“But…”
“Hear me out. These men are trying the best they can. I won’t say they’re doing a good job yet—hell, we’re making this up as we go along—but they are trying. Your job is to lead the Goliath wing in the attack, not boss the deck crews. The best thing you can do right now is button up, take a chew of tobacco and just lean against the bridge there and say nothing. Act like you don’t have a care in the world.
“You did your briefing for your pilots. Once everything is up on deck the waiting begins until the scout plane returns. When it does, if we have them fixed, I want you to just walk over to your plane like you’re going out for a little spin around the field to impress some girl. No fancy speeches, the boys know what it is about now and the odds…”
His voice trailed off and he looked away for a moment.
“By Kesus just don’t get yourself killed. You remind me a bit of old Ferguson, you’ve got a great mind and for my penny’s worth I’d have Keane ground you the moment this is over. So just fly careful, will you?”
Adam nodded, realizing that every word Theodor had said was right.
“Thanks.”
“Hell, I needed to say something. I’m about ready to bust, myself, with the damn waiting.”
Adam looked up at the sky; the afternoon sun was tracking westward. Somewhere, off to their starboard, about eighty miles away, all hell must be breaking loose.
In spite of the fear, Yasim felt compelled to watch. It was a remarkable sight, the swarm of dots on the northern horizon growing larger, coming in. The outer ring of ships were positioned correctly, forming a screen between the main battle line and the coast, which was less than ten miles away.
His own aerosteamers were directly above. He tried to count them; twenty at least still survived. A few of the human aerosteamers, slightly smaller and faster it seemed, were mixed in, tracers streaming back and forth. Even as he watched, one of his flipped over, bursting into flames, and started to spiral downward.
The fight was trivial, unimportant. What was important was the attack coming in, the last desperate gasp according to Admiral Ullani.
Milky white puffs of smoke were igniting in the sky, the outer ring of ships sending up shells from their light guns, tracers streaking into the sky. An airship burst in a silent flash, another exploded seconds later.
They pressed on.
Yasim could not help but feel a touch of pity, of admiration. The attacks, which had been coming in for the last half hour, were completely uncoordinated, three or four planes at a time. The strike by the scout planes had been brilliant, catching them just as they were taking off, breaking up any hope of formation. It was going perfectly, just one more attack to weather and then they would press in to start the bombardment.
The dots were resolving themselves into thin lines, four of them bi-winged aircraft with two engines, and also several smaller, single-engine machines zigzagging back and forth above. And one larger, a four-engine plane almost as big as their own Zhu patrol aircraft.
Now past the outer ring of frigates, they dodged through the inner ring of cruisers, crisscrossing fire dropping one. They were less than a mile off now, leveling out; two sections of two. The four engine machine was joined with a two-engine companion trailing a quarter mile behind the first.
Every gunner forward was ready. He looked down at them, bright shell casings littered the deck from the repulse of the previous attacks.
A command echoed and everyone opened up at nearly the same instant, a staccato thunder, smoke rolling up as twenty gatlings and all the mid-range guns fired; gatlings with tracer rounds, the mid-range guns with explosive shells.
The fire swept out, water spraying up in front of the attacking airships, which continued to press in. Shell bursts blossomed. One of the twin-engine machines disintegrated in a violent explosion. The one behind it flew straight into the expanding ball of fire and debris, then emerged out of the other side, half a wing gone. It rolled up on its side then spun down, cartwheeling into the sea.
It was almost obscenely easy, and he could hear some of his warriors down on the foredeck break into laughter.
The other two banked slightly, swinging out and around the explosion, one of their escorts flying with them. The other two starting to pull up, moving to engage several of his own airships.
The action unfolded before him in a remarkable display of fire and explosions. The range closed rapidly. The two-engine plane started to trail smoke, then simply nosed over and went straight in. The four-engine plane continued to press in. Excited shouts erupted around him, several of his guard moving in closer. He could see flames licking out astern of this last plane. Part of its rudder snapped off, and the plane began to yaw, barely in control, now less than a hundred yards off.
It was a remarkable moment; the huge plane just seemed to hang in the sky, and then it nosed up, four black cylinders detaching. With the release of the weight the plane surged up as it winged over, one engine trailing smoke, tracers stitching through it.
The guards closed in around him, pushing him down on the deck.
He felt two violent jolts in quick succession, and, cursing, stood back up, annoyed by their overzealous efforts.
Two massive columns of water were already cascading down, drenching the deck. One of the single-engine planes appeared to fly right through the spreading mushroom of water, and he watched in disbelief as it flew straight for the bridge. This time he ducked on his own as the plane slammed into the second turret and exploded, hot smoke washing up over him.
He slowly stood up a second time. Bits of burning wreckage were strewn across the top of the turret, burning fuel splashed out into some several of the gatling mounts, when warriors, on fire, writhed in agony. He caught a glimpse of the four-engine machine, trailing smoke, clumsily dodging and weaving to escape, none of his gunners firing for the moment, either stunned by the blasts or the suicidal crash of the fast plane.
Yasim looked around at the officers on the bridge, who were silent.
