Firestorm

by Anderson, Taylor

  The plane got light on the gear and he eased back on the stick, lifting off and accelerating. The “Nancy” hangars by the river were geing larger, but he waited a moment longer to make sure his ship wouldn’t bounce. Satisfied, he tapped the toe brakes to stop the spinning wheels, depressed the gear handle locking pin, and pulled the lever up. His head bobbled like a gobbler in a turkey shoot so he could keep track of his surroundings and watch the multitude of gauges, and he squeezed the hydraulic pump switch low on the stick that both raised the landing gear and allowed him to milk the flaps while the ship gained more speed. He confirmed that the strange landing gear position indicator was telling the truth when the left main completed its rotation and clunked into the port wing, followed moments later by the starboard, and the Gear Unsafe light went out. Now, with everything up, he had to resist the temptation to lift the nose and go straight at the enemy. He needed speed first; then he’d claw for altitude. He pushed the throttle past the established thirty-five inches of manifold pressure and immediately a loud glacker-ing sound reached him even over the buffeting wind and now almost-agonizing exhaust. “Goddamn crummy gas!” he yelled again, unheard even by himself. He backed the throttle down half an inch or so, and the detonation quit. Guess we’ll have to settle for what we’ve got, he thought, finally closing the canopy and muffling the terrible noise.

  Airspeed passed 190 as he roared over the river at a hundred fifty feet—just enough to clear the highest trees on the other side. At 220, he pulled the nose up about thirty degrees, and the altimeter needles spun as he shot upward. The airspeed was holding and he trimmed her up. Finally he had a chance to put his helmet on. That helped a lot. He could actually hear himself think. Climbing through five thousand feet, his speed started bleeding and he advanced the throttle. The manifold pressure had been dropping about an inch per thousand feet, and now it came back up—but the engine started clattering again! If the detonation continued, it could overheat the engine, burn a hole in a piston, or—according to the manual—even blow a cylinder head off the block! He’d honestly never considered the possibility he’d have to climb this fast, this high, on this world for any reason, but he wasn’t even half as high as the bizarre gaggle of Grik airships looming ever closer to Baalkpan.

  I’ve got to get up there! he raged. He had one trick left, something he hadn’t tried since that first, short flight when he was trying to impress Adar. He shoved the mixture control into the manual, Full Rich position. This was usually an emergency setting for low altitude when the auto feature failed due to a ruptured diaphragm in the controller. Normally, it would flood the engine or foul the plugs, but . . . What the hell. In this situation, the Devil’s gonna take the hindmost! He was almost surprised when the detonation quit. He pushed the throttle forward and still didn’t hear any clatter. A grin formed, and he eased the prop control back to 2,600 rpm. Not only did the engine still sound happy, but there was a definite increase in thrust. He raised the nose slightly and the speed settled at 160. Satisfied at last with his ship’s performance, he activated the Bendix hydraulic gun-charging system. His plane was armed with only two guns, but it had extra ammunition. None were incendiary rounds since today they’d been loaded for more ground attack training.

  They were lucky to have any bullets to train with at all and wouldn’t have if Bernie hadn’t solved the ammo issues. As it was, they had one precious tracer for every six rounds. Those damn Grik zeps had to be filled with hydrogen . . . didn’t they? A tracer ought to light that . . . shouldn’t it? One way or another, their fifties would shred them, he was sure. He held the Squeeze to Talk switch on the throttle knob to report what he’d done to overcomeetonation issues and called “Tally ho!” on the Grik airships, just now beginning to move over the city. There had to be twenty or more.

  “All right, you lizardy bastards! Let’s see how your balloons stand up to flasher fish!”

  Mack had joined on Soupy’s left wingtip, and the three P-40Es scorched across the sky and plunged into combat. If the Grik dirigibles had been a surprise to the allies, Ben’s new toys came as a very rude shock to the enemy. One of the strange airships appeared in Ben’s excellent (but according to Mack, dangerous in a crash) gunsight, and he fired a burst into the thing. Both his guns responded, and the target immediately seemed to become misshapen. One of its engines fell off and became entangled in some sort of netting that covered the craft. The red tracers bored in, smoking white, and what began as a blue flicker above the odd “gondola” erupted into an orange torrent of flame, and the craft sagged in the middle as the fire raced fore and aft. Soupy’s voice reached him through his earphones, screeching with glee as two more zeppelins gushed flames. Ben shredded another himself as the planes blew through the ragged formation that scattered before them like terrified, lethargic fish. They did look something like fish, Ben thought as he avoided debris that both rose and fell. They weren’t perfectly cylindrical but had an oval cross section. He briefly wondered what advantage that shape might provide.

