Ride of the Valkyries

by Stuart Slade

  "They might be peeved but it's not worth all this. Anyway, they probably regard living in Siberia as worse than death. The nearest approach to Italian food out there is Pizza-Dacha. While we're all together, anybody got any other issues they want to bring up? By the way, if anybody wants to look around the basement, ask Lillith and she'll take you down in groups."

  Administrative Corridor, National Security Council Building, Washington D. C.

  Naamah sighed and padded down the corridor. The last of their guests were gone, probably back to their homes to savor the memory of a brief trip to the NSC Building. It had been hard work, something of a risk to bring that many non-cleared people into the building but worth it. Lillith was sprawled out on a couch somewhere, resting her feet. Meetings were hard on her, even after all these years.

  "Naamah, have you got a moment?" Nefertiti's rich gentle voice interrupted the reflections.

  "Sure Neffie."

  "If you could step into my office?" Nefertiti's office was dominated by a painting of the pyramids. Not as they were now, yellow with age and ragged but as they'd been when they were new. Coated with limestone and blinding white in the sun. "Would you like some tea?"

  "Yes please. Meetings like that leave my mouth dry."

  "Me too, I've just brewed a fresh pot." Nefertiti poured two cups out and put honey in hers, lemon in Naamah's. "Naamah, what did you think of Achillea's little dig at the Seers ability to shoot straight?"

  Naamah didn't need to think. "It was uncalled-for and wrong for her to say that. As it happens it isn't true, he's a pretty good shot but even if it was true, she shouldn't have said so. Wrong time, wrong place."

  "So why do you think she said it?"

  "Achillea judges everybody by her own standards and they're very, very high. She's a natural with weapons, give her one and, whatever it is, she can use it like a veteran in 20 minutes. She's the only person I know who can stand up against Henry in a walk-down with a gun. And she has no empathy, no sense of what others feel. She judges by her own standards, appropriate or not and doesn't hide the verdict."

  "So, Naamah, you say Achillea was wrong in judging others by too high a standard and making that judgment public. So why do you do the same about President-Elect Nixon?"

  Naamah started and put her cup down carefully. "I wasn't aware I had."

  "‘If his IQ was any lower, we'd have to water him." And a few other choice verdicts. Oh, they're all inside our circle and they'll never leak out. They're still not fair Naamah and you shouldn't say them - or even think them."

  Nefertiti sighed. "Look, Naamah, you were incredibly lucky. Your first husband was a genius, a man far ahead of his time. A superb intellect, a charismatic manner and a character that was wholly admirable. He was a very hard act to follow and I don't think you've ever found his equal. But you're judging people by his standard and finding them wanting. You shouldn't be doing that.

  "I said you were lucky, perhaps you weren't. My first husband was a congenital idiot, literally, not metaphorically. Physically, mentally, morally; he was the ultimate shallow end of the gene pool. After him, anything was an improvement. A camel would have been an improvement. So instinctively I don't look for any better and so it's a surprise when I get some progress over that dismal start.

  "‘You're judging Nixon, and the other politicians we deal with, by the standards of your Sammael, just as Achillea judges the Seer's shooting by her own unequaled expertise. You can't do that. The way the American system works, they select their politicians from their population. We didn't grow up that way, but it's the world we live in. Some of the people they select are good, some are bad, most are average. Most are a mixture of all three. Part of our job is to help them grow into their jobs. To curb, ever so gently, the parts that are bad, and encourage, ever so softly, the parts that are good. That's why we're working so hard to get ourselves where we are.

  "Naamah, you may think what you say and think about Nixon are private and for our ears only but they're not. They come out in your bearing and how you act. Nixon will spot them, he won't know why but he'll spot them. He won't trust you and you won't be able to do your job."

  "He doesn't trust me now. He doesn't trust anybody."

  "I know. That makes your job harder, being sarcastic about him to others makes it harder still. He's your principal Naamah, it is up to you to work with him. And that means not harping on his limitations, and I agree there is enough there to keep you harping for his full term. Probably both if he gets re-elected. The Seer doesn't think he will by the way. It's your job to compensate for his limitations and exploit his skills. Make him grow into his office."

