“Yes, fun,” he admitted. “To a degree.”
Once they reached her, he circled Salissa while his squadron mates set down in the water between her and the shore and were recovered. It would still be bumpy there, but the winds were largely blocked by the bulk of the massive ship. Finally, it was Tikker’s turn. He lined up on the calmer water, fighting the crosswind that would buffet them until they neared the sea, and reduced power. Down they swooped, and he heard Risa shout with glee. Just fifteen feet off the water, he was preparing to cut power even further, when a massive waterspout erupted directly in his path and something tore through the nose of his plane, slashing him along the left forearm. Without thought, he pushed the throttle to the stop and leveled off. More splashes rose, seemingly at random throughout the area of the anchored carriers and their screen. An explosion suddenly rocked Cablaas-Rag-Lan’s USS Scott, and the new frigate coasted to a stop, her fo’c’sle bathed in flames.
“They’re bombs!” Tikker muttered wonderingly, looking at the sky as he pulled back on the stick. “Bombs!” he shouted. “They’re bombs, Risa!”
“Yes!” she shouted back. “Bigger than ours! But where are they coming from?”
“They can only be shells from a mighty ship, like Amagi herself or bombs dropped by aircraft!” He frantically continued searching the sky and the horizon. Nothing!
“What’s that?” Risa yelled.
Tikker turned and saw her pointing almost straight up. He followed her gaze. No! That’s impossible, his mind shrieked. High above, very high, higher than he’d ever flown, thirty or forty massive objects drifted lazily, seemingly effortlessly, eastward. They were long and fat and looked like the “scum weenies” that Laan-yeer, the cook, was always trying to make people eat. They were clearly flying but had no wings!
“Send . . . flying . . . scum weenies are attacking!” he shouted back at Risa.
“I . . . I’ll try!” Risa yelled back as Tikker put the plane in the steepest climb he thought it would handle. He was above the splashes now, and could actually see bombs hurtling down. At that moment, several things happened at once. A strangely formed engine, prop still slowly turning, dropped into the sea, followed by a woven wood contraption of some kind, filled with shrieking Grik. He had no time for the oddity of the sight to register before a bomb erupted directly in the path of another, lower plane, also trying to pull out. The “Nancy” staggered through the spume, but its left wing clipped a wave. Tikker watched in horror as the plane cartwheeled across the sea and literally disintegrated. In the next instant, before he had the slightest opportunity to recover from that awful sight, the horizon before him pulsed with light. A colossal, fiery pyramid of smoke and flame vomited upward and outward from Humfra-Dar , flinging debris, burning planes, unrecognizable fragments, and people through the air like smoldering motes.
“O Maker!” he cried. For an instant, he was too aghast to even remember what he’d been doing. How could one bomb . . . and then he realized. It hadn’t been just one bomb. The 5th, 6th, and 8th Bomb Squadrons of the 2nd Naval Air Wing had been next in the rotation. They’d been on the flight deck, loaded with bombs and fuel . . . “O Maker,” he whispered, “guide their path.” He tried to jam the throttle past its stop, then yanked back on the stick again, blinking furiously through the tears filling his eyes. He had to get up there, where the “flying weenies” were. What he’d do—if he did—he had no idea. The “Nancys” still had no weapons besides bombs, and Tikker was out of those. Risa had a musket . . . Behind him, Risa-Sab-At said nothing.
Baalkpan
Bernard Sandison was a happy man, and he whistled erratically as he walked briskly from his small office in Adar’s Great Hall down the damp, crowded street to the expanding complex past the “Navy Yard” that comprised his “division.” Occasionally, he paused and watched a group of “dames,” newly arrived from Maa-ni-la, being led on tours of the city. Quite a few had wound up working for him in the ammunition factories, and he was admittedly more than a little sweet on a couple. He restrained himself, however. No sense in committing himself so soon when new “drafts” arrived almost daily now. Besides, they all wanted to work and were so willing to please, he wanted to make sure he wasn’t taking advantage of them during this initial, vulnerable time. They’d been virtual slaves in the Empire, and the transition to free citizens with all the rights, benefits—and responsibilities—involved was difficult and confusing for most to adjust to. Not all the guys were so conscientious, and he owled. Dean Laney was probably the worst at “making the most” of the situation, and Bernie meant to have a word with Riggs about that yet again. Laney was such a jerk.
