Calling the group of four aircraft he now led “ ‘B’ flight, 1st Naval Pursuit Squadron” didn’t make any sense at all, however, and Tikker wasn’t sure it ever would. He and Ben both hoped it would, eventually, but at present, each of his “Nancy” flying-boats was identical, regardless of its designation. Of course, even if some planes were ultimately specially designed to chase something down and shoot it out of the sky, as far as they knew, there was nothing else in the world’s skies for them to “pursue.” Yet. Tikker and Ben both worried that that wouldn’t always be the situation, and Ben, at least, wanted some kind of organizational structure already in place. Just in case.
Tikker was a “believer,” but he shrugged mentally. Right now he didn’t really care. He was flying, and that’s all that mattered. The “improved” Nancys, or “PB-1Bs” as Mallory preferred to call them, were showing themselves to be pretty good little airplanes. They were easy to build and maintain and the ridiculously simple power plant was reliable and powerful enough for anything they would ever need a Nancy to do. They weren’t fast (by Ben’s standards), but they were maneuverable-while being forgiving at the same time-something Ben always said was hard to achieve. Tikker had the flying bug in a big way, and if they could only invent a seat that was comfortable for a ’Cat with a tail, he would have no complaints about the planes at all.
He was also pleased that he could report that the new hydraulic catapult worked even better than anyone expected. The fundamental mechanism was simple-if leaky and extremely messy-but the means of launching aircraft without landing gear had required unexpected imagination. They’d settled on a wooden “cradle truck” that accelerated forward, supporting the fuselage of a Nancy until it reached the end of the flight deck. At that point, the truck slammed to a stop and tripped a release hook. Tikker had to admit, it scared him half to death when the machine literally flung his plane into the air in front of the ship. The acceleration was extreme, and he was amazed it didn’t break any of the planes. The contraption might need a little adjusting to take some of that initial jolt out of it, but it beat lowering the planes over the side one at a time with the big crane and then having them take off in possibly dangerous seas. They still had to land on the water, but they could then simply motor into one of the huge bays that opened in Big Sal ’s sides, from which she’d once launched her gri-kakka boats. If they ever launched every plane on the ship, that wouldn’t work, but they could still hoist out the extras with the crane.
He glanced again to make sure his flight was keeping up, then spoke into the voice tube beside and a little behind his head.
“Hey, Cisco,” he called to his copilot/engineer/observer in the aft cockpit. Cisco’s real name was Siska-Kor, but like nearly everyone in the Naval Air Corps, she had a nickname now. “We’re going to gain some altitude. Send that we’ll climb to five thousand and maintain formation.”
“It will be cold up there,” came the tinny, windy reply.
“Not that cold,” Tikker assured her. He realized they were going to have to get some proper flight suits for the air crews. Right now they wore little more than the regulation Navy kilt and T-shirt, with goggles for the primary pilots. They needed goggles for everyone, but the glass industry in Baalkpan was having fits and starts and they were still using salvaged glass from Amagi. Cisco was right, though-it would be chilly. He’d never really known what cold was until he flew. He wasn’t even sure what the Nancy’s “service ceiling” was, since he’d always been too cold to reach it.
“Besides, Lieutenant Leedom is a ‘hotshot.’ A natural. Strange for a sub-maa-reener, I guess, but he’s liable to try to intercept us, and I bet he and Nurse McCoy are wearing warmer clothes!”
Slowly, the flight climbed. All the planes bobbled a little in the unruly air, but the formation held together. Tikker scanned ahead, below, above, and even behind, but the early-afternoon sun was too bright to stare in that direction for long. The west coast of Borno lay before them, but the blue-green shore would make it difficult for them to pick out Mark Leedom’s blue-painted Nancy. “No signal yet?” Tikker asked unnecessarily.
“From Leedom’s plane? No, sir,” Cisco replied.
Well, that was good, Tikker guessed. If Leedom had engine trouble, Nurse McCoy would have sent something. She didn’t know the code, but she’d been instructed to transmit a single long blast if they ran into trouble. Tikker hated the idea that anyone might ever be forced down in the unexplored jungles of Borno. The thought frightened him even more than the prospect of setting down on rough seas. “So. Wherever they are, they’re still airborne.”
