Andre Norton: Catfantastic II

In a rush Feathers realized that Bomber had provided him with exactly what he needed; a view right into the Bismarck's helm control room. He was looking right down on top of the helmsman's head and the ship's great main compass. Abruptly the needle began to slide toward one-twenty as the helmsman's hand bore down on the right side of the wheel. The Bismarck was starting a turn to starboard, zig-zagging to avoid torpedoes tracking in on her from other Swordfish.

If she'll stay in that turn, thought Feathers, I can send that torpedo to hit her aft, in the rudder or screws.

A banging on the fuselage behind him made the pilot jump. "What the hell are you playing at!" the gunner bellowed into the slipstream. "Do you want to send us into the sea?"

Feathers stared at the onrushing waves below. Too many seconds of inattention had sent the Swordfish into too deep a dive. A surge of adrenaline made him pull back the stick barely in time. He swore that spray from a high-breaking wave splashed the torpedo-plane's undercarriage as the Swordfish pulled out of her dive and roared along at wave-top height. Ack-ack fire spat uselessly over the top wing, for the Swordfish was so low that she was beneath the firing range of the Bismarck's anti-aircraft turrets.

He glanced between his knees at Bomber's viewhole down onto the enemy's helm station. The compass was still swinging steadily as the great warship kept to her same rate of turn. In his head the pilot estimated the trajectory needed to hit the Bismarck astern. Keeping his course dead level and his airspeed at 75 knots, he bored in toward the rain-shrouded shape of the German warship. He wanted nine hundred yards, but he knew he couldn't make it. The anti-aircraft fire was missing, but the big ship had taken to shelling the sea around itself, the explosions causing eruptions of water like geysers that could swallow a light aircraft and drag it down into the sea. At twelve hundred yards, Feathers pushed the torpedo release.

The bronze cylinder plummeted from the plane. Stay in that turn, you bastard. Stay in that turn, Feathers prayed as he veered away and caught sight of the torpedo's wake making a white trail directly toward the Bismarck's stern.

One quick glance down between his knees through Bomber's viewport onto the enemy helmsman told him the warship had spotted the attack. He heard orders in German barked down the speaking tube to the wheelman. The officer leaned to one side, gathering the momentum needed to bring the great wheel hard to port.

Instantly Feathers knew that if the warship swung her stern aside, the tracking torpedo would miss. He'd launched it from too great a distance. Bismarck had already shown amazing maneuverability for so long a ship and great adeptness at dodging torpedoes.

With a yowl, Bomber, who had been poised on the edge of the hole, launched himself right through it. Feathers had the most amazing bird's eye view of the cat tumbling straight down onto the head of the Bismarck's wheelman.

The officer threw both hands up in the air with a hoarse yell as a ten-pound bundle equipped with raking claws, teeth, and its own peculiar brand of chemical weaponry descended upon him. Bomber knocked the man's hat off and delivered a flurry of scratches to the hapless victim's head and shoulders. As a parting shot, the cat gave the flailing officer a final blast in the face as he sprang at the ship's wheel.

He landed, caught and held, his weight dragging the wheel back over and ending the change of course the helmsman was about to make. The Bismarck continued her sweeping turn to starboard.

Feathers strained his head over the side. Through the driving wind and rain, he saw the wake of his torpedo driving straight and true for the Bismarck's stern. Water fountained up, mixed with smoke. The aft end lifted for an instant, then slammed back into the sea.

From the rear of the Swordfish came more pounding and a roaring cheer from Patterson. "Hoorah! We got her right in the arse!"

From the gap in the plane's floor that miraculously looked onto the helm of the enemy came an unholy racket. Feathers glanced down at the scene happening between his knees. Bomber was still fighting the helmsman, screeching and spitting while the officer fended off the attack. From the voicetube connected to the Bismarck's bridge came frenzied shouts for the helm to obey. The uproar grew, Prussian bellowing mixed with British caterwauling, until the officer lunged, seized Bomber by the scruff, and hurled him against the wall.

Wild-eyed, he embattled wheelman seized control once again, hauling the wheel sharply to port as his captain had ordered, but it suddenly jammed at a rudder position of twelve degrees and wouldn't budge. The torpedo had done its work.

But what about Bomber? Ignoring Patterson's banging on the fuselage and demands to fly the bloody plane straight, Feathers stared down at the scene below him, searching for the cat. He spotted Bomber on the floor, looking up at him with something near desperation in the gold eyes. But Feathers himself couldn't fit through the gap. It was too small. He grabbed wildly at a coil of rope in the cockpit, hoping to throw a line down for the cat to snag. But before he could even find the rope end, the interstice shivered and popped shut.

For a second, Feathers could only stare numbly at the now-solid floor of the cockpit. There was nothing he could do to rescue Bomber short of trying to land his Swordfish on the Bismarck's decks. And that would be sheer suicide.

"Would you tell me what is so interesting between your bloody knees?" Patterson roared again. "Get your head up and this crate home!"

Feathers pulled himself together. Bomber would have to rescue himself as best he could.

The Swordfish's forward observer, who had been completely forgotten during the wild ride, turned a pale but smiling face to the pilot and handed him a slip of paper.

It read "Hit confirmed. Bismarck circling to port. Rudder looks stuck."

Feathers gave him a thumbs up and headed the plane for home. As soon as he was beyond range of the warship's anti-aircraft fire, he started a climb to cruise altitude. Again he looked down over the side and was heartened by the sight of the Bismarck making a wide confused circle in the rough sea.

All the way back to the Ark Royal, the Swordfish rang with cheers and snatches of song. Feathers joined in, but his enthusiasm was tempered by the thought of Bomber lying on the deck of the enemy ship. The helmsman had thrown the cat hard enough to break his back, Feathers thought. But there wasn't anything he could do about it. And he had to get his plane and crew back to ArkRoyal.

The carrier's stern was still bucking in fifty-foot heaves when the Swordfish began their fly-on. Feathers concentrated everything he had on getting down in one piece. He was given additional motivation when the plane ahead of him touched the deck during the upward surge, smashing the craft's undercarriage and sending it skidding along on its belly, shedding pieces. The crew scrambled out and the airedales pushed the wreck over the side before it could burst into flame.

"When Feathers' turn came, the deck dropped away just as he was starting to settle and he had to make another go-round. But on the second try he landed.

He heaved himself out of the cockpit as the airedales rolled his Swordfish toward the lift.

"That was some of the damned craziest flying I've ever been through in my life," said Patterson to him. "I was beginning to wonder if you'd forgot how to pilot."

Feathers just ducked his head and walked through the driving rain. He knew there was no way he could explain to Patterson what had happened there up in the sky. The gunner hadn't even known that Bomber was aboard.