Down to the Sea

TWO

“Sir, what the hell is it?”

Lieutenant Richard Cromwell scrambled up through the lubber hole and out onto the fighting foretop. Squatting next to the lookout, he raised his glasses.

The fog, which had rolled in at nightfall, was breaking up. Occasional stars and one of the two moons winked through the overcast. But that was not what interested him. It was the glow on the horizon, a dull red light that flared, waned, and flared again. Occasional flashes, like heat lightning on a summer’s night, snapped around the edge of the burning glow.

Just before sunset the lookouts had reported a smudge of smoke on the horizon. They had taken a bearing and sailed toward it throughout the night. Now at last they had something.

“When did you first notice this?” Richard asked.

“Just a couple of minutes ago, sir. I called you as soon as I was certain it was not my eyes playing tricks,” the lookout, a young Rus sailor, replied slowing, stumbling over his English.

Richard nodded. The glow of one of the rising moons had more than once tricked an old hand into thinking something was out there.

There was another flash, this one a brilliant white flare that reflected off the low-hanging clouds.

“Good work, Vasiliy. I think I better wake the captain.”

Richard stood, a bit unsteady. The rising seas, which had been blowing up since late afternoon, had finally laid him low. Coming up to the foretop, where the roll of the ship was accentuated, made it infinitely worse. Only a novice went down from the foretop through the lubber hole. Experienced sailors climbed out onto the shrouds and momentarily hung suspended, nearly upside down, before reaching the ratlines, then going down hand over hand. Some of the top men would simply grab hold of a sheet or halyard and, if wearing leather gloves, slide down to the deck.

Ignominious or not, he gingerly went feet first through the lubber hole, reached the ratlines underneath, and carefully went back down to the deck, hanging on tight for a moment when a wave out of rhythm with the eight to ten foot rollers, raised the bow up high, before sending it crashing down.

Knees wobbly, he hit the deck and made his way up to the bridge. Making sure that all buttons were properly snapped and that his collar was straight, he approached the door to the inner sanctum, the captain’s cabin, and knocked.

“Come.”

He stepped into the darkened cabin. “Cromwell, sir, senior officer on watch. There’s light on the horizon. Foretop lookout spotted it about ten minutes ago. I think you better come up and see it, sir.”

The dimmed coal-oil lamp by the captain’s bunk flared to life.

With a weary sigh, Captain Claudius Gracchi swung out of the bunk, feet going into his carpet slippers. Nightshirt barely covering his knees, he stood up, fumbling for the spectacles on the night table.

Putting the glasses on, he looked at Cromwell. In spite of the spectacles and rumpled nightshirt, Claudius still had the bearing of a Roman patrician: hair silvery gray and cut short, shoulders broad despite his sixty-five years of age. Long ago, before the Republic, he had actually commanded a galley, but he had adapted well to the new world created by the Yankees and was as adept in commanding a steam cruiser as he had been commanding a ship powered by sail and oars. His stern bearing was simply a bluff. He was a favorite with the sailors of the fleet, known as a man who was just and always willing to hear someone out. Command of the Republic’s newest cruiser was seen by everyone as a fitting capstone to an illustrious career.

“What kind of light is it, Mr. Cromwell?”

“Sir, a red glow, like a fire, but there are flashes, something like heat lightning, but it’s different somehow.”

Captain Gracchi nodded, running fingers through what was left of his thinning mane. “Come on, lad, let’s look at your fire.”

Even when awakened in the middle of the night, Gracchi always had a calm, fatherly manner. It was usually then as well that he lapsed into calling Cromwell, and a few chosen others, lad. He shuffled out of the cabin and onto the bridge, Cromwell respectfully following.

Picking up a set of glasses hanging next to his chair, he braced his elbows on the railing and scanned forward. After the light of the cabin, Cromwell had to squint for a moment, letting his eyes adjust again to the darkness before he could see the glowing patch of red on the horizon.

“Current position?” Gracchi asked, and Cromwell, anticipating the captain’s request, had the chart up, the latest hourly passage marked off.

He nodded, eyeing the chart. They were five hundred miles beyond “the line,” the division created by treaty with the Kazan nearly fifteen years ago. There were no markers, islands, or territory to define it, simply a line traced across a map beyond which both sides had agreed not to tread.

The agreement had come after President Keane’s first term in office. Keane had vehemently argued against it, declaring that if the Kazan were so insistent that no one venture farther out, that must clearly indicate that they had something to hide, or worse, to conceal until such time as they wished to reveal it.

Opinion in the navy was divided. Some, including Admiral Bullfinch, had declared that until such time as the Republic could truly muster a significant fleet, it was best to observe the agreement and to quietly build. But the building had been slow. The entire fleet still only numbered nine armored cruisers. Gettysburg was the newest, and three more sister ships were ready to be fully commissioned by the end of the summer.

Thus it had come as a surprise to everyone on board when Gracchi announced, as soon as they had put to sea, that they had been issued secret orders directly from President Keane to sail beyond the line and, as he put it, “poke around a bit.”

Gracchi lowered the glasses for a moment, examined the chart, grunted, then raised the glasses back up.

