By the Blood of Heroes

by Joseph Nassise

Without warning, the airship rocked beneath their feet as if struck by a great blow. A couple of the men were thrown to the deck, and Burke would have followed suit if Charlie hadn’t shot out a hand to steady him.

  The men were quiet as they climbed to their feet, their expressions strained. It was one thing to face the enemy in the mud and muck of the trenches, where you could see who was shooting at you and even fire back when the opportunity presented itself. Being trapped here, inside the belly of the beast, unable to see or hear what was going on outside the airship, brought its own kind of anxiety.

  Unable to say anything to reassure his men, Burke simply gave orders for them to secure themselves. For the next several minutes they all held on tightly as the airship careened this way and that, clearly trying to evade some external enemy that they, locked in the heart of the vessel, couldn’t see. Their inability to know what was happening was maddening to Burke, so much so that he was beginning to wish he was back out on the firing platform as he’d been during the first assault. At least then he’d been able to see Death coming for him and not have to stare at the blank wardroom walls and wonder if he had only minutes left to live.

  The ship was struck by another hammer blow, stronger this time, and the thunder of an accompanying explosion reached them from somewhere to the rear of their tiny compartment. Only Burke’s earlier command to secure themselves kept the men from being tossed about like confetti. Rather than righting itself, this time the Victorious stayed skewed off center keel and pointed at a downward angle.

  Charlie looked over at Burke.

  “That can’t be good!” he said.

  Burke just nodded his agreement.

  Seconds later a siren began to wail, filling the room with its banshee voice, letting anyone who hadn’t already guessed know that they were under attack.

  Having been through this once before, the men in the squad knew there wasn’t anything they could do but lie there and hope for the best. As untrained and unfamiliar with the workings of the ship as they were, they knew they would just be in the way if they tried to help, and they accepted the fact that they should remain in the room out of the way.

  But for Burke, who had been involved in the last dogfight and hadn’t had to get used to lying on a bunk and praying for the best, the inactivity was intolerable.

  “I can’t take this anymore!” he exclaimed. He headed across the room to the control panel beneath the talk box. He was sitting in the operator’s chair, fiddling with the dials and switches.

  “What are you doing?” Charlie asked, joining him.

  Burke didn’t look up from the control board. “Trying to contact the bridge to find out what the hell is going on out there.” His voice was full of confidence, but the truth was he didn’t have a clue what he was doing. He was just throwing switches with his good hand and hoping to get lucky.

  Charlie wasn’t fooled. “Not like that,” he said. “You’re doing it all wrong. Here, get out of the way.”

  Burke got up out of the chair and Charlie slipped in behind him, running deft hands over the control panel. Within seconds they could hear everything that was going on inside the forward gondola thanks to the open channel.

  It was like listening to a radio show, but one Burke hoped never to hear again.

  Men were shouting, some issuing orders, others screaming in pain. Cries of “Doctor! Doctor!” were mixed up with warnings that “He’s coming about again!” whoever “he” might be, and these were interspersed with the blaring of the siren that signaled they were under attack.

  For a moment Burke could hear the captain shouting orders to take evasive action, and then everything was drowned beneath a cacophony of machine-gun fire and breaking glass.

  In the aftermath of the gunfire, the only sounds that could be heard were the moaning of the wind and the hiss of static over the open line.

  Charlie called out over the open mike several times, trying to reach anyone who might still be alive, to no avail.

  “Now what?” Williams asked into the silence.

  As if in reply, the door to the wardroom flew open, revealing Chief Wilson’s compact form standing in the entrance. He didn’t waste any time with pleasantries.

  “We’re going down,” he told them. “I’ve been ordered to get you off this ship before we crash. Grab whatever equipment you can and come with me. Quickly!”

  The squad didn’t need to be told twice. Fighting against the tilt of the ship and the downward slope of the floor, they scrambled to grab their gear and follow Burke out the door.

  Having expected Wilson to lead them forward toward the main gondola, Burke was surprised when the chief turned aft instead, requiring them to fight against gravity as they headed toward the engine room. Because of the incline they were forced to grab on to the guide ropes and literally pull themselves hand over hand up the treacherously canted walkway. One slip was all it would take to send a man tumbling into the steel structure of the airship’s frame, and getting him out again would be an absolute bitch, so Burke kept a watchful eye on the men as they climbed ahead of him.

  Chief Wilson led them up the central catwalk, past the various storage rooms they’d noted on their arrival, and into the cargo bay through which they’d entered the ship earlier that morning. Inside they found several of the ship’s mechanics using crowbars to lever open a group of wooden crates, each one marked with the Military Intelligence Division’s seal.

  Burke had no idea what was in the crates, but Graves apparently did. When he saw what they were doing, the professor began to protest furiously.

  “No! No! No!” he cried, rushing forward and waving his hands in front of him to emphasize his point. “Those shouldn’t be here! I demand you stop what you are doing right this instant!”

  The professor’s energetic appearance caused the workers to pause, but when they caught Wilson’s stern look over the other man’s shoulder, they went right back to unpacking whatever it was that the crates contained.

