William Forstchen - Down to the Sea

The other two banked slightly, swinging out and around the explosion, one of their escorts flying with them. The other two starting to pull up, moving to engage several of his own airships.

The action unfolded before him in a remarkable display of fire and explosions. The range closed rapidly. The two-engine plane started to trail smoke, then simply nosed over and went straight in. The four-engine plane continued to press in. Excited shouts erupted around him, several of his guard moving in closer. He could see flames licking out astern of this last plane. Part of its rudder snapped off, and the plane began to yaw, barely in control, now less than a hundred yards off.

It was a remarkable moment; the huge plane just seemed to hang in the sky, and then it nosed up, four black cylinders detaching. With the release of the weight the plane surged up as it winged over, one engine trailing smoke, tracers stitching through it.

The guards closed in around him, pushing him down on the deck.

He felt two violent jolts in quick succession, and, cursing, stood back up, annoyed by their overzealous efforts.

Two massive columns of water were already cascading down, drenching the deck. One of the single-engine planes appeared to fly right through the spreading mushroom of water, and he watched in disbelief as it flew straight for the bridge. This time he ducked on his own as the plane slammed into the second turret and exploded, hot smoke washing up over him.

He slowly stood up a second time. Bits of burning wreckage were strewn across the top of the turret, burning fuel splashed out into some several of the gatling mounts, when warriors, on fire, writhed in agony. He caught a glimpse of the four-engine machine, trailing smoke, clumsily dodging and weaving to escape, none of his gunners firing for the moment, either stunned by the blasts or the suicidal crash of the fast plane.

Yasim looked around at the officers on the bridge, who were silent.

“They have the spirit of warriors. I hope we have not misjudged this thing.”

The moment the scout plane was in sight, Adam could contain himself no longer. Petronius, bent over a chart showing their position near the eastern end of the Minoan Shoals, gave him a curt nod and said nothing.

Adam stepped out onto the open bridge, joining the signals officer as the single-engine Falcon came spiraling in. A Morse lantern began to flash, the signals officer slowly reading off the message.

“Enemy fleet, seven battleships, fifteen miles south Constantine. While returning observed fires outside city, apparent air battle.”

Petronius, who had stood up from his chart, walked out to join the group and nodded his head.

“We go?” Adam asked excitedly.

“With intelligence, Mr. Rosovich, intelligence, I said.”

“The air corps, sir, the report.”

“That battle is most likely over by now, Rosovich. A battle they were not trained for, I might add.”

Petronius looked over at the sun, nodded his head, and went back to his chart.

Richard, one hand on the controls, reached over to Igor.

“Press it against your chest, damn you!” he cried, “Keep it pressed tight!”

Igor looked at him and actually smiled, frothy bubbles of blood on his lips. He weakly held the bundled up rag Richard was pressing to the hole in the side of his chest.

Igor, his flight overall, the deck, and the gunner’s position behind Richard, were all covered in blood. He had seen thousands die in his youth, but still it never ceased to amaze him just how much blood could pour out of a person before they died.

“Another five minutes, we’ll be down. Ten minutes, they’ll stop the bleeding.”

Igor still smiled. He tried to say something, but couldn’t.

“I need my other hand to fly this,” Richard cried. Letting go of the rag, he slapped his right hand back on the throttles, feeding in more fuel to the inboard engines. The pedals beneath his feet were useless, the cables snapped and the rudder half shot off in the last seconds of his approach.

“I should have just flown this damned crate straight in,” he said. Repeating yet again a litany he had been torturing himself with ever since the bombs had missed.

A few seconds more, just ten seconds, even five and he could have brought them straight into the bridge. He knew it was the emperor’s ship, knew he had seen him. The blast would have taken him, but it would have taken Yasim as well. And where there was Yasim, there was also Hazin.

Then a shot hit the rudder, another shattered the propeller of the already faltering starboard outboard engine, and he could feel the plane mushing into a yaw that would spin out of control. The only thing left was to yank back the stick and try to lob the bombs into the bow, and he had missed.

How he had got them out was still a mystery. There was little return fire on the way back out and he half wondered if the Kazan had fired off far too much ammunition and were ordered not to waste it on cripples that were obviously dying.

Well, this, cripple he planned to bring in. Swinging out wide to avoid most of the frigates, he had finally turned in toward shore. Only then had Igor slipped back down from the gunner’s position, looked at him, and without a word collapsed into the copilot’s chair. Richard instantly realized that the man had remained silent about his wound, not wanting to distract Richard from flying them out.

As for the rest of the crew, he knew Octavian was dead and there was not a word from the Cartha up forward ever since takeoff. Chances were the blast from the exploding Goliath had killed him.

The shore was directly ahead, less than half a mile; the city off to his right, the second airfield, the closer of the two, just a mile back from the beach.

The port outboard engine finally seized and quit, jerking to a stop with such violence that he could feel the shudder run through the entire ship.

That was it. The hydrogen bags had been shot apart, there was no lift left.

The plane began to slip, heading down the last few feet. Cursing, he pulled the stick back, trying to beg just a couple more seconds of flight to put them in on the beach.

The wheels hit the water, snagged, and the massive aerosteamer went in nose first, what was left of the forward windscreen shattering as the ocean swept in.

Unbuckling, he reached over to Igor, unsnapping his harness.

“Come on. You’ve got to help me!” Richard cried.

Holding on to Igor, he kicked his way up through the topside gunner’s hatch and out into the open, somehow managing to hang on to Igor. The airship wasn’t sinking and, for a moment, he was confused. He pulled Igor up and lowered him over the side, then dropped into the water, feet hitting the bottom. He lost Igor for a second then came back up, a wave knocking him over, the aerosteamer surging up and then ever so slowly flipping over onto its back, steam hissing as the water hit the hot engines.

Afraid of getting tangled in the rigging, he let the surf take him, going under, then coming back up again. He caught a glimpse of Igor, floating facedown and swam over to him, pulling his head up out of the water.

“It’s only a few feet more. Hang on!”

He stood up, dragging his companion, another wave knocked him down, but he held on to Igor, letting the surf rush them in to shore.

He felt hands around his waist and saw that half a dozen men were around them.

Their strength was a welcome relief, and he let them carry him the last few yards to safety.

They laid him down on the rocky beach, one of the men holding a bottle, which he gladly took, the rich Greek wine warm and soothing.

They were all talking at once, pointing to the ocean. Not a word they said understandable.

“Igor?” he asked.