Taylor Anderson - Iron Gray Sea

Tikker blinked a shrug. “We have to bore in. The gun’s in the nose, remember? I’m going to try something different, though.”

He pulled up, climbing above the enemy, then pushed the stick forward. They can’t have guns on top of those things… can they? He hadn’t seen any place for one before, and it was assumed the Grik dirigibles probably leaked at least a little gas all the time. Setting off something that spat a lot of fire up top like that would have to be pretty dumb. A zeppelin appeared in his sights, and he hosed it hard. Even as flames belched from the seam he’d torn, he pulled up slightly and fired at the next in line. Black smoke and rising, burning fragments of fabric engulfed the plane as he eased left. If the second target went up like the first, he didn’t want to fly through the fireball! He broke out of the smoke and barely missed colliding with another zeppelin just off the port wingtip. He blew by so fast and so suddenly that the enemy never had time to fire at him. He looked up as he darted under the airship-and saw something strange.

He was behind and below the formation now, and he slammed the Nancy into a tight, banking turn to bring it back around. Rising from aft of one of the trailing machines, he started to pull the firing lever… but waited a moment. He couldn’t see any guns on the aft “bomb” gondola, and he wanted a better look at what he’d seen. Drawing closer, he noticed that the gondola had no floor, at least not a complete one. There was a large rectangular hole in the bottom-and nestled inside, protruding down a bit, was what looked like a really big bomb!

“Maker!” he mumbled. But that didn’t make any sense! The zeps already had a lot of new weight forward-the guns. Calculations had determined about what the zeps ought to be able to carry, and the added guns had to eat into that. So how could they carry something else that big, unless… Maybe they had fewer crew than usual forward. Maybe they weren’t carrying much fuel… And maybe the bomb wasn’t as heavy as it looked. No more time. With his sight in the vicinity of the bomb, he pulled the firing lever. Tracers arced in, and the zeppelin exploded with a force that tossed Tikker’s Nancy away like a youngling’s paper toy in a Strakka wind.

ArataAmagi

“No!” Roared General of the Sea Hisashi Kurokawa as ArataAmagi heaved from another mighty impact-and explosion! — aft. There was only one explanation. The miserable apes and their Americans had mounted one of Amagi ’s main guns- his guns! — on their stupid, pretentious aircraft carrier! In addition to what the weapon was doing to ArataAmagi, he could hardly bear the horrible, unfair irony. He’d thought he’d already won. The unarmored enemy ship, the last obstacle to his fleet’s conquest of Madras, had seemed to be holding back, letting them pass. That was acceptable. She was not his goal-and she would be destroyed soon enough… He’d expected continuing fire, but also assumed the lone ship had realized how mismatched she was and had essentially given up. He’d been wrong.

After ArataAmagi ’s earlier pounding, he’d moved her to the rear of the battle line to protect her from what he’d already recognized must be Amagi ’s salvaged secondaries. The ships that replaced her in the van had taken the brunt of the battering then. He’d already lost two of his precious battleships: Lugk (with its vile Grik name) had, ridiculously, just blown up, and Satsuma was a smoldering, sinking wreck far astern. Now his precious ArataAmagi was being slain-and he was in her!

A young Japanese lieutenant-Kurokawa couldn’t remember his name at present, and didn’t care-was reciting a litany of damage reports.

“All three aft guns are out of action, as well as seven broadside guns, mostly aft, but on both decks! The steering engine is damaged, and repair parties cannot reach it for the flooding in the compartment. Boilers seven and eight are wrecked, and there is water in the aft fireroom-and there are fires in the coal bunkers on either side! Casualties are-”

“The only casualties I care about are those affecting the operation of this ship!” Kurokawa roared. “What do I care for dead Grik!”

“Sir,” the lieutenant persisted, “some of our people-”

“Shut up!” Kurokawa forced himself to breathe the smoky air, willing the calm he’d cultured so long to soothe him. “Captain Akera, is there no way to stop this turn, to put some distance between us and that… thing that pursues?”

“No, Admiral,” Akera said. His eyes were fearful, but his voice was flat.

Kurokawa didn’t notice. “Then instruct our remaining cruiser to close on the port side to take me off. I must transfer my flag to Kongo.”

“But… what of the rest of us?”

Kurokawa’s dark eyes narrowed. “You will continue to fight your ship, fool! She is your ship, and you have failed her! Failed me! Consider yourself fortunate that you retain an opportunity to redeem yourself in your ancestors’ eyes-and mine! Order the remaining guns in the starboard battery-all guns to fire as they bear! When you are beam on to the enemy, you will stop the engine and fight that ship as long as you are able, do you understand?”

“I… I understand.”

Hisashi Kurokawa stared at the man a moment longer while the great ship writhed beneath his feet. Finally, he nodded, and strode out of the wheelhouse.

The young lieutenant looked at Akera, eyes wide. “What will we do, Captain?”

“What he told us to,” Akera snarled back. “What else is there?”

The OC was screaming while Tikker fought with the stick and rudder pedals to bring his tattered plane under control. He finally succeeded, but he’d lost altitude, and the nine remaining airships had gained considerable distance. He looked down. Just a few miles away, Salissa seemed to be chasing the Grik battleships! Splashes rose around her, but the trailing Grik battleship in the slightly staggered line was on fire aft, and reeling to starboard! The sole remaining armored frigate was steaming toward her, but he couldn’t tell what it meant to do. Maybe it would try to take the bigger ship in tow? The battleship was beam-on to Salissa now, considerably less than a mile from her, when its guns flashed and gushed white smoke, sending more great splashes rising around Tikker’s Home. He was sure some must have hit.

“Send to Salissa!” he shouted. “These Grik got some kind of huge bomb, I don’t know how, and… I don’t think we can stop them!” He pushed on the throttle, but it was already at its stop. He tried to force it even farther, but knew it was no use. He was gaining on the trailing zeppelins, but figured he might get two or three at most before they dropped their bombs. He glanced down in the nose of the plane and horror clenched his heart. He didn’t have enough ammunition left for two or three! He’d be lucky to get one! He pounded his leg with his fist; then a chilling calm flowed through him. He could get two-if he fired very carefully at one-and then flew his plane into the other.

USNRS Salissa

Salissa was horribly jolted that time by a succession of heavy hammer blows, and Keje’s heart was torn by the chorus of screams that arose above the bedlam. The range was such that the enemy shot no longer plunged as steeply, and a long section of the flight deck beside the bridge structure had splintered and peeled away. Exhaust gas swirled in the pilothouse from a capricious eddy that carried it up and forward from a pair of punctured funnels. One 5.5-inch gun had taken a direct hit and was knocked askew on its battlement platform. Its crew was either dead or crawling on the deck, wounded and helpless. The crew of the other gun wasn’t much better off. Fragments of the shot or pieces of the first gun had scythed them away from their own weapon. Most of the windows in the pilothouse had been shattered by a blow that fell on the platform above, and broken glass crunched beneath the sandals of the bridge watch as they shook themselves out, returned to their posts, or raced off on errands.