Fateful Lightning

by William R. Forstchen

  Chuck kissed her lightly on the forehead and with his free arm started to push her back.

  “I love you, and don’t worry. The colonel will straighten this out. Go find Theodor and tell him what happened, that I’ve been arrested and taken to Colonel Keane. He’ll know what to do.

  “Come on, let’s get going,” Chuck said to the captain.

  “Thank you, sir.” The relief in his voice was evident, and he fell in alongside Chuck.

  John, still cursing loudly, followed, and all four disappeared into the dark, leaving Olivia standing alone by the door. Sobbing, she turned away and started to run to the rocket factory.

  “All right, Feyodor, give me full power!”

  Skimming low over the ocean, the ship turned north, heading into the mouth of the Neiper River. Jack pulled up slightly, passing directly over the lone ironclad at the river’s mouth, its deck crowded with men who jumped up and down, waving, shouting.

  The shadow of Yankee Clipper II raced over the mouth of the river, less than twenty feet below, flocks of ducks kicking up in every direction at the passage of the ship. He looked back. China Wind was a quarter mile behind him, just clearing the ironclad, the pilot pulling up too high.

  “Stay low, stay low, damn you,” Jack cursed.

  It would have been better if he had gone alone. Eurik Vasilovich, the new pilot, was still too green, with only four battle flights; he bobbed up and down, surging ahead and falling back. Jack had tried to wave him off, to send him back, but Eurik had acted as if he didn’t understand Jack’s hand signals and had doggedly kept on.

  Jack found that he was starting to shake. He was not sure if it was fear or exhaustion after nearly fourteen hours of flying, which had taken him due south to the sea and then straight west along the coast. At dawn he had dropped down to right above the water, hugging the coast, hoping to avoid being seen. It felt horrible flying this low; he found he couldn’t control the obsessive fear that an enemy ship was patrolling a mile or more up, ready to swoop down for the kill. His neck was stiff from constantly leaning over the side of the cab to look forward and up. But the sky was clear.

  The other ships, with luck, would be almost back home by now, for their mission was only half the distance of his, just out to Kev and back. Just out to Kev. Damn, that was considered a record in itself. When the first ship had left the hangar to go to war, it had been towed by train across the three hundred miles. If he survived this, it would be over a thousand miles round trip. As it was, there was barely enough fuel for one way.

  “How’s fuel?” He looked over his shoulder.

  Feyodor held up the last five-gallon tin can and with a shrug threw it over the side.

  “The last can went into the tank. Five, maybe six gallons.”

  Jack nodded and turned to look forward.

  The ground was hauntingly familiar. The Neiper made its curve to the west and then back north. As they rounded the bend in the river, he saw the weed-choked remains of Fort Lincoln, their first home in this new world. A mile farther up, on the west bank, he saw the scorched section of forest where his first kill had fallen.

  A small group of Merki, women clad in silken robes, children running naked, stood on the bank of the river. It looked as if they were fishing. They started to shout and wave.

  “They think we’re one of them,” Feyodor laughed, and leaning out of the cab, he waved back.

  Realizing their mistake, the Merki started to shake their fists.

  The river turned again, and then straight ahead the city of Suzdal came into view. Jack felt a knot in his throat, remembering the first time he had seen it, coming up the river aboard Ogunquit, the church bells ringing, thousands of Rus peasants lining the banks of the river. The place looked empty.

  “Home,” Feyodor said, his voice shaking, and he made the sign of the cross. “At least they haven’t burned it.”

  “Get ready.”

  He hit the up elevator stick, pulling it back, closing off the heat exhaust port on the top of the ship. Running light, without the burden of over a hundred gallons of fuel, the ship, even with the exhaust port full open, had wanted to rise, forcing him to keep more and more down elevator.

  The ship surged up, and he pushed the rudder full forward. The nose of the aerosteamer swung to the right, heading back east. They turned out of the riverbed, rising up over the east shore of the river, the south walls of Suzdal a mile to his left, the dome of the cathedral glinting in the noonday sun.