“They have the spirit of warriors. I hope we have not misjudged this thing.”
The moment the scout plane was in sight, Adam could contain himself no longer. Petronius, bent over a chart showing their position near the eastern end of the Minoan Shoals, gave him a curt nod and said nothing.
Adam stepped out onto the open bridge, joining the signals officer as the single-engine Falcon came spiraling in. A Morse lantern began to flash, the signals officer slowly reading off the message.
“Enemy fleet, seven battleships, fifteen miles south Constantine. While returning observed fires outside city, apparent air battle.”
Petronius, who had stood up from his chart, walked out to join the group and nodded his head.
“We go?” Adam asked excitedly.
“With intelligence, Mr. Rosovich, intelligence, I said.”
“The air corps, sir, the report.”
“That battle is most likely over by now, Rosovich. A battle they were not trained for, I might add.”
Petronius looked over at the sun, nodded his head, and went back to his chart.
Richard, one hand on the controls, reached over to Igor.
“Press it against your chest, damn you!” he cried, “Keep it pressed tight!”
Igor looked at him and actually smiled, frothy bubbles of blood on his lips. He weakly held the bundled up rag Richard was pressing to the hole in the side of his chest.
Igor, his flight overall, the deck, and the gunner’s position behind Richard, were all covered in blood. He had seen thousands die in his youth, but still it never ceased to amaze him just how much blood could pour out of a person before they died.
“Another five minutes, we’ll be down. Ten minutes, they’ll stop the bleeding.”
Igor still smiled. He tried to say something, but couldn’t.
“I need my other hand to fly this,” Richard cried. Letting go of the rag, he slapped his right hand back on the throttles, feeding in more fuel to the in
board engines. The pedals beneath his feet were useless, the cables snapped and the rudder half shot off in the last seconds of his approach.
“I should have just flown this damned crate straight in,” he said. Repeating yet again a litany he had been torturing himself with ever since the bombs had missed.
A few seconds more, just ten seconds, even five and he could have brought them straight into the bridge. He knew it was the emperor’s ship, knew he had seen him. The blast would have taken him, but it would have taken Yasim as well. And where there was Yasim, there was also Hazin.
Then a shot hit the rudder, another shattered the propeller of the already faltering starboard outboard engine, and he could feel the plane mushing into a yaw that would spin out of control. The only thing left was to yank back the stick and try to lob the bombs into the bow, and he had missed.
How he had got them out was still a mystery. There was little return fire on the way back out and he half wondered if the Kazan had fired off far too much ammunition and were ordered not to waste it on cripples that were obviously dying.
Well, this, cripple he planned to bring in. Swinging out wide to avoid most of the frigates, he had finally turned in toward shore. Only then had Igor slipped back down from the gunner’s position, looked at him, and without a word collapsed into the copilot’s chair. Richard instantly realized that the man had remained silent about his wound, not wanting to distract Richard from flying them out.
As for the rest of the crew, he knew Octavian was dead and there was not a word from the Cartha up forward ever since takeoff. Chances were the blast from the exploding Goliath had killed him.
The shore was directly ahead, less than half a mile; the city off to his right, the second airfield, the closer of the two, just a mile back from the beach.
The port outboard engine finally seized and quit, jerking to a stop with such violence that he could feel the shudder run through the entire ship.
That was it. The hydrogen bags had been shot apart, there was no lift left.
The plane began to slip, heading down the last few feet. Cursing, he pulled the stick back, trying to beg just a couple more seconds of flight to put them in on the beach.
The wheels hit the water, snagged, and the massive aerosteamer went in nose first, what was left of the forward windscreen shattering as the ocean swept in.
Unbuckling, he reached over to Igor, unsnapping his harness.
“Come on. You’ve got to help me!” Richard cried.
Holding on to Igor, he kicked his way up through the topside gunner’s hatch and out into the open, somehow managing to hang on to Igor. The airship wasn’t sinking and, for a moment, he was confused. He pulled Igor up and lowered him over the side, then dropped into the water, feet hitting the bottom. He lost Igor for a second then came back up, a wave knocking him over, the aerosteamer surging up and then ever so slowly flipping over onto its back, steam hissing as the water hit the hot engines.
Afraid of getting tangled in the rigging, he let the surf take him, going under, then coming back up again. He caught a glimpse of Igor, floating facedown and swam over to him, pulling his head up out of the water.
“It’s only a few feet more. Hang on!”
He stood up, dragging his companion, another wave knocked him down, but he held on to Igor, letting the surf rush them in to shore.
He felt hands around his waist and saw that half a dozen men were around them.
Their strength was a welcome relief, and he let them carry him the last few yards to safety.
They laid him down on the rocky beach, one of the men holding a bottle, which he gladly took, the rich Greek wine warm and soothing.
They were all talking at once, pointing to the ocean. Not a word they said understandable.
“Igor?” he asked.
They stepped back and saw his companion lying several feet away, arms wide. A Greek woman was kneeling beside the body, already closing the eyes, then making the sign of the cross.
Richard turned his gaze away, looking back out to the sea. The row of battleships were coming straight in. Already some of the frigates were but a mile off shore, opening fire on the city.
