Risa looked at Dennis and blinked discomfort. “Of course he did, my sister. He cannot protect you here . . . and ultimately, neither can Col-nol Maal-ory.”
“But I don’t want protection!” Pam whispered into Risa’s fur, then paused. “You know, that’s what Sister Audry said too.”
The new plane dove toward the bay, and with a grumbling stutter, bullet geysers erupted around yet another target barrel, and amid more thunderous acclaim, the odd little pursuit ship pulled up and raced back toward Kaufman Field. When Silva looked back to where Pam and Risa had been, they were gone.
“Dames are nuts,” he muttered, “all of ’em.” He moved toward the torpedo mount. “Hey, Mr. Sandison! What’s with the Fleashooter?’ I thought we needed rubber before we got anything with wheels.”
Bernie was adjusting the depth controls on the torpedoes with a ratchet, setting them to run at five feet. “We’re starting to get a little rubber from Ceylon. We’ll get more in India. Colonel Mallory began testing the ’Skeeters with leather tires, but when we were coming up with the recoil cylinders for the guns, he came by and had us make Oleo struts to take the shock on his gear.”
“What did he use for guns?”
“Basically, Blitzer Bugs mounted in the wheel pants, with long magazines following the struts up and through the wings. All they need is light springs for the followers, since they’re pushing the cartridges down. They work pretty good.”
“Forty-five-ACP airplane guns?” Silva asked doubtfully.
Bernie sighed in exasperation. “Sure. What are they gonna shoot at? Creeping zeps and packs of Grik.” He waved at the sky. “There aren’t any Zeros up there, and the Flea—I mean, the Mosquito Hawk—can even outrun that damn Jap spotting plane if it ever shows up again. Besides, the principle of the Blitzer Bugs should work with bigger stuff, like thirty-ought six, when we get around to it.” He rolled his eyes. “You’d’ve known all this if you’d been here, instead of running loose in the east! Now leave me alone. I’ve got ‘fishy’ stuff to do!” he added angrily. Silva stepped back and watched while the strikers started slathering lard all over the first torpedo, already poised at the rear of the left tube.
“I’ve been watching them,” Abel offered at his side. “The first one is the ‘cold’ torpedo, and it utilizes only compressed air that operates a three-cylinder engine to turn the counter-rotating propellers. That is all very straightforward, but the complexity of the guidance system is most fascinating and impressive!”
“They ain’t got a warhead on the end of that thing, do they?” Silva asked.
“No. It is a practice head, they called it.”
“Good. Let’s ease back a little, just the same. C’mon, Larry. It’s been my experience that torpedoes are more dangerous to them around ’em than they are to who you’re shootin’ at!”
“I want to watch what they do,” Lawrence objected.
“You can watch with us from back a ways. Like Mr. Sandison said, let’s leave him be.”
Small motor launches loaded with several observers each eased into the watery range at predetermined distances, while the crowd talker described the first weapon as a Mk-I cold-air torpedo and proudly described the complexity of the device. Bernie finally stepped back and ordered that it be pushed the rest of the way into the barrel of the tube. The gyro had been set for a simple, straight run. When the weapon was fully inserted to the spring-loaded stop, a striker removed the propeller lock and closed the circle door just like he’d done it a hundred times. Finally, he inserted a big brass cartridge into the firing chamber at the top rear of the tube, gently closed the little door, and stepped back to Bernie, presenting him with a lanyard attached to the hammer.
The torpedo had no warhead, but the air flasks were the first of their kind made on this world and were stoked beyond a thousand PSI. They’d tested them, of course, but Bernie didn’t want anyone on the mount when the charge went off and all that air tried to dump into the complicated little engine under somewhat stressful acceleration. He didn’t think anything bad would happen, but there were an awful lot of pieces to fly in all directions if it did.
“Ready!” he cried, stretching the lanyard and looking nervously at the suddenly silent grandstand. By prior arrangement, Adar stood and made a grand, throwing-away gesture.
The impulse charge detonated with a hollow, muffled boomp! and the slimy torpedo squirted from the tube with a high-pitched skirl of air, followed by a billowing cloud of white smoke. It splapped noisily into the water and vanished from sight, but a surge of bubbles rose to the surface in a gratifyingly straight line.