  There was no time to ponder that; dark objects began falling from the survivors of the first pass, plummeting toward the city below, and all three planes climbed slightly and stood on their right wings to tighten their turns for another strike. “Reduce speed!” he ordered. “We have to spend more time shooting! Did anybody see anything that looked like weapons on those things?”

  “No weapons I see!” Soupy answered. “Look at that one! And that one! They go up! I chase?”

  Ben watched as several airships almost rocketed higher into the sky as their bombs tumbled away. “No, leave ’em for now. They’ve already dropped their bombs, and they’re probably goners, anyway. Look at the junk falling off them! They can’t take that kind of upward acceleration! They get high enough, their gas bags’ll crack ’em wide-open! Concentrate on the ones with bombs!”

  The formation had completely broken with that first pass, and the Grik were now flying in all directions, dropping their bombs as fast as they could. Ben destroyed two more in rapid succession, then stitched another that had already dropped, but had apparently dumped enough gas to prevent a catastrophic climb. He made sure it went down in flames. No sense in letting any “smart” ones survive! Mack torched three in quick succession, and Ben could only marvel at the guy’s gunnery skills. He’d already learned the man was a hell of a pilot.

  “They make for shipyard!” Soupy squealed, tearing into another zeppelin that was dropping right then but maintaining its altitude . . . at least until its aft end bowed under a torrent of fire. “We eat them up!” Soupy yelled. “This big skuggik shoot!”

  Ben was turning again, lining up on a pair of airships heading for the airstrip, when he happened to glance down. He gulped. Smoke was rising all over the city like malignant gray-black toadstools. “Shut up!” he shouted. “Maybe we’re eating them up, but they’re pasting our goddamn Home! Quit crowing and kill them!”

  “Colonel,” Mack’s voice sounded. “You’re not going to believe this, but something just dropped out of the sky and knocked a hole the size of a baseball in my left wing!I’m losing fuel.”

  “Okay, Mack, set her down. You’ve done a swell job. Soupy and I can handle the rest of these freaks. Looks like just a couple left, anyway. Over.”

  “Wilco, Colonel. You guys didn’t do too shabby yourselves. I’ll see you on the ground!”

  “Roger, and out!” Ben said, opening up on the last two airships he could see, even as their bombs dropped away. One ship lit off, and it was close enough to its companion to ignite the gas it was venting. The combined fireball was enough, finally, to make Ben whoop. “Anything else, Soupy?”

  “No, Colonel. Nothing near our level. A few still high up, but pieces falling off, so watch out!”

  “Yeah. Don’t want a whole engine falling on us! Let’s scout around a bit, all the same. There may be stragglers, or even another whole batch behind this one.”

  “Ah, Roger, but if that’s true, I better get more bullets!”

&
nbsp; “You shot yourself dry?”

  “Not completely.”

  Ben sighed. “Okay. We’ll touch all the bases and head for the barn. The rest of PatWing One ought to be up by now. Maybe they’re looking in the right direction this time—up!” It had occurred to him that the attackers had to have flown over at least a few of the patrol ships, and their pilots simply hadn’t imagined anything flying higher than they did.

  “Colonel Mallory.” Jumbo’s voice suddenly came through Ben’s earphones. It sounded strained. “This is Kaufman Field Flight Ops. Be advised, a few bombs hit the strip and there’re some craters. There’s a clear lane, and we’ll mark the damage, but just . . . be careful. Over.”

  “Roger, Kaufman Field. Soupy? Go ahead and take your ship down. Mack’s dust should be clear by the time you get there, and yours’ll be gone by the time I come in.”