  Naamah sipped her tea and thought carefully. The companionable silence grew as she reflected on Nefertiti's words and the truth of them slowly sank in. "You know Neffie, you would have been an expert psychiatrist."

  Nefertiti snorted at the idea. "Naamah, give Nixon a chance. Everybody deserves that."

  N5M3 Ohtori Seaplane Fighter "105", Final Approach, Ulithi Atoll

  Carrier pilots liked to claim that landing on an aircraft carrier at night was the most stressful of all aviation feats. They'd obviously never tried landing a seaplane fighter under the same conditions. Lieutenant Toda Endo had learned from experience just how difficult "landing" his Ohtori at night could be. There was rarely a distinct horizon, the sea and sky blended into each other with a diffuse, ambiguous separation at best. Lights reflecting off the swell added to the illusions, creating shadows that suggested obstructions where none existed and hid those that lay in wait for the unwary.

  The swell added problems. When landing, the fighter's hydroski had to make its first touch at the crest of a wave. That way, the aircraft would skip from wavetop to wavetop until its speed had dropped to the point where it could settle into the water. If the pilot mistimed it, if he put the hydroski into the trough between waves, the speed of his aircraft would drive the ski tip deep into next swell. That swell would then break over the ski and pull it and the aircraft down to destruction. Toda had seen that happen; a fighter cartwheeling across the sea as it broke up. No, Toda though, carrier pilots had it easy. Even on night landings.

  Which was why, of course, the Japanese Navy had its seaplane fighter pilots practice night landings so often. Once Japan's seaplane fighters had been treated as a joke; slow, clumsy, quite outclassed by their land- and carrier-based opponents. The jet engine and the hydroski had changed all that. Now the seaplane fighters were the fastest and most effective air superiority aircraft the Japanese Navy had.

  The N5M3 was 450 kph faster than the carrier-based A13M, could out-turn, out-climb and out-dive it. Most Japanese seaplane pilots reckoned their mount could hold its own against the American F8U Crusader; although they were careful not to add that the F8U was already considered obsolescent and quickly vanishing from American service. Its successor, the F9U Super-Crusader was a much more threatening opponent. Japan had its answer to that aircraft as well: the N6M Tsurugi. That fighter was taking a long time to reach the operational squadrons. Until it arrived, the Ohtori was the best fighter the Japanese Navy had. Or so its pilots claimed.

  Toda completed his pre-landing circuit. All was well; the two brilliantly-lit seaplane tenders in the atoll were clearly visible. The landing zone was free of obstructions, although there were other Ohtori s docked by the tenders and more had been craned on board for maintenance. And there was an H8K6-L transport flying boat anchored to one side. An old, piston-engined Kawanishi, withdrawn from front-line service but still serving the Emperor as a transport and liaison aircraft. Probably had flown out with orders and new personnel, Toda thought.

  The Japanese Navy didn't like using radio or telegraph for secret messages. The Australians were just too good at eavesdropping. Relying on people wasn't really much safer though. When it came to buying people's treachery, the damned Thais had less conscience than a drunken salaryman looking for a bedmate. They'd pay anybody for their services. No Japanese would sell the Emperor'
s secrets of course. Would the Chinese? Or the Koreans? They would. And the Vietnamese would give them away out of spite.

  Final approach now. Toda dropped his eyes to his instruments, keeping his fighter level, wings parallel to the horizon, nose up just a touch. This was another place where pilots died. They placed their faith in their feelings; followed their instincts, not their instruments. They tried to fly ‘by the seat of their pants.' Because feelings without external references were treacherous, they lost orientation, lost control of their aircraft and crashed. Toda did not intend to do that; he kept his eyes riveted on his instruments. The new Tsuragi had a head-up display; the readings of the key instruments projected on the windscreen. The Ohtori lacked that refinement.

  Instead, the pilot had to look down, with just quick glances outside. If he did it right, he was rewarded by the first lurch and hiss as the hydroski touched the surface of the water. Toda was rewarded, he caught the swell perfectly, his ski just kissing the top of the wave. Almost without thinking he cut the power back to idle and popped his drag chute.