We’ve lost, he realized. Everyone dead, and they are here. Hazin is here. I tried to stop him, and it was all useless, bloody useless.
He closed his eyes and, tilting the wine sack up, he drained it.
The wind slashed the length of the deck, the flag of the Republic and the red launch flag standing straight out.
Adam tensed, watching as the last of the Falcons started its roll. The deck beneath them was surging up and down, one second pointing down at the ocean, seconds later pointing up at the late afternoon sky; the red sun almost directly ahead.
The Falcon lifted as the carrier rode up on the crest of a wave, then dropped out from under the aerosteamer.
The launch chief turned, faced Adam, and held his red flag overhead, then twirled it in a circle. Adam rewed up his engines. The chief pointed forward. Adam pushed the throttles the rest of the way. His Goliath, the first in line, started forward.
He carefully watched as the right wing passed within a couple of feet of the bridge. He saw Petronius standing on the open bridge. To his amazement the admiral offered a salute, Theodor by his side, waving.
Adam snapped a salute back, then focused all attention forward, watching the deck surge up and down, speed of his roll out slowing as it pitched up, accelerating as it went down.
His grip on the stick tightened. Even with the wind it was going to be tight. There was no copilot beside him, no top gunner, every pound of weight stripped out except for fuel and what was slung underneath.
Another roll up, then starting down. He tentatively tried backing the stick, hoping to lift as the deck dropped, but he didn’t have enough speed.
The deck continued to pitch down, his own speed picking up, and he rolled right off the end of the ship, heading down toward the foaming sea. Easing back on the stick he leveled out, ever so slowly climbing up to a hundred feet and then leveling off again, heading due west. Overhead the Falcons had formed up, circling around to come in above him. He looked back over his shoulder and caught a glimpse of the next Goliath, throttles full out, coming up to fall in on his left wing.
A half mile off was the second formation from Wilderness, and beyond them the flight from Perryville. Looking to starboard, he could see Malvern Hill, valiantly struggling to come up and join the three aerosteamer carriers, which had leapt ahead to gain position. Two more frigates had fallen in with the group during its dash southward to the edge of the Minoan Shoals, and they were now screening ahead of the main ships, yards bare, running on engines alone into the westerly wind.
Thirty miles to the Three Sisters, then a slow arcing turn out to the northwest, and then finally back in low, and out of the west toward Constantine. Two and a half hours of flying time, then an hour back to the carriers, which would run straight in toward Constantine for the pickup.
Fortunately, the lead pilot of the Falcons was a wizard at navigation. All Adam had to do was fly, and then go straight in on the emperor’s ship if he could find it.
“Hazin!”
A Shiv lookout, up on the forward deck, was pointing off to the North. They were far off, on the other side of the shoals, hardly visible in the mist kicked up by the waves driving into the rocks a mile away.
The dots bobbed and weaved, rising and falling in his vision, and he turned away, shaking.
Was it truly a foretelling? Or fantasy, a dream vision of the future that had taken him to this time and place long years ago? Or was it merely his imagination telling him it was so?
He saw O’Donald down on the deck, attention still focused on the other horizon. The first of the transports was just coming into view, the fifty ships holding the umens of the Shiv.
Hazin could see, too, see him as in the dream, and it fascinated him. Am I the master of my fate, he wondered. Or has fate cast me into this moment, this role that would chan
ge everything.
The gun in the number one turret began to lift up, steam hissing from the exhaust line. The massive thirty-foot-long barrel stopped, and Yasim half turned, covering his ears. There was a blinding flash of light, barrel recoiling, water going flat from the shock wave.
He raised his glasses, training them on the burning city. Explosions were lifting up, fires spreading. Another explosion blew. It was impossible to tell if it was from his ship; at the range of nearly two leagues it was impossible to track where a shell might land. Closer in to shore the cruisers and frigates were attempting to slam aimed shots into the fortifications on the heights beyond the city. Aft, the number four gun now fired, again the shock wave.
For a human city it was actually rather impressive. On one of the hills in the center of the city was a great golden domed building. Yasim had overheard one of the gunnery officers discussing the rivalry between the gunners in the three turrets as to who would hit it first. The fourth turret, damaged by the suicidal pilot, was still out of action. Water was still leaking in from dozens of buckled plates below the waterline, and all pumps were working hard to keep ahead while the chief engineer directed repairs. He had requested that the flagship cease firing, as the vibration of the great guns firing was making the situation difficult to control, but Yasim would not hear of it. Honor demanded that his ship participate in the initial bombardment. At least the fact that the bombardment required slow cruising had helped, the ship barely moved at a league and a half in an hour as it hovered off its target and pounded the city to rubble.
The sun was low on the horizon, illuminating the clouds of smoke from the gunfire and from the burning city, a beautiful sight, worthy of a hada, a seven-line poem of alternating five and seven words.
He tried to compose one even as he watched the billowing explosions, the first spreading across the city, a secondary explosion in what one of the gunnery officers described as most likely the Republic’s main shipyard.
Down to the Sea Page 37