Bernie, Dennis, and nearly everyone near the mount raced to the water’s edge to watch the bubbling wake. Deadly flasher fish and other finned . . . things . . . leaped into the air or churned away from the weapon’s path. Swirling lizard birds took notice of the disturbance in the water and angled down, swooping and pacing the trail of rising air. The torpedo was going straight—but it was clearly also going disappointingly slow. It seemed to take forever to reach the first boat stationed two hundred tails offshore, and when they raised a little flag signifying its passage, Bernie looked at his watch.
“Eight, maybe ten lousy knots!” he ground out, barely heard over the happy cheering and shouts from the spectators.
“Least it’s runnin’ true,” Dennis consoled, “and those ’Cats on the boats’ll be able to tell us if its runnin’ at about the right depth.”
Bernie brightened. “Yeah. And I knew it would be slow compared to the hot air torp.” He grinned tentatively. “I think it works!”
The second boat raised a flag at four hundred tails, and Bernie confirmed his initial speed estimate, but he was in a better mood by then. Finally, the eight-hundred-tail boat waved its flag but heaved out a net with a marker that indicated the torpedo had come to a floating, exhausted stop. The net would snare the wallowing weapon and mark its position. They wouldn’t have used it if the propellers were still turning.
“Kind of pitiful,” Bernie muttered aloud, “but it proves all the really complicated stuff works.”
The second torpedo was prepared, with Ronson shadowing the strikers like an expectant mother. Externally, the “Mk-2” looked exactly the same, but the starting lever would complete a circuit instead of opening a valve. It was loaded and made ready just like its predecessor, but this time Ronson took the lanyard. At the same signal from Adar, the electric torpedo leaped into the bay, but there were no bubbles this time. The crowd cheered, then waited expectantly. Ronson snatched his binoculars to his eyes, staring at the first boat. But there was no flag.
“Maybe they just didn’t see it,” he said. “That’s part of the point. It’s supposed to be hard to see . . . and it should be faster than the first one. Maybe it went by before they were looking for it.”
“Hey, Ronson,” Silva said.
“What?”
“I see it.”
“Where?!”
Dennis pushed the binoculars down, about the same time chittering laughter erupted in the stands.
“Oh, goddamn!” Ronson spat when he saw his torpedo floating on the surface about forty yards away, its slowly turning propellers pushing it directly back at them like a chastened dog.
“Better luck next time, Mr. Rodriguez!” Silva said with theatrical solemnity.
“I . . . I don’t get it. It must’ve shorted out.”
The launch of the third torpedo, the “Mk-3” was the last event of the day, and everyone knew it was supposed to be a somehow more advanced version of the first, so a lot was expected. All preparations were apparently the same as those previous, but as a “hot” torpedo, it was equipped with a fuel source—kerosene—that would send a jet of flame into the air flask as the resultant hot, expanding air and kerosene exhaust gushed into the motor. Theoretically, this would generate exponentially greater pressure, speed—and heat, of course. That was how it worked on the Mk-14 torpedo they’d copied in most ways except the engine. They were exper
imenting with turbines for the short-lived torpedoes, but like the batteries, they weren’t there yet. After the directional and depth performance of the Mk-1, however, Bernie was emboldened to think the Mk-3 was “it,” and with yet another signal from Adar, he confidently pulled the lanyard.
The tube boomped again and the fish lashed out into the water, leaving a far more energetic trail of steamy froth behind.
“’Ook at her go!” Lawrence cried excitedly. Compared to the first two, the Mk-3 was indeed going like a bat out of hell. Bernie was the first to notice that the wake looked a little . . . wobbly, though, and his fingers clenched his binoculars more tightly. Nearly to the first boat, the torpedo suddenly porpoised, almost leaping out of the water for an instant before diving under the boat and the erratically waving flag.
“Now!” a striker shouted.
“Maybe thirty knots!” Abel cried in response. He’d been looking at his watch and hadn’t seen the surprising caper. At perhaps three hundred tails, the torpedo jumped again, significantly off track to the left, and this time it looked like a leaping fish, the sun glinting sharply off its polished body. It fell back in the water with an enormous splash and a crazy corkscrew of foam. Seconds later, a large, steamy bubble exploded on the surface close enough to rock the second boat and nearly toss several of the observers into the bay.