  As he climbed, he saw the reservoir off his forward port quarter, the lake nearly empty, the smokestacks of the factories poking up out of the forest. Feyodor leaned out of his rear position, craning his head to look forward.

  “Where the hell is it?”

  “Somewhere south of the lake.”

  “Did we go too far north?”

  “Couldn’t have. I remember seeing them coming up from that direction.”

  He continued to climb.

  Feyodor raised his field glasses, scanning the ground ahead.

  “There it is!” He pointed forward and slightly to the south.

  “Going back down,” Jack shouted, pulling the exhaust vent full open and pushing the elevator stick forward. The ship responded slowly, picking up speed.

  They skimmed over the hills east of town, Jack sparing a quick glance to the north, where the burial mound of Jubadi, shaped like a pyramid, rose up out of the fields, He knew what the pyramid was made of, and he quickly turned away.

  The ship dived down reluctantly, because of its light load and the heat of the sun, which had warmed the hydrogen, causing it to expand. He was tempted to open the vent and bleed some of the gas off, but knew that come nightfall he was going to need it. He pushed the stick forward even farther and then eased back. The ship leveled out at treetop level, racing forward at full speed. The low rise continued. At the top of the crest stood a watchtower, and he aimed straight at it. The lone Merki raised his bow, fired, and then ducked as they skimmed over, the Merki crouching not a dozen feet below.

  And on the reverse slope he saw what he had come for. Eight hangars were spread out in a long row at the opposite end of the field. The ground below was swarming with Merki, their harsh cries rising up in anger even as they ran to the buildings.

  “Get ready!” Jack shouted, and he eased back slightly on the throttle.

  A puff of smoke snapped off from the north side of the field, a shot screaming past, the gunner far too eager in his excitement. There was another puff. Jack ignored it, pressing on.

  “First hangar on the left’s empty,” Feyodor shouted. “Two’s empty, so is the third.”

  He hadn’t expected to get all of them on the ground. Eight hangars, three empty. There were ten more at Kev, and he hoped that the other three ships had burned the lot. With luck, maybe the three empties were already abandoned, the air fleet moving forward as new hangars went up.

  On the far side of the field, he could see straight in. A dark nose appeared out of the fourth, the same with the other four.

  “Five ships!”

  He looked back.

  Star of the West was nowhere in view. He couldn’t worry about it now.

  He edged to the north, preparing to turn south when he reached the hangars for a run straight down the line.

  The Merki ground crews were at the open doors, pulling on ropes, struggling to drag their ships out.

  “They’re bringing the ships out. Get the harpoons ready!”

  Almost parallel to the line and a quarter mile north, Jack turned the ship hard, diving down lower, lining up for his pass.

  “Get ready!”

  Another shot screamed past. From a shed alongside the northernmost hangar Merki started to run out, bows raised, flame and smoke flickering from the tips.

  “Jesus Christ!” It was a simple enough defense he had never thought of.

  He ignored them, pressing on. Feyodor, leaning over the side of the cab, unsnapped an oil-soaked board which was fastened to the
side of the cab. With a sharp jerk he raked a rough iron file across the top of a fist-size friction-head match attached to the board. It flared to life, and he let go, the board falling a dozen feet before jerking to a stop, dangling by a length of rope, which was tied to the end of a harpoon that Feyodor now unclipped from the side of the cab.

  Grabbing hold of the harpoon with both hands, Feyodor held it up. The flaming board swayed and bobbed below the cab, and Jack spared a quick anxious look back at the trail of smoke and fire.

  A flaming arrow suddenly arched up from below. Another one snapped past, slamming into the propeller, and a third struck the bottom of the cab.

  The shadow of Yankee Clipper II raced over the nose of the first enemy ship. Feyodor leaned out, held only by his safety belt.