“That would figure.”
“Then they’re either still ahead of us-” Tikker abruptly had to grab the stick more firmly and fight for control against a surge of sudden turbulence as a blue and white shape flashed down in front of him. For just an instant he was frightened and confused, but he already knew what had happened. “Or above and behind us!” he grated bitterly. Looking around, he saw that his flight’s formation had disintegrated like a flock of akka birds. When he looked down, he recognized what could only be Leedom’s Nancy pulling out of its steep dive and beginning to rise once more. “Send for the flight to reform on me,” he said irritably. “Now that we’ve ‘found’ Lieutenant Leedom, we’ll return to the task force and begin our other exercise.” He shook his head and allowed a grin to sweep away his annoyance. “I guess Lieutenant Leedom fancies himself a ‘pursuit’ pilot, even if all he has to pursue are his friends. Let’s hope it stays that way.”
Captain Tikker, Ensign Cisco, Lieutenant Leedom, and Nurse Lieutenant McCoy appeared, as ordered, at the door to the admiral’s quarters directly below the bridge. Marine Captain Risa-Sab-At awaited them in the passageway, grinning hugely. Without a word, she knocked on the door and ushered them inside. The “admiral’s quarters” were Keje’s personal staterooms, and served the same purpose now as his larger Great Hall had once done. Many of the same intricate tapestries that had survived decorated these walls, and if the space wasn’t as expansive as before, there was still plenty of room for quite a large gathering, and the furnishings were far more decorative than any human carrier had probably ever boasted. Keje stood as they entered, along with Atlaan-Fas, Salissa ’s nominal captain, and Atlaan’s executive officer, Lieutenant Newman. They were indoors, so no one saluted, but there was an unspoken exchange of respect.
“Welcome aboard, Lieuten-aant McCoy!” Keje said. “I have missed you. The youngling is well?”
“Very well,” Kathy replied.
“Excellent! I wish I could see it!”
Newman grinned. “Human babies aren’t nearly as cute as ’Cat babies,” he said. “They always look a little like grub-worms.”
“Nonsense!” Kathy protested. “Allison is utterly precious!”
“I’m certain of it,” Keje declared. “Please be seated, all of you.” The stools in the stateroom were all quite ornate, even Keje’s. His favorite stool having been taken permanently to the bridge, he considered it pointless to try to “replace” it here. “Nurse McCoy,” he began when all were comfortable, “I presume you are now prepared to begin your duties as chief medical officer? Excellent. I apologize for the uncomfortable necessity of flying you out to join us.”
“No apology necessary.” She glanced at Leedom. “It was quite exhilarating.”
“Yes. Well, I’d like to hear about that before we’re finished.” Keje turned to Tikker. “It would seem Mr. Leedom surprised your flight quite badly.”
“Indeed,” Tikker replied, “and that lends further credence to what Major Maallory has been saying. He has always wanted the Air Corps, Naval and otherwise, to be prepared for pursuit activities. Right now, we’re not. We’re not armed for it in any way, and we haven’t practiced pursuit tactics to any real extent. Mr. Leedom graphically demonstrated how devastating that unpreparedness might someday prove.”
“But the Grik, and even the Imperials, don’t have any airplanes!” Atlaan protested. �
�Practicing against threats that do not exist is dangerous and possibly wasteful of pilots and machines.”
“The Imperials don’t have airplanes yet,” Tikker conceded. “Now that they know they are possible, I bet they will someday. They are not my immediate concern, however. We have no idea what the Grik may have by now. We know they have one airplane, the observation plane that bombed Baalkpan. We know from Commander Okada that it was damaged, but we haven’t recovered it at Aryaal or Sing-aa-pore. They have taken it with them, somewhere. Even if they aren’t copying it as we speak, all they have to do is fix it, and it can sweep every plane we have from the sky. It is faster and, unlike our own planes, armed.” Tikker glanced at Leedom. “I now believe we must be prepared to meet it someday, if nothing else.”
Atlaan was silent and Keje grunted. “I see your point,” he said. “We must consider some sort of air-to-air armament for our aircraft, and yes, our pilots must at least practice a little of what to do if they are attacked in the sky. ‘Evasive maneuvers,’ I think you called them. Very well. You and our new ‘pursuit pilot extraordinaire’ will formulate tactics and begin integrating them into the training flights.” Keje’s voice lightened. “At least we know the dive-bombing tactics you have been working on are effective!”
