William Forstchen - Down to the Sea

Petronius was right. The seven battleships were lying four miles off the coast, the frigates and cruisers lined farther in, with only two frigates several miles out on picket to the west of the battleships.

In the lead, Adam led his flight of eight Goliaths wide of the frigates, and not a shot was fired until he was abeam the second ship. A few shells detonated, and then they were past, the battleships four miles ahead.

It was another mile in before he sensed that the Kazan were finally reacting. The battleships were moving slowly, guns firing, and then finally the last ship in line began to turn off the firing line to starboard, heading south, trying to run straight out into the open sea. Perfect, for it set them abeam, the widest target possible.

The second ship in line began to turn as well, still lumbering along. Adam grinned. Petronius had predicted that as well. Ships of that size would take ten, fifteen minutes to build up to battle speed, and by then it would be over.

He raised his glasses, scanned the first ship, then the second and the third, which was continuing straight on course. The fourth ship in line. That was it, the red banner.

He looked to left and right. The other Goliaths were roughly in position to either side.

He finally caught the eye of the pilot off to starboard. He.pointed at the battleships, held up four fingers, and then pointed forward. The pilot nodded. He tried to get the attention of the man to port, but he was completely focused on the spectacle ahead.

He started to bank out, moving to swing beyond the range of the guns of the last battleship in line. It would add several dangerous minutes to the flight, but the emperor’s ship was the one he wanted.

The first battleship was directly abeam, a mile and a half to port and still turning. One of the Goliaths on his port side banked up and started to turn in on the ship.

“No damn it, no!”

There was no way he could reach him. If he tried to turn to catch him, the others would follow and assume they were going in.

He flew on, cursing even more when a second Goliath rolled out to attack. Several of the Falcons flying above them broke to follow the two planes.

Adam looked back to his right and saw the groups from Wilderness and Perryville off to his left, a mile or two farther back, spreading out slightly, focusing on the first two battleships.

Far off to his left, close in to the burning city, the cruisers were breaking out of the firing formation, beginning to speed up.

Finally the shooting started, breaking the tension. Every gun on the aft battleship seemed to go into action, medium-caliber weapons letting loose. Seconds later an explosion ripped the sky directly ahead, several hundred yards off, fragments slashing the water.

The agonizing seconds dragged out; the third ship was abeam, beginning to fire as well, and then a half mile farther on and a mile off his port side was the target. A minute and a half he realized, a minute and a half and either its sinking or I’m dead, or perhaps both.

He lightly touched the release lever. He was tempted to pull the safety pin out, but decided against it, fearful that something might go wrong. He forced himself to continue on, watching the ship, gauging its speed, trying to calculate where it would be in another minute.

It was beginning to turn, swinging like the other ships, southward.

He looked back at the pilots to starboard; they were still with him. He raised a clenched fist, held it aloft, then jerked it down even as he kicked in the rudder and pushed the stick over.

The move was a little too aggressive with the half ton weight slung underneath, inertia wanting to push the plane along the path it had been following. Wings straining, he began losing altitude, dropping down to less than twenty feet. Leveling out, he felt he was off, aiming too far astern, and pulled the stick back slightly, gaining a few precious feet. He slipped in a touch of rudder, correcting the approach, and then everything broke loose.

Gatlings opened up from the deck of the battleship. The rounds fell short by several hundred yards as they arced up high and plunged down, but they appeared before him like a visible wall that he would have to fly through.

Amazingly the Falcons, which had been there to provide top cover if any Kazan aerosteamers were about, went in as well, going up to full throttle to move ahead of him. He wondered if they should have been ordered to carry a light load of bombs as well, but it was too late now for that. The first one went through the curtain of fire and seconds later was in the sea, wings snapped off, a second Falcon going down a hundred yards farther on.

Their actions brought him precious seconds of time, diverting fire from the slower attack planes. He spared a quick glance to starboard again; his remaining three Goliaths were still with him.

Looking to his left, he saw chaos. The aerosteamers from Wilderness and Perryville were boring in on the two battleships astern. Smoke was coiling up from a dozen or more wrecks dotting the sea, while tracers slashed back and forth. The lead Falcon was already over the battleship, soaring past it, his gun still firing.

A jolt snapped his attention forward. Another jolt came as a tracer slashed past his windscreen. A stream of tracers from a gun aft was snaking around, following him. Yet another jolt, and the sound of glass shattering. He was glad he didn’t have a copilot, because the man would have been dead.

Range was half a mile.

An explosion. To his right, the Goliath on his wing was gone.

He focused forward.

Water sprayed up, slashing through the broken window. His ship dropped, as if the spray from the explosions would push him down into the sea. He surged back up, over correcting, losing speed. Pushing throttles to the wall, he nosed over and leveled out, then another jolt shredded the wing just inside from the port engine.

Six hundred yards.

Another round hit the forward windscreen, more glass shattering. Something tore at his right arm.

He reached down, wrapping his hand around the release lever.

More spray, tracers crisscrossing. A Falcon flew directly across his path, nearly colliding.

Four hundred yards.

He touched the rudder in, leaning into the sight, judging the angle. He pulled the lever.

Nothing happened.

He pulled again. And still nothing. The damn safety pin!

Fumbling, he reached around to the side of the lever, found the pin, and yanked it out.

Another jolt. He looked up and realized that he was off alignment, turning out and away. He jammed the rudder back in, realizing he was crabbing, that the torpedo would strike the water at an angle, and not nose straight in. If it didn’t break up, the fuse might not arm.

Stick over, coordinate with rudder, straighten back out.

Three hundred yards.

He grabbed the lever and pulled.

His airship surged up. Now what?

Bank to port, starboard. He had never thought to discuss it, to plan it, he might pull across right in front of someone else. He pointed straight at the enemy ship and pressed in. The seconds passed, fire crisscrossing. He pulled up, skimming over the deck, too terrified to look to either side. Cleared of the ship, he nosed down slightly and raced out for several hundred yards without a shot being fired, then finally several of the guns on the enemy’s port side opened up, tracers splashing the water around him.

He started to jink, still running low across the water. A half mile out he finally began to turn, for the enemy cruisers in close to shore had all come about and were speeding toward the beleaguered battleships.

As he turned, he finally looked back toward his target. The torpedo should have crossed the three hundred yards. A lone Goliath was zooming over the stern, a Falcon directly above it.