  Ben flew a little longer, enjoying the responsive fighter and his sense of accomplishment. He’d finally fought his first real air action, and although the targets had been sitting ducks, the threat had been real and the stakes enormous. It was a big deal. Only a couple of the enemy could have escaped, and only if they’d gained control of their airships before they came apart, high above. Even then, where would they go? He was pretty sure this part of the Grik blitz had been a suicide mission. He couldn’t imagine they’d have the fuel to return after what had to be one of the longest flights in the history of this world. He looked down. The damage below looked bad, and fires started by the bombs and fallen airships blazed vigorously here and there. The shipyard seemed to have been spared, but it looked like at least one of the zeppelins had gone down right near the airstrip. Other than a corner of the Ordnance complex, it looked like the worst hit were civilian areas. Of course, damage always looks worse from the air, he consoled himself.

  Finally, he turned for home, descending rapidly. He’d been right. The damage did look worse from higher up, where the smoke clouds broadened and made the fires look worse than they were. There was damage, sure, but he was proud they’d prevented far worse. Gear down, flaps down, he brought his “M” plane fluttering (and blatting loudly, still Full Rich) in over the airstrip. The dust had settled, but smoke was thick. At least the new craters had been well marked with red flags. Then, just as Ben’s tires touched the crushed, packed strip, and his own dust cloud bloomed behind, he saw that what he’d taken for a burning airship wasn’t an airship at all, but one of his precious P-40s lying twisted and scattered, the main portion of its corpse on its back, beyond one of the relatively small rock-filled cavities in the strip. Stunned, he let his plane roll nearly to a stop, then stood on the brakes. Letting off, he gunned his engine and turned toward the wreckage.

  Black smoke still roiled skyward, but the fire had largely burned itself out. All that remained were the charred bones of a plane. He killed the Allison, slammed his canopy back, and stood in the cockpit. He couldn’t tell whose plane it had been . . . until Soupy ran up and leaped on the wing beside him, his furry face wet with tears.

  “Jumbo say he touch down just as bombs hit,” Soupy almost moaned. “Big smoke, big dust.” He shook his head, blinking. “He say even if he go full throttle then, he still hit hole. He screwed.”

  Jumbo, Sergeant Dixon, Shirley, and many more began gathering around Ben’s plane, and he removed his helmet and dropped it on the seat. Stepping out, he saw many tears—but none on Sergeant Dixon’s expressionless face. The man seemed to notice the scrutiny and managed only a shrug.

  “Mack was a swell guy, Colonel,” he said roughly, “but I can’t tell you how many times I saw this exact same scene in the Philippines before the Japs caught us. So many swell guys . . . An’ then with all that happened on that goddamn Jap ship . . . I just . . . I ain’t got any tears left, ya know? I’ve bled ’em all out.” He turned to the others, ’Cats and humans. “An’ I won’t cry a tear for you neither, none of you! I’ll help keep these planes going until every last one is gone, because there’s a war on and . . . Here we are. Beats where we were. But I’ll spit on the bones of the next bastard that dies—and takes a good ship with him—’cause if he’s dead, he ain’t killin’ those Jap-Grik bastards that just killed my friend!”

  With that, Sergeant Dixon wheeled and stormed off in the direction of the hangars. Jumbo started to follow, but Ben called him back. “Leave him be, Lieutenant. I guess we all know how he feels. There’s not a soul here who hasn’t lost somebody in this damn war. Now we’ve lost somebody else. We’ll bury him in the old Parade Ground Cemetery, beneath the Great Tree . . . and pray we all don’t run out of tears before this war’s done.”

  CHAPTER 23

  Scapa Flow New Scotland Empire of the New Britain Isles

  It was Sunday, February 13, 1944, by the New Britain calendar when Governor-Emperor Gerald McDonald observed USS Walker steaming slowly toward the mouth of Scapa Flow. He’d been staring through his telescope in the “observatory” atop Government House all morning, anticipating the landfall, and he’d even taken his breakfast there. Others were with him, anxiously drinking cooled tea in the warm breeze that ruffled curtains and papers through the large wide shutters.

  “There they are, at last!” he announced triumphantly. “Coming straight in! The glass is fixed upon them!” With some difficulty, he stirred from his chair—brushing off Ruth McDonald’s assistance—and heaved himself up on his crutches. “You needn’t mother me, my dear,” he said, glancing with a smile and thankful wonder once again at Princess Rebecca, the daughter who’d been returned to them at last. She’d grown so much, in so many ways, and he sometimes had difficulty believing she was really back. “I ge quite enough of that from your child—not to mention that tyrannical individual Captain Reddy forced upon me!”