  Now there were a serious of jolts, each one pounding his spine as his Ohtori skipped across the waves. He'd left his instruments now and was watching outside for something, anything, to go wrong. The slamming changed, the initial sharp blows being replaced by longer, deeper, softer ones as the fighter settled in the water. Then, the motion changed as the N5M3 settled down in the water and floated on its belly. It wallowed in the waves, not bouncing on top of them. Toda jettisoned his chute, knowing that one of the small service craft would already be heading out to pick it up and pulled up the lever that retracted his hydroski.

  His Ohtori was floating with its wing leading edge just half a meter above the water, the trailing edge on the surface. All it needed was a touch of power and he was ‘sailing' towards his tender. The Chiyoda, was one of two that provided the floating base for the 48 fighters of the Takao Kokutai. Chitose and Chiyoda were painfully old ships, more than 40 years of service behind them, but they still did their job. Of the 24 fighters based on Chiyoda, three were still on a night training mission, 16 were anchored by the tender and four were up on deck for maintenance. So his fighter would be parked in a pen by the tender's side.

  His space was still waiting for him and he ‘sailed' into it. A few meters short of his pen, he cut power completely and touched the ‘brakes.' That caused his ailerons and flaps to drop, effectively acting as spoilers. Another tricky piece of judgment. The low-drag airframe of the N5M3 meant that it also had very low water resistance; it was quite possible to send the fighter crashing into the tender's side. On the other hand, too little power, too much brake and she would run out of energy just a little short of the dock. Pilots were earnestly encouraged to err on the side of caution. It was easy enough to send a boat out with a line.

  Toda's Ohtori came to a halt just two meters out from the side of its pen. A rubber raft was already waiting. A dockline was attached to the nose, two more to the tail, and the fighter was warped in the rest of the way. Finally, a wooden gangplank with a float on the end was pushed out, bumping lightly against the fuselage side.

  Toda opened his cockpit canopy and stepped out, stretching his back. Some pilots actually carried their swords when flying. Mitsubishi provided a pair of clips in the cockpit to secure the katanas of those who chose to do so. Toda was not one of them. His sword was a cheap stamped piece of mild steel, one that a genuine katana would cut in half without even noticing. When others displayed their family heirlooms, Toda quietly contented himself with the promise that one day he would challenge them to a duel; their swords versus his Ohtori.

  "Sir, Lieutenant Toda Sir! The Group Commander wishes to see you immediately in the Kokutai Office."

  Toda acknowledged the order and salute and set off at a fast walk, the gangway rocking under his feet. In the Japanese Navy, immediately meant just that. Along the brows that formed the fighter pens, up the companionway to the deck of Chiyoda, then along the open deck that formed the stern two thirds of the ship. Amidships was covered by a steel platform, raised on four sturdy pillars. Underneath was the lift that took aircraft down to the workshops within the ship, above had once been triple 25mm anti-aircraft guns. They were gone now, replaced by shoulder-fired missiles.

  "Sir, Lieutenant Toda reporting as ordered Sir." He saluted as he entered the administrative office. His commander and the captain of the Chiyoda were there. This, he thought, did not look good. They returned his salute but instead of dropping his hand, Chiyoda's Captain kept it in position. That meant Toda had to do the same; he couldn't drop his hand until both the senior officers had done so. Then his group commander started reading from a message.

  "A message from His Imperial Majesty. Aware of the dedication to duty, skill, courage and honor exhibited by our servant Lieutenant Toda Endo and trusting in his loyalty and patriotism, we hereby command that he be raised to the rank of Lieutenant Commander and will immediately enjoy all the privileges and benefits of his new rank."

  Toda's face was expressionless; inside he felt a warm thrill spreading throughout his body. The words were standard. In truth he doubted if the Emperor had ever heard of him, but they sounded as if he had. Who knew? The Emperor might have stopped at his name and said "who is this one?"

  "A message from Imperial Navy Headquarters. Lieutenant Commander Toda Endo will proceed immediately from his present assignment and take command of the Second Section of the Tainan Kokutai, based on the seaplane carrier Nisshin currently stationed in Kagoshima."

