William Forstchen - Down to the Sea

He saw smoke rising from the second airfield, but the third still looked clear. The sky around him was aswarm with aerosteamers, weaving and banking, a fight unlike anything he had ever imagined. He realized that the last thing he needed was to be in the middle of the mad swirl and banked over to starboard, heading inland to get out of the fight and let the Falcons settle it.

He could see that the surviving Goliaths had the same idea and were turning out as well, a half dozen of the Falcons weaving in behind and above them.

After several miles he was forced to turn, not yet having enough altitude to clear the crest of the Diocletian Hills Along the crest he could see thousands of soldiers standing in the open, watching the fight. The ground all along the crest was torn up with hastily dug entrenchments snaking out from either flank of the main fort that dominated the hill. The fact that they were watching, like spectators, told him that they were in the clear. Turning, he looked back. The battle was all but over. Airships were heading out to sea, flying low, several of them trailing smoke. Fires dotted the landscape between the hills and the city down on the plain, marking where two dozen or more aerosteamers had died.

We should have thought of it, I should have thought of it, and he cursed himself. It wasn’t just the losses, although he feared that they were significant-maybe a third or more of the precious Goliaths. What was worse was the mass confusion. Falcons had flown off in every direction, their top cover was off chasing the surviving attackers. What was supposed to be a coordinated attack, everyone going in at once, was spread out across twenty miles of airspace. As for the aerosteamer carriers, which were to have arrived by now, they were nowhere to be seen.

“How many did they get?” Igor shouted, squatting down out of his gunnery position to look over Richard’s shoulder.

“Too many.”

“Now what?”

“We go in,” and he pointed out to sea where a cloud of dark smoke blotted the horizon.

Adam Rosovich stormed back and forth across the flight deck, shouting orders, watching as each of the Falcons was slowly lifted up from below, turned around, wings unfolded and engines started.

“Adam.”

It was Theodor, with a board tucked under his arm, a final check sheet for each of the planes.

“A word, son.”

“I don’t have time.”

“Yes, you do. Now come over here.”

Theodor led him over to the side railing. The sea below was still running high, waves rolling at ten to twelve feet, the crosswind breaking their tops, salty foam billowing off.

Adam looked up at the bridge beside him. The flag of the Republic was snapping, bent out; the ship’s fifteen knot speed added to the crosswind coming in abeam from the northwest.

“Could you make it short,” Adam asked testily, and Theodor put a hand on his shoulder.

“Relax, son.”

“What?”

“Just that. You’re making everyone nervous.”

“What the hell do you mean?”

“Look, son. You’re a good pilot, and you’ve got one hell of a sharp engineering mind. Varinnia saw that in you back at the academy, she had you picked out a year before you graduated, but, son, you are not the best of leaders at the moment.”

Adam bristled.

“Friendly criticism, and please take it that way. I know what it’s like to fly into a battle. In fact I’m the only man in this entire fleet who’s done it before, and I will tell you, I used to puke from fear before I went in. You, on the other hand, are running around waving your arms and shouting orders.”

“But…”

“Hear me out. These men are trying the best they can. I won’t say they’re doing a good job yet-hell, we’re making this up as we go along-but they are trying. Your job is to lead the Goliath wing in the attack, not boss the deck crews. The best thing you can do right now is button up, take a chew of tobacco and just lean against the bridge there and say nothing. Act like you don’t have a care in the world.

“You did your briefing for your pilots. Once everything is up on deck the waiting begins until the scout plane returns. When it does, if we have them fixed, I want you to just walk over to your plane like you’re going out for a little spin around the field to impress some girl. No fancy speeches, the boys know what it is about now and the odds…”

His voice trailed off and he looked away for a moment.

“By Kesus just don’t get yourself killed. You remind me a bit of old Ferguson, you’ve got a great mind and for my penny’s worth I’d have Keane ground you the moment this is over. So just fly careful, will you?”

Adam nodded, realizing that every word Theodor had said was right.

“Thanks.”

“Hell, I needed to say something. I’m about ready to bust, myself, with the damn waiting.”

Adam looked up at the sky; the afternoon sun was tracking westward. Somewhere, off to their starboard, about eighty miles away, all hell must be breaking loose.

In spite of the fear, Yasim felt compelled to watch. It was a remarkable sight, the swarm of dots on the northern horizon growing larger, coming in. The outer ring of ships were positioned correctly, forming a screen between the main battle line and the coast, which was less than ten miles away.

His own aerosteamers were directly above. He tried to count them; twenty at least still survived. A few of the human aerosteamers, slightly smaller and faster it seemed, were mixed in, tracers streaming back and forth. Even as he watched, one of his flipped over, bursting into flames, and started to spiral downward.

The fight was trivial, unimportant. What was important was the attack coming in, the last desperate gasp according to Admiral Ullani.

Milky white puffs of smoke were igniting in the sky, the outer ring of ships sending up shells from their light guns, tracers streaking into the sky. An airship burst in a silent flash, another exploded seconds later.

They pressed on.

Yasim could not help but feel a touch of pity, of admiration. The attacks, which had been coming in for the last half hour, were completely uncoordinated, three or four planes at a time. The strike by the scout planes had been brilliant, catching them just as they were taking off, breaking up any hope of formation. It was going perfectly, just one more attack to weather and then they would press in to start the bombardment.

The dots were resolving themselves into thin lines, four of them bi-winged aircraft with two engines, and also several smaller, single-engine machines zigzagging back and forth above. And one larger, a four-engine plane almost as big as their own Zhu patrol aircraft.

Now past the outer ring of frigates, they dodged through the inner ring of cruisers, crisscrossing fire dropping one. They were less than a mile off now, leveling out; two sections of two. The four engine machine was joined with a two-engine companion trailing a quarter mile behind the first.

Every gunner forward was ready. He looked down at them, bright shell casings littered the deck from the repulse of the previous attacks.

A command echoed and everyone opened up at nearly the same instant, a staccato thunder, smoke rolling up as twenty gatlings and all the mid-range guns fired; gatlings with tracer rounds, the mid-range guns with explosive shells.

The fire swept out, water spraying up in front of the attacking airships, which continued to press in. Shell bursts blossomed. One of the twin-engine machines disintegrated in a violent explosion. The one behind it flew straight into the expanding ball of fire and debris, then emerged out of the other side, half a wing gone. It rolled up on its side then spun down, cartwheeling into the sea.

It was almost obscenely easy, and he could hear some of his warriors down on the foredeck break into laughter.