William Forstchen - Down to the Sea

Wearily he stood up and headed to the hospital tent, to take the medical orderly aside and ask him what was the most humane thing to do for those men who were unconscious when night came. He knew what the answer would be, and dreaded the thought. As he walked past the major, the madman simply sat there and glared, then broke into a taunting laugh.

Commander Cromwell walked down the flight line, thrilling to the sound of a hundred engines turning over, warming up; air crews and ground crews running past. He recognized several of them, classmates from the academy who had gone on to the air corps while he had joined the naval wing.

Every plane possible had been pressed into service, fifty at this field, nearly seventy more at the other two fields hastily laid out in the narrow plains behind Constantine.

There had been over a hundred and fifty, but without hangars for the larger ships or sheltered tie downs, nearly a quarter of the entire air corps had been destroyed by the storm before a single shot was fired.

Cromwell reached his aerosteamer, the Ilya Murometz he had flown two days before. Igor was already up in the cockpit, running the final checks, and Octavian was in his gatling position astern. Xing, however, had been replaced after complaining of a sudden stomach ache. It was just as well, Richard thought, since the forward gunner was also the bombardier. Approaching the massive airship, he spotted the new aimer. Surprisingly, a Cartha like himself named Drasulbul. They shook hands, then he crouched down to look under the plane.

The four bombs were in their racks. At five hundred pounds each, it was the heaviest load any of the attackers would carry this day. He would have given anything to have the weapons on the aerosteamer carriers.

He walked around his plane, pausing for a second to watch as a Falcon took off. It barely rolled a hundred feet before it was up, nearly losing control in the gusty wind then leveling out. Another Falcon was airborne, and then a third.

He went up the ladder into the cockpit, slipping into the seat opposite Igor. His copilot and top gunner said nothing, just pointed to the gauge for the outboard starboard engine.

“Running a hundred revolutions a minute off, we’re not getting the heat on the engine. It’ll cut our speed a good five miles an hour. If it acts up, we’ll lose it.”

Cromwell stared straight at Igor.

“You suggesting we stand down?”

Igor gave him a tight lipped smile and shook his head.

“Just thought you should know.”

“What the hell,” Richard replied, “we’ll make it there, that’s the main thing.”

“How far out are they?”

“Thirty miles, last report.”

Two enemy scout planes had crossed over Constantine just before noon, flying high at well over five thousand feet. Neither of them had been caught by the four Falcons sent up in pursuit. Two of the Falcons had made it back with the latest fix. The watch tower on Diocletian Hill above the town had telegraphed a report just before he’d left the briefing, declaring that smoke was visible on the horizon.

Two more Falcons took off. A gust of wind upended one of them, wing clipping the ground and tearing off, the ship cartwheeling, then bursting into flames.

“Well there’s one that didn’t need his parachute,” Igor growled.

Richard said nothing. Petracci had announced that except for the Falcon pilots flying cover, no parachutes would be issued. It saved nearly a hundred pounds per man, a crucial factor where every pound saved was eight additional rounds for the gatlings. As for the attack aerosteamers, they would be flying too low to ever use them. Besides, there simply were not enough to go around.

A crew chief came running down the flight line, stopping in front of Cromwell’s plane and signaling for him to rev up.

Two more Falcons lifted, then two more. The ten Goliaths were next, lumbering off one at a time, straining to lift the ton of weight strapped under their fuselages.

The crew chief pointed to the right, signaling for Richard to begin taxiing out, a dozen men on the wings pushed, helping him to turn.

A Goliath floated past, propellers a blur. Three more Goliaths were ahead of him, the lead one turning, lining up to lift off…and then it burst into flames.

For several long seconds Richard sat, transfixed, not sure exactly what had gone wrong. He saw the aft gunner of the burning Goliath staggering out of the fire, wreathed in flames. No one was helping, men running in every direction. Richard’s crew chief pointed up, then turned and started to run as well.

Richard slid open his side window and stuck his head out to look at an aerosteamer diving straight at him, a light sparkling from above its upper wing. A shot cracked through the starboard wings of his plane, striking the ground.

Then the realization hit.

“Igor, we’re under attack. Get topside, do something. I’m taking this crate off!”

“You need both of us for that.”

“Do it!”

Richard started to rev up his starboard engines. The Goliath pilot who was next in line looked over at him, and he pointed to the takeoff strip, then up.

The pilot nodded, and seconds later the two-engine ship swung out onto the runway, starboard wing swinging within a few feet of the burning wreckage. He started to take off, top gunner up in position, gatling firing, tracers snaking up.

The burning tail dragged past Richard, who brought his starboard throttles up to full. The machine simply hung in place. Cursing, he leaned over, grabbed the port throttles, and brought them up to half speed. The Ilya Murometz finally lurched as if breaking free from the ground, rolled a few yards, and then started to pivot. Richard scrambled to slam back the port throttles. Lining up on the field, he saw the Goliath preceding him flying low, flame trailing from its starboard wing.

“One coming in directly astern!” Igor shouted, and a second later his gatling opened up.

Richard pushed all four throttles to the wall, braced his feet on the rudder pedals, and started the takeoff, praying that the Goliath ahead would clear the field.

Speed slowly picked up, he caught a glimpse of a Falcon swooping low, cutting across the field at a right angle, gatling firing. Another Falcon was coming down, wing sheared off, spinning out of control. And a strange looking airship, propeller mounted forward, with a large, single wing, bulky fuselage trailing blue flame; it and the damaged Falcon impacted near the control tower.

He felt the controls biting and looked quickly at the airspeed gauge. The wind was the only luck factor at the moment, strong enough that after less than a thousand feet he leaned back on the stick. Igor continued to fire, cursing wildly in Rus.

“Damn-to our left!” he cried.

Richard looked off to port but saw nothing, then realized that Igor, in his excitement and facing backwards, had his directions crossed. He looked off to starboard and was startled to see one of the single wing planes flying directly alongside, pilot clearly visible. To his amazement the pilot actually raised a clenched fist, then the plane disappeared, nosing up, and winging over.

The Goliath ahead was still lumbering forward, unable to gain height, fire all along its wing. Richard realized that the pilot knew he was doomed and was trying to get clear of the aerodrome.

The Goliath nosed over and went in, its bomb load exploding a split second later. The blast soared up in front of Cromwell, rocking the Ilya Murometz, putting it up on one wing so that Richard felt as if he was about to lose control and add his explosives to the conflagration.

He fought the controls, wishing that Igor was beside him instead of in the gunner’s slot. The great plane finally started to level out, and, looking over his shoulder, he could see the mad confusion of the fight. Half a dozen aerosteamers were on the ground, burning, and the hydrogen gas generator was on fire. Tracers snaked across the sky; two Falcons were diving, following a Kazan plane, which appeared to be slower. Seconds later the plane began to burn, nosed over, and went straight in.