  "Congratulations Lieutenant Commander Toda." Chiyoda's Captain finally dropped his hand and Toda followed suit. "There is a Seiku leaving for Kagoshima in two hours. You will take it to your new posting."

  The group commander reached across the desk, handing Toda the insignia of a Lieutenant Commander. He quickly unpinned the ones that had marked his Lieutenancy and pinned on the new badges. Then he braced himself and waited. Sure enough, there was a terrific thump on each shoulder as his group commander ‘tacked' the new insignia firmly in place. "Good luck, Toda-san. And may the gods fly with you."

  28,000 feet over Defensive Area Simone, French Algeria/Caliphate Border

  "Bandit is 500 meters above you, range 28 kilometers, bearing 330 degrees." The dispassionate voice from ground control gave the information clearly and concisely. That was why women were used as ground controllers. Their voices cut through cockpit noise more easily than the deeper pitch of men. The Germans had realized that first, much good that it had done them. It was all very well to have one's ground controllers speaking clearly when the targets were high out of reach. But, Lieutenant Charles Plaisant knew that was not happening tonight. The Caliphate intruder was above and ahead of him but his Mirage IIIF had its measure. Probably; assuming the aircraft was what everybody thought it was.

  Plaisant's eyes searched the darkness ahead, peering through the silky blackness for the dark shadow of the Caliphate aircraft. He could spot it in an instant if he turned his search radar on but that would also warn his prey that they had been spotted and were in danger. Then, the enemy would turn and run for the border and friendly airspace. That was why ground control were swinging him in from behind. He'd hit the enemy from below and behind, they would never even know he was there until his missiles tore into their engines.

  "Bandit 200 meters above you, range 20 kilometers, target should be dead ahead now." Control's voice was still impassive, steering him to his target. Plaisant strained his eyes, seeking out the target. Then, there it was. As always, once he'd seen the dark shape against the stars he wondered how he could have missed it. Cigar shaped belly, longish wings with even taper on leading and trailing edges. Two jet engines, about a quarter way out on the wings. An Uncle. If it was the early model, and most of them were, it had 2,000 kilograms of thrust from each engine and a single 20mm cannon in nose and tail. Later models had 3,000 kilogram thrust engines, twin tail guns and a single gun in the nose. The Caliphate had the later versions but they hadn
't been seen around here. Not yet anyway.

  "Control, I have acquired target. Locking heatseekers now." The heat of the jet exhausts set against the cold of a desert night made for a good target. The radar-homing Matra under his belly had a bigger warhead but that meant he had to illuminate the target with his radar first. Why warn the prey? In his ears, the beeping sound turned into a growl as the infra-red sensors in his underwing missiles locked on the Uncle in front of him. "Range eight kilometers." It was only a question of time before the tail gunner on the Uncle saw him, even against the dark of the ground.

  "Destroy the target." Control's voice was still impassive.

  Plaisant squeezed the trigger on his missiles, the bright stream of fire leaped out as they hurtled off through the darkness. One passed above the Uncle's wings, just a hair too far for the proximity fuse to explode the warhead. The other looked like it might miss as well, then Plaisant realized it had locked on the engine furthest away for some peculiar reason. It crossed just below the Uncle's fuselage and the proximity fused warhead slashed the bomber's tail to shreds. It lurched and started to descend in a wide circle, a downwards spiral that was inexorably tightening and steepening. What was going on in the flight deck, Plaisant wondered? A French crew would be fighting the controls, trying to get some measure of authority back; to pull out of the dive or at least give the crew a chance to bail out. Were the Caliphate pilots doing that? Or were they just praying, leaving the decision up to their god?

  "Target is destroyed." Plaisant's voice was as impassive as Control's as he watched the Uncle transition from a descending spiral into a spin and then tumble out of the sky, breaking up as it went. A brilliant flash and a ball of fire on the ground marked its grave. The crew hadn't bailed, which was probably wise. There were OAS and FLN down there who reckoned the Caliphate owed them a blood-debt. If they captured a Caliphate airman, they'd take a payment on that debt. A long, slow payment.