“Wow,” Ronson gushed, and Bernie rounded on him.
“I’d say that one went hot, crooked, and abnormal as hell,” Dennis quipped, “but between it and the first, it looks like you’re circlin’ the right tree, Mr. Sandison!”
Bernie spun to face Silva, enraged and embarrassed, but when he didn’t see the mocking expression he’d expected, he took a breath.
“He’s right,” Ronson said, waving toward the standing, cheering spectators. “And everybody knows it but you! Sure, it’s not perfect. Mine sure wasn’t! But it did work . . . mostly. And you’ll figure out what didn’t.” He grinned and pointed at the torpedo mount, smoke still hazing the third tube. “Just think: by the time the Skipper gets back with Walker, we can put that back on her—and stick fish in it too!”
CHAPTER 17
The Torpedo Day festivities at an end, all those in charge of the various divisions who’d participated joined Adar and most of the Allied high command at long banquet tables beneath a colorful pavilion rigged considerably back from the old seaplane ramp. The spectators dispersed rapidly as the usual afternoon showers threatened, and guards were posted to keep the curious from disturbing the planned debriefing discussion.
Silva and Lawrence sat near Bernie, but a little to themselves, with Silva suddenly unsure he was supposed to be there. The gathering had a kind of “no enlisted men allowed” air to it, which was very unusual in Baalkpan, but he’d simply followed Mr. Sandison, Ronson, and Abel Cook when they made their way over, and they didn’t object. Lawrence had followed him and probably never noticed the odd atmosphere. Risa sat with a group of ’Cat Marine officers and other infantry types. Something was up, Dennis decided. Something besides the debrief, and he’d hang around until he found out what it was or somebody ran him off.
Adar, wearing a grin, stood near the head of the central table, and his body language displayed pleasure as he spoke briefly with Alan Letts, Steve Riggs, Bernie, Ronson, and a late-arriving Ben Mallory. But Silva knew Adar well enough to tell when the dignified Lemurian was distracted by weighty matters. He controlled his blinking well, but his tail betrayed a measure of agitation. Ben’s appearance with a couple other guys Dennis didn’t know—including an army sergeant in grease-darkened coveralls that made him more comfortable about being there—seemed to be the signal to begin. A few moments later, Alan stood beside Adar.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” Alan began, nodding at a small group of ex-pat Impie women in Navy dress who were probably ensigns or lieutenants in his new logistics division. Sitting with them was Alan’s wife, Karen, in her surgeon commander uniform. She didn’t have her new daughter, Allison Verdia, with her, and Dennis realized he hadn’t even seen the little scudder yet.
“We have a lot to go over, some good . . . and some not so much,” Letts said, confirming Silva’s suspicions. “We’ll get right to it. First I want to say how pleased I am at the results of the day’s testing, not only from a technical standpoint, but from the obvious good it did for the many spectators to see the results of their labor and sacrifice.” He turned to Adar. “Mr. Chairman, would you like to speak to that point before we proceed?”
“Absolutely,” Adar said. “I am told that not all the experiments resulted in absolute satisfaction for those who performed them, but with a few small exceptions, that was not abundantly clear to those watching. What was clear is that great progress has been made toward developing modern weapons of all types and principles that represent profound advances beyond what has already been achieved.” He waved a hand. “If some few of those weapons still require further development, none consider them failures. I emphatically do not, and I bear no doubt they will soon be perfected.” He looked directly at Bernie and smiled, blinking reassurance. “Your experimental ordnance division has made great strides, Mr. Saan-dison. I can scarcely believe it. You demonstrated new small arms, naval artillery, and three varieties of torpedoes today! All were successful, or at least succeeded magnificently in demonstrating what few defects remain to be resolved. You have my utmost appreciation and thanks, sir!”
Bernie stood. “Ah, thanks, Mr. Chairman. I appreciate it, and so will my division.”
Adar turned to Ben Mallory. “Colonel, I am astounded. Not only are there now eighteen fully operational ‘pee-forties’ ready for combat in all respects, but you have a sufficient pool of experienced aviators and ground persons to operate and maintain them—wherever they might be employed.”