  “What are you doing?” Graves cried, rounding on the chief machinist. “Those are experimental devices that require extensive training to operate. I can’t allow them to be used in a situation like this!”

  Wilson didn’t budge. “You don’t have a choice,” he said bluntly. “We’re going down, and we’re going down quickly. If you don’t use those gizmos to get off this ship, you might not get off it at all. Is that clear enough for you?”

  As his words sank in, the professor’s expression went from outrage to abject horror.

  The chief machinist steamrollered on as if he hadn’t noticed. “My orders are to get you off this ship, and that’s what I plan to do. We can do it the easy way or we can do it the hard way. I don’t bloody care which. But you will be going, one way or another.”

  It was clear from the professor’s expression that he wasn’t used to taking orders, never mind taking them from someone outside his chain of command, but he clearly wasn’t about to argue with the burly chief either. The man outweighed him by a good fifty pounds, and Wilson’s manner said he wasn’t about to take any crap from a scarecrow like Graves.

  But Burke couldn’t let it go that easily.

  Get off the ship? How the hell were they supposed to do that? And what was in those crates?

  “Now hold on a minute, Chief,” he said, stepping between the two men in an effort to get things to calm down a bit. “I appreciate that you have your orders, but I have mine as well and I haven’t heard anything about where or when we’re supposed to land.”

  “That’s because we’re not. Landing, that is.”

  Burke took a step back in confusion. “Then how do you expect us to get off the ship?”

  “With those,” Wilson said grimly, pointing at the device two of his men were just now lifting out of one of the crates.

  From what Burke could see, it had started life as a regulation greatcoat but it had evolved into something else entirely from there. For one thing, the metal frame of what he took to be a haversack h
ad been sewn into the lining of the coat, with a variety of straps and buckles hanging from both lapels and a complicated structure of pipes and wires rising over each shoulder. Squares of what looked to be darkened glass, each one about three inches across, now covered the outside of the coat’s sleeves. The squares caught the light of the cargo bay and reflected it back in scintillating colors.

  As if that wasn’t strange enough, there were the long rectangular planks of some reddish-black colored metal that were connected to the pipes jutting out of the back of the jacket. Each plank overlapped the one beside it, fanning out from the center in ever-increasing lengths like the feathers on the tail of a hawk.

  “What the hell is that?” Burke asked.

  Wilson opened his mouth, but Graves beat him to it.

  “It’s a man-portable person gliding device, or MPPGD for short.”

  “Uh-huh,” Burke replied. “And that means what, exactly?”

  “Think of it as your own personal flying device,” Graves answered, with no small amount of pride, as he walked over and slipped his arms through the sleeves of the coat. He braced himself against its weight as the two men holding the device settled it on his shoulders. Graves began buckling the straps across his chest with the ease of long practice. “It is designed to use air currents in order to carry a man from a higher altitude to a lower one.”

  “Sounds like falling to me,” one of the airmen quipped.

  Burke thought so, too.

  “It’s not falling,” Graves said, scowling in the airman’s direction, “so much as a controlled descent. When fully extended, the wings will catch the air beneath them and provide lift, allowing the user to glide for an extended period, much like a flying squirrel does when jumping from tree to tree.”

  A flying squirrel? Burke thought. Are you kidding me?

  He grabbed Graves by the arm and pulled him to one side, out of hearing of the rest of the men in the squad.

  “Cut the crap, Professor. Do these things work—yes or no?”

  “Yes. But . . .”

  “But what?”

  “But I’ve only tested them at an altitude of a few hundred feet. The air is much colder up here and that could significantly affect flight characteristics and overall lift.”

  “So you’re saying they won’t work?”

  “No,” the professor replied, clearly growing more anxious as the conversation continued. “I’m saying I have no data one way or the other on which to make an intelligent decision. They might work just fine, perhaps even better than anticipated. Then again, they could fail miserably and end up splattering us all over the landscape as a result. I just don’t know.”

  Another shudder ran through the vessel around them, and Burke knew he was running out of time. He needed an answer and he needed it quickly.

  “You built these things, right?” he asked.

  At Graves’s answering nod he said, “Then you know their capabilities better than anyone else. What’s your best guess? Will they work? Yes or no?”

  “If I had more time to test them . . .”

  “You don’t. We’re falling out of the sky as we speak, Professor. Yes or no? Will they work?”

  Burke didn’t know if it was his insistence on an answer or the way the Victorious suddenly heeled over another ten degrees before rolling back up a little, but either way, Graves finally made his decision.

  “Yes,” he said. Then with a bit more confidence, “Yes. They’ll work.”

  “Good man,” Burke told him, praying as he did so that the other man was right.

  At least we won’t feel it for very long if he’s not.

  Chapter Twenty-four

  IN THE WILD BLUE YONDER

  Graves gave them all a thirty-second crash course on how to operate the funny-looking devices. While they appeared rather complex at first glance, their use actually turned out to be quite simple.