His expression softened as his thoughts returned to other things. The news on all fronts was good—or at least not bad—and he felt that was largely due to his herculean efforts (and those of all the great people he had working for him in Ordnance). He was still mad at Silva for going AWOL, but the new “Allin-Silva” conversions were coming along nicely. A regiment’s worth of the “kits,” consisting of barreled actions with calibrated sights already installed, as well as cast conversion hammers, were now ready for shipment. The next batch would be ready in half the time, and he expected that to improve even more as production hit its stride. Once the “conversions” arrived at the front, troops in the field could simply install the new barrels and hammers themselves in a few minutes’ time, and then send their old barrels back for lining and alteration. It was an elegant solution that would cause no downtime at all. He’d have preferred the .45-70 cartridge for ballistic reasons but settled on what was essentially a .50-80. The extra powder would help make up for the larger diameter, and that diameter would mean the weapons would only be a little heavier than the .60-caliber smoothbores. What extra weight there was would help tame the heavier recoil. He considered it an ingenious compromise, if he did say so himself. No more smoothbore small arms were being made in Baalkpan.
He’d finally solved the problem of making small cartridge cases too, which made him particularly happy. In this, he’d been assisted by a Lemurian bowl maker who applied his own methods to the task. Bernie had no idea how it “should” be done, but what they did was cast brass case heads at the base of a large, thin disc. The case heads, with primer pockets already formed, were clamped in new specialized lathes with a precision template and a long, thin “live” center in the tail stock. After that, they simply spun the lathe and formed the disc into an appropriately shaped tube. The cool thing was, they could make .30-06 and .45 ACP on the same machines since the heads were identical. They just cut the .45s off shorter. Other machines made .30-40 for the Krags, 6.5 for the Japanese rifles salvaged from Amagi, .50 BMG, and some other calibers for the few civilian weapons found on the first visit to Santa Catalina, but most were dedicated to the new .50-80 cartridge. They’d started out making a few hundred shells a day; however, as production expanded, machines were built, and workers trained, they’d be making tens of thousands a day very soon. Of course, then the shells had to be loaded.
The .50-80s would always be fed black powder for pressure reasons, but Bernie’s team had finally created suitable nitrocellulose powders for the remaining “modern” firearms. The testing had destroyed a Krag and split a 1911 at the ejection port, but now they had the formulas and loads down to the point that the weapons functioned properly and trajectories matched the calibrated sights. New, fixed ammunition was coming out of Baalkpan Arsenal for the first time. Bernie wasn’t satisfied with that. He was still improving the explosive rounds for the four-inch-fifties and the salvaged Japanese guns, as well as the mortars and bombs. They were still stuck with muzzle-loading, smoothbore artillery for the foreseeable future, but he was making progress toward rifled guns, and ultimately, rifled breechloaders. He was even close to testing new torpedoes at long last. That would make Captain Reddy smile, he knew. He frowned. Captain Reddy may not smile when he finds out about some of the other “projects” Adar’s got me working on. But Adar’s Chairman of the Gr
and Alliance, and it makes sense to have the stuff, even if we never use it, Bernie supposed. And it’s not as though we can transmit to the Skipper—and even if we could, other folks would know. . . .
He avoided a mud puddle and hurried on.
The other “divisions” hadn’t been idle, he confessed to himself. New ships were coming off the ways, some with bolt-on armor protecting their engineering spaces. They’d finally located and literally hoisted shattered Mahan from the waters of the bay, using two Homes to place her on one of the new floating dry docks. Now the debate raged as to whether they should rebuild her, or incorporate her machinery in new construction. The latter seemed to be the consensus regarding S-19. She was so badly damaged—and nobody but Laumer and a few others really wanted a sub. Riggs and Rodriguez had made electric arc searchlights to replace the one Walker lost and equip new ships with the simple, powerful lights. Based on the USAAF SCR-284 sets that came with the P-40s, Riggs was also on the brink of completing real-voice radios.
Yes, things were going well and Bernie was happy, but that happiness came with a measure of anxiety. It seemed every time they got an edge, the Grik came up with some way to negate or match it, and he couldn’t help wondering what they had come up with in the equally abundant time they’d had to plot and scheme. He snorted. Whatever it is, they’ll be hard-pressed to match us this time! Through the crowd, he caught sight of Riggs and Rodriguez making to cut him off. Speak of the devil, he thought. Despite the heat of the day, he felt a chill when he noticed their expressions.
“C’mon, Bernie!” Riggs said urgently. “We’re headed for the Great Hall.”
“I just came from there! I have work. . . .”
Without a word, Riggs thrust a sweat-darkened message form into his hand.