Tikker cringed. He’d expected a chewing-out over the exercise his flight performed just before they set down in Salissa ’s lee. Keje sounded pleased, in a way, but Tikker knew the admiral enjoyed irony and he might fly into a rage at any moment. “Uh, well, yes, Aahd-mah-raal. They do seem to work well, at least against… unsuspecting targets.”
Keje and even Atlaan laughed out loud. It was a strange sound to humans, but all those present had learned that what sounded like a hacking cough to them was the height of mirth for a Lemurian.
“Unsuspecting!” Keje managed at last. “I actually Told them to expect an attack from the air! I wanted them somewhat prepared so they could practice some ‘evasive maneuvers’ of their own! Trust me, you are not the only one who has sleep-terrors of Grik aircraft, or torpedoes or other unrevealed capabilities!” He barked another laugh. “Cap-i-taan Cablaas-Rag-Laan of USS Scott actually complained to me regarding the successfulness of your attack!”
Tikker cringed again. Evidently, Keje wasn’t mad at him; most of his people enjoyed practical jokes, but he hadn’t meant to make enemies of the new steam frigate captains! And Scott had actually dodged a few of their “bombs”! What must Captain Mescus-Ricum of USS Kas-Ra-Ar think of him? His ship hadn’t escaped a single hit!
Captain Atlaan produced a creditable imitation of the slightly imperious commander of Scott. “Aahd-mah-raal, I must protest! An exercise is all well and good, but have you any idea how messy a large, putrid, flasher fish can be when it strikes my clean new deck from such a height at such a speed? ” Keje and Atlaan roared again, joined by Risa and Newman.
“It was just like that,” Newman said. “It came over wireless, but you could still almost hear the indignation!”
“Wha-what was your reply, Aahd-mah-raal?” Tikker asked, and Keje’s tone became more serious.
“I told him that bombs make a far bigger mess than rotten fish, and that he might try a little harder, in the future, to avoid them. I had intended to tell you not to use fish again because I suppose someone might be injured if struck, but I have changed my mind. For the next few days, you will bomb the frigates with rotten fish unmercifully, until you can’t hit them anymore, understood?”
“Aye, aye, Aahd-mah-raal.”
The room sobered and Keje nodded to Newman, who stood and uncovered a map on the wall. “Now, gentlemen-and ladies. That brings us to another issue. This task force is still some distance away from
… well, we’ve been calling it ‘First Fleet’ because like as not, we’ll have more than one before this is over. Anyway, First Fleet, for various reasons, is going to hit Rangoon”-he pointed-“here, in a couple of days. Commodore Ellis now believes it essential that we remove this possible threat to our forward-most base on Andaman. For the same reasons he made that decision, Admiral Keje now agrees as well. The thing is, we want in on the scrape. Commodore Ellis is the man on the spot, and he and General Alden will run the show, but this will be a good opportunity for our pilots to rack up some combat experience before we move against Ceylon.”
“I thought it was our intention to keep this ship and our aircraft secret from the enemy as long as possible,” Tikker said.
“It is,” said Newman, “and everyone’s pretty sure we can operate against Rangoon and still accomplish that. Nothing’s getting in or out of there by sea, and if they try to send a message overland, we hope to have Ceylon long before it could arrive.”
Tikker looked at Leedom and scratched his ear around the hole with the highly polished 7.7-millimeter cartridge case thrust through it. The hole and the ornament were souvenirs of his first “solo” flight, and also served as a reminder of just how incredibly lucky he’d been. His was a risky job by definition, but he preferred that his risks be as calculated as possible nowadays.
“Sounds okay,” he said guardedly. “We need to know what they will expect of us, and how big an effort we should make.”