Ben stood and looked around with a mixture of self-consciousness and lingering irritation. Dennis noted that Pam Cross was seated beside the airman, and wondered why his gut seemed to twist.
“Yes, sir. We’ve got eighteen Warhawks ready to go. The two we bent in training will soon be ready to fly again, one with those Jap floats”—he shook his head—“which gives us a P-Forty floatplane, of all things. The other thrashed its gear and prop, but we’ve got plenty of propeller blades. The gear was ruined, and instead of replacing it from salvage, we’re reconfiguring it as a fixed-gear, two-seat trainer.” He paused. “It’s probably a miracle, but only three of the twenty-four ships we made airworthy have been totaled. One went down in the jungle north of the city—we still don’t know why. Another ground looped and landed on its back. Mack’s ship was the only one lost in combat—if you count stepping in a bomb crater when he came in for a landing as a combat loss. As you know, all three of those resulted in fatalities.”
Adar nodded solemnly. “I mourn their loss as you do,” he said. “They watch us now from the Heavens they so briefly touched in this life!” He gazed at the awning above for a moment amid the murmured agreement before looking back at Ben. “The new planes are very impressive,” he said, changing the subject. Ben brightened.
“Yes, sir!” He grinned, justifiably proud. “I like ’em! They’re not as versatile as ‘Nancys’—they can’t carry a bomb load to speak of even with the guns removed, and they can’t land on the water—but as dedicated pursuit ships, they’re swell! They’ll be able to take off and land on a carrier or grass strip in a heartbeat. They’re fast and maneuverable, and don’t use much gas. Even with the current Blitzer Bugs, they can cut up a Grik zep and strafe the enemy on the ground. Mr. Sandison’s working on more powerful weapons to hang on ’em and that’ll make ’em even better. They’ll be good recon planes too, when we get some decent, lightweight, pilot-usable transmitters installed.”
“Most impressive,” Alan echoed dryly, “especially when somebody who probably shouldn’t be risking his neck in such a way puts them through their paces.”
Ben stiffened. “What’s that supposed to mean? The Mosquito Hawks are as safe as we can mak
e ’em. The air-cooled radial has almost nothing to go wrong with it, and pound for pound they’re even stronger than ‘Nancys.’ Don’t forget, I practically learned to fly in our Peashooters.” He glanced around. “Uh, very similar planes from our world,” he explained. “Anyway, I’m a lot more familiar with the design, and we’ve been testing ’em east of Baalkpan for the last two weeks.” He looked back at Letts. “Besides, nobody flies anything I’m afraid to fly, so yeah, I’ve pushed ’em around a little!” He shrugged. “But not today. For your information, this morning’s demonstration was performed by Lieutenant Conrad Diebel, formerly of the Dutch Air Corps, not me.” He nodded at the blond man seated nearby. “I was sedately coasting around in one of the P-Forties!”
“Braa-vo, Lieutenant Diebel!” Adar said. “A most exciting display! I presume you are settling in well . . . after all?”
Diebel, wearing an aging but still yellow-violet shiner, stood. “Yes, Mr. Chairman,” he said with somewhat rueful irony and a glance at the NCO in coveralls. “I have been . . . disabused of any misconceptions I may have harbored regarding the situation here. I am happy to serve.”
“Excellent,” Adar said happily. He looked back at Ben. “How many Mosquito Hawks are complete and how soon can we deploy them?”
“We’ve got six total, and four combat ready. The guys stood two of ’em on their nose, but nobody was hurt. They’re really light and landing will take some getting used to, especially since most of the new pilots are out of ‘Nancys.’ All they’ve ever landed on is water. Based on performance, I took the liberty of pulling the trigger on production, so they should roll out pretty fast. We really need rubber, though, for tires. We get that”—he paused, considering—“we can have ten a week in two weeks, and twenty a week in a month.”
“That’s much faster than ‘Naan-cee’ production,” Adar observed. “You do not mean to cut back on that, do you? As you say, ‘Naan-cees’ are versatile and popular with the Allied Homes—and we have promised many to the Imperials.”
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