FROM KEJE-FRIS-AR CINCWEST AND CMDR FIRST FLEET X TO ALL STATIONS X
SUBJECT GENERAL ALARM X
AT 0855 THIS DAY A LARGE FORMATION GRIK REPEAT GRIK DIRIGIBLES REPEAT DIRIGIBLES ATTACKED FIRST FLEET WITH HEAVY BOMBS FROM HIGH ALTITUDE ESTIMATED 15000 FEET X
SEAPLANE CARRIER HUMFRA-DAR DESTROYED WITH ENTIRE 2ND NAVAL AIR WING MINUS SQUADRONS ALOFT THAT WERE RECOVERED ABOARD SALISSA X FEWER THAN 300 SURVIVORS X RESERVE CAPTAIN GERAN-ERAS AND COFO LT CMDR ALFRED VERNON USN MISSING AND PRESUMED LOST X SERIOUS DAMAGE ALSO SUSTAINED TWO DDS X MINOR DAMAGE SUSTAINED SEVERAL AUXILIARIES X
NO EFFECTIVE ANTIAIR EFFORT POSSIBLE BUT CAPTAINS JIS-TIKKAR AND RISA-SAB-AT DESERVE NOTICE FOR CLOSE INSPECTION AND DESCRIPTION OF AIRSHIPS AS WELL AS SENDING ONE OUT OF CONTROL WITH MUSKET FIRE X NUMEROUS OTHER ENEMY CRAFT DESTROYED BY INEXPERIENCED HANDLING X EXAMPLE: RAPID UNCONTROLLED ASCENT AFTER DROPPING BOMBS APPARENTLY CAUSED CATASTROPHIC STRUCTURAL FAILURE AT LEAST SIX (6) GRIK ZEPPELINS X
DESCRIPTION GRIK ZEPPELINS: APPROXIMATELY 100 TAILS (YARDS) LONG WITH 4 TAIL-MOUNTED CONTROL SURFACES AND 5 HORIZONTALLY OPPOSED TWO-CYLINDER ENGINES X COMMODORE ELLIS DESCRIBES AS “STUMPY VERSIONS OF ACRON OR MACON” X
MAJORITY OF SURVIVING AIRSHIPS RETIRED 345 DEGREES RELATIVE OUR POSITION TOWARD MAINLAND X SOME CONTINUED ON BEARING OF 115 DEGREES POSSIBLE TARGET ANDAMAN X
br/>
DO NOT REPEAT DO NOT ASSUME THIS IS ONLY RAID X MAKE ALL PREPARATIONS FOR ATTACKS SINGAPORE ARYAAL BAALKPAN X JAP ADVISOR KUROKAWA MUST BE INVOLVED SO REMEMBER JAP AFFINITY FOR COORDINATED AIR ATTACKS X
CINCWEST SENDS X
“Oh my God!” Bernie breathed. “Zeppelins! It makes perfect sense, though. No Grik’s ever going to sit in the cockpit of a proper plane. Look, you guys go ahead! I’ll run out to the airfield and give Mallory the dope! We can’t let those bastards hit us here! Not now!”
“Relax, Bernie. We’re hardwired to Ben’s CP from the comm center. He’s already got the word and says he can get four ships in the air if he has to. He’ll have them armed and prepped just in case the red rockets go up. Everybody’s watching the sky, and we’ve already diverted a squadron of PatWing One ‘Nancys’ on a training flight. More planes’ll be up within the hour.”
“Okay, I’ll come with you,” Bernie said, relenting, but then his face turned ashen as he stared toward the Great Hall. Red rockets arced from under the boughs of the Sacred Tree, and others flew skyward from Fort Atkinson and several other designated OPs. “Shit!” he said as the popping sounds of the rockets reached them and general alarm bells began clattering across the city. High above, barely visible in the west-southwest, a jumbled school of what looked like giant fish emerged from the late-afternoon haze.
“Son of a bitch!” Riggs swore. “I didn’t really believe they’d come here! No way they’re the same ones that hit First Fleet! How many of the damn things can they have?” He paused. “Okay, guys. Do not go to the Great Hall! The last thing we need is everybody under one bomb! I’m heading back to the comm center!” He looked at the two men. “Go wherever you want, but split up! And pass the word to anybody you meet: take cover!”