“As of now,” Keje said, “they don’t expect anything from us. Commodore Ellis has made the request, and I told him I wanted to discuss it with you before I agree. Schedules will have to be revised to coordinate our participation, but that participation ought to be advantageous to all concerned, I should think. Commodore Ellis might have to delay his attack until we get within range of your aircraft, but he should agree that a full-scale aerial assault by our entire wing can accomplish numerous objectives. First, I feel certain that such an attack would have a disastrous effect on enemy morale, and General Alden could take advantage of that and control the battle with far fewer casualties. Second, of course, I believe the wing should inflict a substantial number of casualties itself. Finally, and Captain Reddy would certainly appreciate this, I’m sure, your timely observations of the battlefield from the air should help General Alden shape his battle with much greater certainty.”
“The entire wing?” Atlaan asked softly.
“Yes. Captain Tikker needs to practice organizing such an assault, just as much as the fliers need to practice making one, and this seems the best, least risky way to do it.” Keje regarded Tikker once more. “What is the farthest distance you feel comfortable striking from with such a force?”
“We need to keep everyone together,” Tikker said, “which means the first to take off will be burning fuel until the last ships join them.” He shook his head. “That is too long. We should probably attack in two waves.”
Mark Leedom was nodding. “That makes sense. If the first ships only have to wait for the last ships in that wave, each wave should have a couple of hours’ flying time to reach the target, hang around long enough to find somebody to bomb, and still make it back to the ship. I’m assuming this ship will be a little closer by then?”
“Of course,” Keje assured. “Possibly by as many as fifty miles or so.”
Tikker was silent a moment, then sighed. “Well, as I said, it sounds okay. Fifty miles is a nice buffer as well. Coordinate the timing with Commodore Ellis based on those numbers, and I’m as confident as I can be that Salissa ’s first action as an aircraft carrier will be a success. Remember, though, we are all new at this, and no matter how well we plan or how carefully we prepare; regardless of how good our pilots are, or how well made their aircraft, I fear some lives will be lost.”
“You suspect the Grik may have developed some defense against aircraft?” Risa asked, speaking for the first time.
“No,” Tikker answered. “Not yet, and if so, not at Rangoon. Honestly, I don’t much fear we will lose many planes and pilots in action… yet. I am more concerned about our own inexperience and ignorance.” He shrugged and looked around at the others. “Bear in mind that all of us, even our human Americans-our ‘original’ destroyermen-have no real experience with thi
s kind of war. We still, essentially, make it up as we go.”
CHAPTER 9
Eastern Sea
When Walker sounded her “drowning goose” general quarters alarm for predawn battle stations, Matt was surprised to hear the thunder of drums on the ships nearby, sending their own crews to action stations. He remembered that Jenks had expressed interest in the practice several times. Evidently, Matt’s explanation that they did it because dawn was a dangerous time of day when enemy ships-and in their “old” war, submarines in particular-might see their silhouette before they saw the enemy, had made eminent sense to the Imperial commodore. It looked like Jenks was beginning to institute the practice among all the ships of his command. That was certainly for the good-if they all became true allies someday. Matt realized, however, that he might have given away a serious advantage if the Empire and Alliance ever found themselves on opposite sides. Oh, well, it couldn’t be helped. Right now, they had the same cause and they needed their friends to be prepared
That morning, instead of standing down into a morning routine, Matt gave the order to “make all preparations for getting underway.” Sparks began to rise from nearby stacks, and black and gray smoke curled into the air as Walker and the “squadron,” consisting of Achilles, Icarus, and Ulysses, raised steam and prepared to pull their hooks. Their immediate destination was an old Imperial outpost-probably the first. Jenks said the island, called Respite, was the first hospitable place his ancestors had encountered on their voyage to the East, and it was there they’d rested, victualed, and taken on fresh water before continuing in search of the most remote place they could find. Some few had stayed, tired of the seemingly endless journey, and Respite had been almost constantly inhabited ever since. Over time, it became the regional capital of all the surrounding islands and until recently, the western frontier of the Empire. It had been to one of the newer, slightly more northwestern outposts under Respite’s jurisdiction that Rebecca’s one-armed protector, Sean O’Casey, had been fleeing the Imperial hangman after an unsuccessful rebellion against Company usurpation of Imperial authority. It had been only wild coincidence that Princess Rebecca Anne McDonald had been dispatched aboard the same doomed ship by her father, the Governor-Emperor himself. In his effort to provide for her safety from increasingly dark Company machinations, he’d set the wheels in motion that left her marooned and presumed dead these two long years. In the end, the Company had snatched her anyway.
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