  Selass-Fris-Ar blinked disdain and harrumphed in a very human fashion. She hadn’t been just a nurse to the Governor-Emperor, of course. Most of her time was spent dealing with the horrendous casualties of the New Ireland campaign, but she did check on him every day. Today she’d lingered longer than usual.

  Hobbling aside, Gerald McDonald’s eyes rested on Sandra Tucker. “Would you like to have a look, Minister?” he asked softly.

  Sandra stood, exhausted but full of nervous energy. She’d been even busier than Selass. First, she’d chased after Shinya’s division as soon as she was allowed, arriving in New Dublin with most of Maaka-Kakja’s medical division just as the fighting in the city came to an end. She’d grown accustomed to war and all its associated horrors: the wreckage of ships, cities, and the combatants themselves. However, she hadn’t seen anything like New Dublin since the Battle of Baalkpan. That the majority of the dead and wounded were humans had come as a shocking reminder that not only Grik were savages. The devastation of the once almost-idyllic city was nearly complete, and people crept among the ruins like tentative, curious specters. She’d been particularly horrified to see so many people hanging from tree limbs or anything else that was handy. While treating some of Chack’s wounded in a central square, she’d asked a man and his sons, cobblers by trade, about it. “Damn Dom collaborators!” had been the simple response. She doubted if any “rebels” who’d helped subjugate the people of New Ireland would last very long. Since then, there’d been the usual, endless procession of maimed bodies for her to attend.

  Now she managed a thankful smile for the Governor-Emperor. “Yes, please,” she said mildly to hide her anxiety, and peered through the large brass contraption.

  As always it seemed, when Walker—and Captain Matthew Reddy—returned from action, the poor old ship looked like hell, and her heart jumped into her throat. Once again, Walker was streaked with rust from her long voyage, and her slightly rumpled shape and ragged superstruc- ture testified to the beating she’d taken at the climax of the fight as she’d battled to save her consorts. In the end, there’d been no choice but to risk herself to the enemy guns, and she’d taken quite a thrashing. Only her speed and careful handling saved her.

  “Oh, Matt,” Sa
ndra whispered sadly. She couldn’t see him yet, couldn’t make out any of the figures on deck, but she already knew he was alive at least, and she also knew, somehow, he’d be staring back at her. Cheering erupted outside again as news of the arrival began to spread. The city had been wild with excitement after the old destroyer drew near enough to send a report of the terrible Battle of Monterey Bay and of the fierce but short series of actions south of Saint Francis. Costly lessons had been learned in each battle, doubtless by both sides, but for now there was victory—and a breathing spell for the first time since the war exploded on the Imperial Dueling Grounds. There’d be sadness when details of the fighting and the cost became known, she knew, but for now, there was joy.

  Two undamaged Imperial frigates, detailed by Commodore Jenks from a late-arriving element of Home Fleet, escorted the wounded ship. Battered as she was, it was obvious to Sandra that Walker was creeping along for the benefit of her companions.

  She stepped back from the eyepiece. “Thank you, Your Majesty,” she said, eyes glistening. “I think I’ll go down to the American dck in the Navy Yard now.”

  Rebecca had moved to the glass. “As will I,” she said softly.

  “As shall we all!” Gerald proclaimed. “It’s the very least we can do!”

  For a while, it was like a reunion of old friends at the “American” dock, but the gathering quickly became a crowd. Salaama-Na was there, undergoing repairs after the pounding she’d taken from the New Ireland forts, and Maaka-Kakja had arrived two days before, the “mop-up” of New Ireland complete. The island was swamped with Lemurian sailors and Marines on liberty, much to the genuine delight of the populace, and the two massive Lemurian ships dominated the harbor and dwarfed all other vessels there. Not everyone was present, of course, and two of the most keenly felt absences were Fred Reynolds and Kari-Faask. They’d become very popular in the fleet, New Scotland, and on Walker in particular. But the reunion was still jubilant because many of the others hadn’t seen one another in a long, long time.