  The MPPGD was essentially just a big coat with metal wings. At this height the air was too thin to provide enough lift, so they would free-fall for several seconds before deploying the wings. To do so against the force of the air through which they were falling, they needed a sudden sharp burst of energy. That’s where the second part of the device came into play. The glasslike tiles sewn into the sleeves of the coats were designed to pull electrical current out of the air as it rushed over them. When a strong enough charge had been built up, the globe attached to the belt running across the center of the chest would glow an electric blue, indicating it was safe to activate the wings. At that point the operator was supposed to slap the globe with the flat of his hand, releasing the charge into the electrical conduits running through the frame to the control box in the center of the backpack. This in turn would open the wings with a snap, and the resulting lift caused by the air rushing over the flat surface of the wings would allow the operator to glide for great distances.

  When the wings extended, two control arms would drop down in front of the pilot. To maneuver, all the pilot had to do was pull down on one control arm or the other, depending on which direction he wanted to go. Landing was achieved by pushing forward on both arms at the same time; this would raise the nose of the glider and spill the air out from beneath the wing, stalling it.

  There was just one critical command to remember.

  “Don’t hit the charge release too early,” Graves cautioned. “If you do, you’ll waste the energy buildup and the capacitors will need to charge themselves all over again. Depending on how close you are to the ground, you might have time to complete the recharging process before you strike the ground at terminal velocity and become part of the local terrain. Then again, you might not.”

  Burke stepped in at that point and addressed the men. “I’ll be going first, so keep your eyes on me and make sure you don’t trigger your wings before the man in front of you. If something goes wrong, don’t panic, just wait for the charge to build up and try again.”

  And pray, he thought to himself.

  “I want you all to watch the wings of the man in front of you and try to head in the same direction he’s going. Once on the ground, we’ll regroup and get ourselves organized before heading out. If you get separated from the group, don’t waste time searching for us, just head to the rendezvous point and we’ll meet there. Questions?”

  Thankfully, there weren’t any. Burke didn’t know if he could have answered them if there were. Jumping out of the airship while wearing an experimental flying device wasn’t high on his list of things to do in this lifetime, and he had to work hard to keep that from showing on his face. The doubt he saw on some of the other men’s faces told him they were thinking the same thing.

  They were soldiers, though, and he expected them to do exactly what soldiers had been doing since the invention of warfare—follow orders.

  Wilson’s crew worked diligently to get them all strapped into their rigs, double-checking the harness buckles and safety belts. The airmen also spent some time rigging the extra crates of equipment and supplies into something called a parachute. Burke had never heard of such a thing, but when they were explained to him, he wondered why they weren’t using those instead of the MPPGD. There would be less of a chance for a mechanical malfunction to occur if they were using equipment with no moving parts. Or at least it seemed that way to Burke.

  Apparently, he wasn’t thinking of the bigger picture.

  “Your rate of descent will be several times faster by using the MPPGD,” the professor explained. “That will take you through the lightning storm quicker and make you less of a target for any enemy aircraft that might still be lingering about.”

  Graves seemed insulted that Burke would even consider a different method after having the MPPGD explained to him. “If you prefer the parachute, I’m sure the chief can get you one,” he said, and a bit snidely at that.

  Burke shook his head. He didn’t care about offending Graves, but it was the thought of hanging there, unable to do anything but wait to get struck by lightning, that t
urned the tide in favor of the glider gizmos. The faster he was able to get his feet on solid ground, the happier he would be.

  When they were ready, the squad assembled near the cargo hatch they’d used to enter the ship.

  Burke’s on-the-spot decision to go first had been motivated by his desire to lead by example. He didn’t believe in asking his men to do anything that he wasn’t willing and ready to do himself, a principle that became particularly important in situations like this. He knew from past experience that leading in this way would make it easier for the men to step up later if the need arose. Once that decision had been made, it also made sense to leave Sergeant Moore and the professor to bring up the rear; the professor could answer any equipment-related questions that might arise from the rest of the team and Charlie could make sure the others listened when the professor spoke.

  When Burke was ready, Chief Wilson ordered the cargo bay doors to be opened and then escorted Burke over to the drop position. Behind them, the rest of the team was lining up, getting ready for their respective turn in the shoot.

  “We’re going to be leaving a ten-second window between jumpers,” Wilson told him. “That will keep anyone from accidentally jumping too close to the man ahead while also limiting the size of the area your team will be spread across when you reach the ground.”

  Burke nodded to show he understood as he fought to calm his pounding heart. Just a few hours before, he’d done everything he could to keep from taking a swan dive off the ship and now here he was getting ready to voluntarily do the very thing he’d fought so hard to prevent. The irony of his situation was not lost on him.

  With a clank that startled him, the bay doors in the floor in front of him began to slowly draw apart, revealing the thick thunderclouds through which the airship was rapidly descending. The wind howled, buffeting Burke where he stood just a foot away from the opening and making it difficult to hear. Lightning flashed, lighting up the clouds, and Burke began having second thoughts.

  “Steady on, mate,” Wilson shouted while clamping a reassuring hand onto his shoulder. “Once you get through the cloud cover, everything will be much better. Just keep your head on your shoulders and you should be fine.”