Kaufman Field Baalkpan
Ben Mallory dropped his coffee mug on the table in the shade when the alarm bells began ringing and the rockets popped over the city. The cof- fee spilled across the table and dripped on the ground. “Jumbo!” he shouted at a tall, still-emaciated lieutenant who’d recently arrived from Maa-ni-la. The man had supposedly been a good pilot despite his regulation-busting six-foot-two frame, but he was still in no condition to try out for the P-40s. “Get over to Flight Ops and warm up the radio!” They had one of the spare radios configured for ground use, with a hand crank and dynamo. He looked at Soupy, Mackey, and “Shirley”—the shortest female ’Cat in the Air Corps—and the only other person besides himself and the previous two yet qualified in the P-40E. They’d all been gathered in the shade, waiting, since the first alert. “Let’s do it,” he said a little nervously. “If they’re popping rockets, the damn things must be in sight!”
Together, the four fliers, two human and two ’Cats, ran to the four planes parked two by two out on the strip. Ben leaped onto the trailing edge of the port wing near the fuselage of the plane now sporting a big white cursive M painted on the cowl, and stepped into the cockpit. He immediately flipped the battery switch on and reached for the primer handle with his left hand, unlocked it, and pumped it vigorously to give the engine a good gulp of fuel. Still pumping, his right hand found the starter switch under the throttle quadrant and flipped it from Off down to Energize. The high-pitched, dynamo starter wound up and Ben realized he hadn’t been counting thepriming “shots” he’d sent the big Allison V-1710 in front of him. If he’d given it too much, there’d likely be an induction fire.
“Crap!” he growled aloud. What a “newie” mistake! Of course, he was a “newie” when it came to a combat scramble! Thinking the number felt about right, he locked the handle with a twist and pushed the throttle forward about an inch. The dynamo had reached a fever pitch. “Clear prop!” he yelled, moving the starter switch to Engage. The plane shook violently when the clutch grabbed, and the three-bladed Curtiss electric prop began to turn. The engine chugged, popped, and then several loud blasts blew soot out the exhaust stacks and the big prop blurred. Quickly, he pushed the mixture to Auto Rich, released the starter switch, and jockeyed the throttle. “C’mon!” The Allison blatted up to 900 rpm, let out a string of explosive farts, then stopped firing. “Goddamn crappy gas!” he shouted in frustration, unlocking the primer pump again and waiting for it to refill while the prop windmilled down. He jammed the handle forward, eased the throttle just above idle, and the engine finally caught and roared to life. It hadn’t rained in two days, and a white cloud of dust erupted and gushed aft of the plane.
He buckled the lap belt, looking left and a little behind at the ship beside him. Soupy’s engine was alive, beginning to behave, and the ’Cat was looking nervously around, bouncing up and down on his cushion and parachute, trying to settle himself. Ben’s ears reddened when he saw Lieutenant Mackey in his mirror, looking back at him. Mack was grinning, his engine running smoothly. The prop on Shirley’s ship was still turning on its starter, and Sergea
nt Dixon trotted out where Ben could see him, shaking his head and waving them on. Mallory nodded irritably and stirred his stick, then lowered the flaps. They’d learned from experience to take off side by side, a little staggered—and try to leave the dust-spewing, chip-throwing strip as quickly as they could. Mackey, as tail end Charlie, would wait until the dust settled. Someday they’d have a grass strip, but in the short term, “paving” and rolling the crushed limestone and coral they had plenty of was easier than grading, filling a billion stump holes, rolling the soft earth—and then waiting for grass to grow. Ben held his brakes for a brief mag check and listened while the others did the same, then pushed the throttle forward. The plane didn’t move!
Damn it! The chocks! He pulled the throttle back to idle, cursing his jitters, but saw a ’Cat emerge from under the right wing, the triangular blocks from the left main already in his hand. He made a “hold on” motion, and pulled the right chocks from under the plane by the rope connecting them. Pitching the bundle of wooden blocks aside, he came to attention and saluted with a toothy grin. Ben grinned back, relieved, and returned the salute. Glancing at Soupy again, he briskly pointed down the strip.
The ’Cat nodded back; Ben shoved the throttle forward in a fluid motion and the Allison roared. The sudden noise and wind blast painfully reminded him he’d made another “newie” mistake. He’d neglected to don the leather helmet, headphones, and goggles still on his lap! Oh well, that would have to wait, but the noise was physically painful. He fed in a little left rudder as the plane accelerated, and he brought the tail up. Now he could see the strip in front of him when the P-40’s long nose leveled out, and he danced on the rudder pedals to keep it straight. Another quick glance showed him Soupy still beside him and not lost in the growing dust cloud.
Firestorm Page 46
