was wadded into a ball, retrieved it, and sopped up the sweat on his face. Walking around the port wing, he studied how the fuselage looked as it neared the leading edge. “Okay,” he said grudgingly, “that’s not so bad. Start her down again, but take it easy!”

  He was trying something new on this one. Instead of attempting to bolt two free-swinging structures together, they’d blocked up the wing with the landing gear already down and locked. This way, the procedure wasn’t quite the… kaleidoscope of motion the first attempts had been, but now all the adjustments had to be applied to the fuselage as it came down.

  “Easy does it!” he crooned, watching the gap narrow. “Hey, you back at the tail, a little more left!”

  “My left, you left?” cried the ’Cat he’d given the rope.

  “You lef… Your left, you nitwit!” He studied the correction. “Okay, keep her coming… down… down…” There was the slightest gasp of painted aluminum coming together, then a creaking groan as the wing began bearing weight. “Stop!” he shouted. He sighed heavily and wiped his face again. “There! See if you can wiggle the front bolts in; then we’ll let her down some more for the rest.”

  Two ’Cats scampered under the big, flared cowl. “Ow!” one cried.

  “Yeah,” Ben said. “Watch where you put your hands; that skin’s hot! You other fellas, soon as that’s secure, get some shade and water!” He turned back to the bench.

  “You Colonel Mallory?” asked a tall, thin man he’d never seen.

  “Yeah… Say! You must be Jack Mackey! Adar told me to expect you.”

  The man saluted. “Second Lieutenant Jack Mackey, reporting as ordered, sir!”

  Ben returned the salute, then waved it aside, grinning. “You can forget that stuff unless there’s Navy tpes around. You like Jack or Mack?”

  “Mack.”

  “Mine’s Ben,” Mallory said, sticking out his hand. They shook. “Where’s your pal?” he asked. “They said there’d be two of you.”

  Mack tilted his head. “He’s over there, with the ‘Navy type’-Mr. Sandison. He told me to come see you. Sergeant Dixon’ll be along. He’s the best crew chief in the business. Stayed over there to make some suggestions, I think.” He shook his head. “He really needs to take it easy, sir.”

  “The way I heard it, the Japs gave you a rough time,” Ben said grimly.

  Mack forced a brittle smile. “The way I heard it, things haven’t been too rosy around here either.”

  Ben nodded. “I guess neither one of us knows the half of it, do we?”

  “No, sir.”

  “C’mon, let’s go collect Sergeant Dixon and Mr. Sandison and find some shade.” He raised his voice. “Hey, you ’Cats, take five… or ten. Catch some shade, but don’t run off! We still have work to do, and then more ground school!” Several Lemurians, mostly cadets, had gathered around the two humans, their large eyes going back and forth between the speakers. Ben suddenly noticed a few of them blinking.. . well, not hostility, but something close.

  “Hey, what’s with you guys?” he asked, surprised. He focused on one, a “Navy” jg whose name had somehow become “Soupy.” He was already a pilot with PatWing 1. “What gives?”

  “With respect, Col-nol, that’s what we want to know.”

  “Huh?”

  Soupy looked at the fighter they’d been working on, his ears slightly back. “We hear scuttlebutt. These guys may be just the first of more ‘old world’ Amer-i-caans show up here. That’s swell, but I went to Chill-Chaap, bust my ass, fight swamp lizards, puke on crummy ship. I keep bust my ass, build Pee-Forties.” Soupy’s tail swished. “I don’t volunteer for all that to watch some skinny guy, just show up, fly my plane!”

  For a moment, Ben was speechless. Sure, he’d been ecstatic to learn there were other pursuit pilots in the world, real ones, with combat experience. The resource they represented was priceless. He didn’t know how many there were yet; one more was twice as many as they’d had… but Soupy had a valid point.

  “That’s not your plane, Lieutenant,” he finally said, “it’s mine! Look up there on the nose and you’ll see where I chalked an M when we first opened the crate back at Chill-Chap. M means ‘Mine.’ It means ‘Mallory.’ As a matter of fact, you open up any of those crates and you might as well imagine an invisible M scratched on every one, because they’re all mine! You want to chalk an S, or paint a naked picture of your girl on one”-there were chitters of amusement-“you’re going to by God earn it in the air!” He shook his head. “I guarantee you’ve earned a shot-all of you h
ave-but so have Lieutenant Mackey and any other experienced pilots who show up here, because right now, they know more than you.” He looked at Mack. “That’s going to change. If you or anyone else wants to fly these ships we’ve worked so hard to save, you’re first going to help me teach these ’Cats every single thing you know about them. After that, it’s up for grabs, and don’t expect it to be a shoo-in. ’Cats are natural born acrobats, and I’ve seen them translate that into flying.” He looked at Soupy and e others gathered round. “That’s the deal.”

  Soupy was nodding. “Okay, Skipper. Just so long as it fair. Good to meecha, Lieuten-aant Maa-kee.”

  “Uh… thanks,” Mack said, watching the “deputation” depart.

  “Oh boy,” said Ben, chuckling. “Let’s hit the shade,” he shouted, so Bernie could hear. Once under a grove of trees with palmated leaves beyond the line of crates, Ben offered Mack a rough-looking, but comfortable lounge chair and poured him a mug of cool water from a carafe nestled in a damp cloth. He saw Sandison approaching, walking slowly and accompanying another thin man.

  “You really going to give those… Lemur… ’Cats a shot at those ships?” Mack asked. Ben looked at him. “I meant every word.”

  “You think they can handle it?”

  “What do you think? Who flew that ungainly goose that brought you here from the Philippines?”

  “It’s not the same.”

  “Why not?” Ben took a breath and scratched his nose. “Look. I know you’re new here, but here’s the Word on Lemurians: it doesn’t matter what they look like, what color they are, or whether they’re guys or gals; they’re people just like you and me, and you’ll treat them that way.”