  “One fired!” he screamed and threw the harpoon down. It was nearly impossible to miss the enemy ship barely twenty feet below. The harpoon sliced into the Merki airship, punching a hole through the silken bag and disappearing. The flaming board followed, slamming lengthwise across the hole and jerking to a stop on the outside of the bag, burning brightly. Instantly a tongue of nearly invisible blue flame shot up, the hydrogen pouring out of the hole from the harpoon hitting the flaming board and igniting. The tail of Yankee Clipper II rose up on the wave of heat.

  Jack pulled the nose up. The second ship was almost upon them. It was impossible to slow down. Feyodor struggled with the board of the second harpoon, striking it into flame, dropping it, and then grabbing hold of the harpoon. The third ship in the line was already directly beneath them. He was tempted to throw, but let it pass. The fourth ship in line was half out of its hangar.

  Jack aimed for the midsection.

  “Two fired!”

  Jack looked down, following the harpoon as it sliced in, the flaming board catching the same as the first one. Beyond the fifth ship a knot of Merki, bows raised, were waiting. He pulled back hard on both the elevator and the rudder stick, and Yankee Clipper II arced up into a sweeping graceful turn to the east.

  As they passed over the last hangar, Feyodor leaned out and struck the friction-match fuse atop a jug filled with benzene. The flare ignited and the jar tumbled down, striking the roof, liquid flame splattering.

  Jack looked over his shoulder as they continued the turn. Two fireballs were igniting, the ships exploding, half out of their hangars. Flame was shooting straight up, and from out of each building a blue-and-yellow fireball exploded straight out parallel to the ground. The roof of a third hanger ripped open, flame soaring a hundred feet into the sky. Merki on the ground were running in every direction like a stirred-up nest of ants.

  He watched in awe, stunned by the destruction.

  “Star of the West,” Feyodor shouted, and pointed back across the far side of the clearing.

  The ship was slowly floating across the field on the light westerly breeze, nose pointed down, tail high, barely underway. Jack snapped his field glasses up to look.

  “The damn bastard’s out of fuel!” he screamed. “Idiot! Damn him, damn him!” He slumped back in his chair, stunned that Eurik had been so insane as to not break off and head back out to sea before running out.

  The ship’s propeller was still. With headway lost, the ship was out of control, the engine most likely running dry only a couple of minutes too soon.

  He felt a sudden guilt for cursing two dead men. Chances were that, overeager to impress Jack, they had forged ahead, thinking they could attack and still get out and away.

  On the far side of the field a swarm of Merki raced toward the ship as if to capture it as it came down. A thin trail of smoke shot up, and within seconds a steady stream.

  Puffs of smoke burst from the cab, a defiant last blow, the trading of a ship and its crew for the final chance of a pistol shot killing a lone Merki.

  A tongue of flame started to lick up the side of the ship. The silken bag peeled away, fire exploding straight up into the heavens, and the ship slammed into the ground, fire bursting out its sides.

  Jack pushed the rudder stick to the left and the elevator back forward.

  “What the hell are you doing?”

  “We’ve still got two harpoons. Get ready.”

  “You’re crazy.”

  “You knew that when you signed on with me. Now get ready.”

  “I pulled your ass out of the last crash—I won’t do it again.”

  “You’ve got that girl Svetlana and I don’t, so it’s even. Now shut up and get ready.”

  He brought the ship full around and started into a dive. It would be impossible to do a right-angle run again. The first and fourth ships were still burning fiercely, their hangars exploding into flame, and the hangar of the fifth ship was starting to flare as well. He lined up to run straight down the length of the second hangar. The ship was completely out of it, nose already starting to edge up.

  On the back end of the building, a small knot of Merki were gathered, bows raised, arrows snaked up, fortunately none with flames. Several arrows struck the ship directly in front of Jack, the arrows disappearing.

  He raced down along the roof, going slower than he wanted to into the headwind. Fifty yards to his right, the first hangar was exploding with fire, the heat glaring. A hundred yards to his left, the other building was awash with flames.

  They cleared the edge of the hangar.

  “Three fired! Let’s get the hell out of here,” Feyodor screamed.

