William Forstchen - Down to the Sea

“You ready to fly, son?”

Startled, Richard did not respond.

“Well?”

“Ah, yes, sir.”

Gracchi, putting down his mug of tea, came up to Richard and placed a hand on his shoulder. “I want you to be cautious, son. Get up, use the clouds. I want you to get a good look at what is up ahead. Two things: what is burning, and who the hell is fighting. Don’t let yourself be seen, then hightail it back here before dawn.

“We’re in dangerous waters, Richard. I expect you to find out what the danger is and get back alive.”

Richard, stunned, said nothing. A night launch was rare enough. A night landing, except for some practice runs on the Inland Sea, had never been done.

To his surprise, Gracchi offered his oversize mug of tea to him. Cromwell’s knees instantly turned to jelly. Yet he was even more afraid that Gracchi would see his fear, and he struggled to still his hands. He accepted the mug and took a long drink. He detected a hint of vodka in the drink.

In the dim light he could see Gracchi smile at him in a fatherly way.

“Sorry, lad, but it’s got to be done. Get your bearing from the helmsman. We’ll hold our course steady at five knots. Don’t do anything foolish, just get a good look, then come straight back. We’ll pluck you out of the water, you can count on it.”

Richard simply nodded. Enlisting in the naval flying corps had presented a certain challenge. Why he had joined a service where his name was despised was tied up in his anger toward the race that had turned his father and then destroyed him. He had no real love for the Republic, but at least it had offered him a goal, a chance to rise above the ghastly poverty of those few who had survived slavery and now lived in a desolate land that would never recover from the occupation by the Merki. Now had come the moment to prove something, not only to those around him, but also to himself.

“Take Mr. O’Donald as your navigator and spotter. The boy needs to go back up, shake some of the fear out of him after that crash.”

“Yes, sir.”

Putting the mug down, Cromwell saluted even as Gracchi turned away to other tasks. Getting the heading and location, which was, as usual, just a fair guess, Richard jotted the numbers down and went forward to where his crew waited.

“Alexi, light the engines.”

“Sire?”

“Damn it, Alexi,” Richard snapped, “it’s ‘sir,’ nor ‘sire.’ Light the engines. Yashima, make sure the fuel is topped off and ammunition is aboard. Zhin, open the line to the steam piston.”

He spotted Sean standing next to his empty catapult, launch crew gathered listlessly around him, watching Cromwell’s team at work. He casually walked over.

“Sean, would you mind going below and getting my flight gear and yours?”

“Mine?”

“The old man says you’re going up with me.”

“I’m flying?”

Richard nodded, and in the starlight he could see the look of confusion mixed in with excitement at the realization that they were about to do a night launch.

“Richard, we’ve never done this before. I mean, a night launch and recovery.”

“You’re telling me?”

Sean forced a smile and took off, returning several minutes later with flight overalls. Richard slipped into his and buttoned it halfway up. The night was still warm, but aloft it would cool down a bit. He strapped a revolver around his waist, then pulled on a leather cap, goggles up on his forehead. Sean did the same, and the two waited as his crew continued preparations. Alexi, who normally would have gone up as his gunner and spotter, was obviously glad to be relieved of the assignment and said nothing.

“Top off the airbags?” Bugarin asked.

Richard nodded, unable to speak for a moment. Bugarin broke open the hydrogen generator box, carefully put on gloves, leather apron, and face covering, lifted out the five-gallon glass jar of sulphuric acid, and poured the contents into the lead-lined box filled with zinc shavings. Sealing the box, he connected the gas hose to the aft air bag, which was built into the tail assembly of the ship. It would provide just enough additional lift to get the scout plane aloft.

Richard started to pace back and forth nervously as his crew sprang to work. Then, chiding himself, he stopped, and put his hands behind his back, though he was still clenching and unclenching his hands.

The hissing of the caloric engines, which took only a few minutes to generate power, caught the attention of the gun crews. A chief petty officer came over to Richard.

“Going up, sir?”

Richard, not sure if he’d have control of his voice, simply nodded.

“Well, good luck.”

Again, only a nod.

The petty officer backed off.

The minutes slowly passed. Richard, finally breaking free from his statuelike pose, moved slowly around his airship; careful to avoid the single propeller aft, which was beginning to windmill. Alexi was up in the nose hatch, pulling the canvas hood off the forward gatling, which would be controlled by Richard once they were aloft. Zhin, carefully closing off the gas, then joined Bugarin on the traverse gear, which pointed the launch ramp off at a ten-degree angle from the bow so that the plane would not snag on the jib bow at launch.

It was time.

His crew, finished with their tasks, stepped back, staring at Richard and Sean, illuminated only by the dim starlight.

“She’s all set, sir,” Zhin announced, his English soft and precise.

Richard nodded stoically and, without comment, clambered up the ladder hanging from the side of the launch ramp and into the forward cab. Sean, following, climbed up past Richard into the observer/gunner’s position amidships. Richard handed back the paper with their coordinates, and Sean slipped it onto the clipboard holding his navigation chart.

The instruments were all but invisible in the darkness. He knew the bearing, but seeing the compass was all but impossible…damn.

Get a bearing on the Southern Triangle once aloft, he realized, then reverse it on the way back. He passed the suggestion back to Sean, who announced he had already thought of it.

Richard tapped his rudder pedals, looking back over his shoulder to glimpse the tail, then checked his stick. Next came the throttle. The engine hummed up smoothly. No way to check the gauges-he had to do it by sound and feel alone.

“All ready, sir.”

Alexi-Cromwell could sense his excitement-was standing up on the side of the plane.

“Ready.”

“I’ll get you off on the uproll, I promise it, sir.”

Richard, annoyed by Alexi’s fussing, said nothing.

There was no way to delay longer, though he had a sudden longing to get out of the plane and let Sean do the whole thing by himself.

He raised his right hand out of the cockpit, clenched fist held up, signaling the crew that he was ready.

What happened next came as a shock. Alexi, misreading the signal in the darkness, hit the steam release valve, slamming the launch piston forward.

Cursing silently, vision jarred by the unexpected blow, Richard clutched the stick with his left hand, pulled back too far and pitched the plane into the edge of a stall; propeller howling, the plane hung above the waves. He shoved the stick forward. For a gut-wrenching second nothing happened, and then the nose finally slipped down, leveling out.

He caught a glimpse of the jib boom to his right, then it was gone. His heart still thumping, he leveled off, putting the plane into a shallow banking turn.

Gettysburg stood out faintly in the starlight, her sails drawn in, her mast bare. He swung around her, mainsail yardarms at wing level. Something caught his attention. The wake of the ship glowed with a rich phosphorescent green that stretched back for a mile or more. The sight was stunning and revealing, as well; a clue as to how to spot a ship at night.