  Afraid of turning into the fires to either side, Jack pushed straight ahead into the headwind. A dull thumping whoosh sounded behind him, and he looked back to see the tail of their third target peel open, flame racing along the top spine of the ship, splitting the bag.

  Merki were running across the field in front of him, bows raised, this time smoke coiling around them.

  The fire arrows came up, another striking the basket. To his horror, one came straight up, slamming into the bag overhead.

  He held his breath, expecting the end.

  Nothing happened, the arrow having struck the hot-air section. He watched the bag for several seconds, afraid that the arrow might still be burning inside.

  A sharp crack snapped behind Jack, startling him, and he looked down to see several Merki crumple up, caught by the blast of Feyodor’s swivel gun. Straight ahead, the Star of the West continued to burn, the wicker framework collapsing into a heap.

  With full back elevator and exhaust port closed, the ship angled straight up. He turned southward.

  The field was chaos. The third ship flared, tent-size sections of burning silk soaring up from the heat. The hangars to either side crackled, dark smoke coiling up.

  But two of the ships were still intact, and out of the confusion they started to rise up.

  Jack was tempted to turn back in, and fight it out above the range of the ground. A dull thump shook the ship, and he looked back to the field, saw a puff of smoke snapping from a cannon.

  “How much fuel?”

  “Barely enough.”

  That decided it.

  He pushed on to the south. Behind him, from out of the wreckage of the field, the two remaining ships rose, the flame of four dying aerosteamers and burning hangars filling the sky.

  He crested back up over the hills, afraid to put on too much altitude for fear that it would be impossible to get back down when the engine finally died. Straight ahead he saw the low hills that marked where the iron ore mine was. He shot over the abandoned site, great piles of slag littering the side of the mountain, the small first foundry nearly directly below. Atop the hill was the watchtower which had been built to keep an eye on the southern approaches, back when this land had still been theirs.

  He felt heat, and looked down to see flame licking up between his feet. The bottom of the cab was on fire. He turned to look aft and saw a trail of smoke whisking out behind him, caught in the prop wash and swirling around in tight circles behind the ship.

  “We’re on fire!” Feyodor shouted.

  “Shut up! I know
it!”

  He swerved slightly to avoid the lone Merki, not wanting to take any more chances. From this vantage point he saw how his approach in had worked, hugging the shore and staying low—the coast, blocked by the next series of hills, was not visible. He aimed for the hills, racing over the valley.

  “How we doing?”

  “Two ships up and after us, maybe two miles back. But Perm damn it, it’s getting hot back here.”

  It was going to be tight.

  He crested the hill, and before him, hugging the shore, the ironclad stood waiting.

  “We’ll have time for only one pass. Miss it and we’re finished,” Jack shouted. “So be sharp.”

  “You’re the one at the controls,” Feyodor shouted, “not me.”

  He leaned forward, judging the approach, swinging slightly to the left as they crossed the shoreline and then turning to point straight into the wind.

  He lined up on the ironclad, pushing the nose down and yanking down hard on the exhaust vent, watching the green flag on the ship, which told him that they had received the fuel, and using it to judge any shifts in the wind.

  “Quarter power.”

  Feyodor eased back on the throttle, and their forward speed died.

  “You handle it.”

  As they slowed, the flame, which had been licking to the rear, started to come straight up. He lifted his feet, and smoke billowed up into the cab.

  Jack leaned over the side, gauging the approach, easing back slowly, edging it up to meet an eddy of wind, then dropping it off again.

  Jack nudged the nose of the ship down till it almost hit the water, wanting to touch down, but afraid that with the forward speed of the ship it would cause the nose to plow into the ocean. He had to hang on. He lifted the nose up slightly, drifting forward. The ship was anchored. There was no smoke from the stack, which had been taken down, the crew having dampened the fire. The green flag was dropped down, clearing the top of the ironclad.

  The nose of Yankee Clipper II edged up over the stern of the ship, moving forward. Sailors standing on the deck of the ironclad tentatively reached up to grab the dangling ropes.