A minute or more passed, Gracchi muttered to himself, as was his habit. Some in the crew thought it a clear sign that the old veteran was slipping. Cromwell had no opinion about it. A man of intelligence never passed opinions on captains, they simply obeyed and survived. Gracchi was the captain, and if he wished to mutter that was his right.

Compared to some of the others in command, muttering was an idiosyncrasy Cromwell could deal with. He had heard the stories about Captain Feodor, who had been quietly removed from command after his crew reported that he had taken to climbing the rigging at night in order to talk to the saints. Then there was the infamous case of Captain Xing, who, after six months of cruising on a survey mission, without once hailing another ship or sighting land, had simply pulled out a revolver, blew out the brains of his first lieutenant and chief petty officer, then flung himself over the railing, where the sharks which always trailed the ships, made quick work of him.

Command created a certain level of madness at times in the fleet, and Gracchi’s muttering, if it went no further, was nothing. Besides, Gracchi was one of the survivors of the Great War, and for that alone he deserved respect.

“That’s a city burning,” Gracchi finally announced, lowering his glasses to look at Cromwell. “Seen it more than once back in the war.” He sighed, shaking his head. “The other flashes…I’d say it’s a fight, one hell of a fight.” Cromwell, having learned from the beginning of life that when unsure it was best not to speak, remained silent.

Gracchi looked off absently. “We’ve come out here to scout around a bit, Mr. Cromwell, and I think we’ve found something. I take it you’ve heard the rumors about what that merchant ship, the Saint Gregorius, claimed it found.”

“Yes, sir.”

Everyone had heard. It had been the hottest topic of conversation ever since Gracchi had spoken to the crew about their mission.

“Well, son, I think we’ve found another city getting sacked. I can feel it. You can almost smell it.

“I think we’ve stumbled into a war. After all these years we’ve finally found them.

“Mr. Cromwell, I suggest we beat to quarters. Roust out the chief engineer yourself and tell him to fire up the boilers. I want a full head of steam if we need to maneuver. Get the sailing master while you’re at it. Have him draw in all sails. We’ll run on steam alone.”

Gracchi began heading back to his cabin, then turned. “And damn it, boy, have someone get me some tea.”

Cromwell saluted.

The armored cruiser Gettysburg was a sleeping ship on this, the midnight watch. The only ones topside were the bridge crew, lookouts, and the watch officer.

Within seconds all that changed. Cromwell shouted for the petty officer to pass the word to beat to quarters. The petty officer raced aft, leaping down the gangway to the main gun deck below, while Cromwell went forward, gaining the open hatch to the fo’c’sle, officer territory.

Gracchi had told him that only a short generation ago the domain of officers had been aft, where the following breeze was still fresh and the open quarterdeck a place for the high and mighty to take the morning air. All that was gone on this long-ranging armored cruiser. Though it still might sport sails, twin engines were mounted just aft of the midships, massive boilers and pistons, over seven hundred tons of ironworks to power the twin propellers. Aft was now a place of steam, coal bunkers, grease, and heat, and forward was where fresh breezes and relative quiet reigned.

Taking the steps two at a time, he landed on the main deck, and raced past the tiny cubbyhole cabins of the eight midshipmen, four ensigns, and his superiors. Pausing at Chief Engineer Svenson’s cubicle, he pound on the door, shouted the captain’s orders, and moved on to the sailing master, then down the corridor for good measure, making sure the rest were up as well.

Within seconds Svenson was out of his cabin, trailed by a faint scent of brandy and a couple of ensigns, one of them very unsteady. Gaming dice were on Svenson’s bunk. One by one the midshipmen piled out, filled with questions. Cromwell simply pointed them topside, shouting for them to move smartly and get up there ahead of the men they commanded.

Stopping at his own cabin, he popped the door open, leaned in, and shoved his sleeping roommate, Sean O’Donald. “Come on, Irish, we’re wanted topside.”

Sean rolled over, sat up groggily and rubbed his eyes. “What? What time is it?”

“Move it!”

Richard raced back out the door and joined the rush of men pounding up the stairs. Aft he could hear pipes shrieking, echoing down the corridor. The crew was coming awake.

It always amazed him how a ship could be so quiet one moment and absolute bedlam the next, then within minutes the bedlam would give way to a steady, disciplined silence as men reached their stations and set to work.

Though he longed to be on the bridge, to hear what Gracchi was saying about the light, Cromwell went forward. His battle station was the lone scout aerosteamer, positioned at the bow. There had been two of them, but poor Sean, flying the second plane, had snapped off a pontoon on a bad landing. It was a common enough occurrence, especially when the seas were running high, but the accident had shorted them one of two precious planes, and the normally placid Gracchi had been none too kind to O’Donald when they had finally fished him out of the drink.

Flying a scout plane off of a cruiser was an extremely hazardous job. Flying itself was nearly suicidal, even without trying to take off from a ship at sea and then survive the landing.

Launched by a steam catapult, the plane could scout two hundred miles or more and return-that is, if the pilot could navigate his way back to his ship. Navigating, though, was only the start of the problem. The real challenge was the lack of anyplace to land.

There had been talk of transforming the older cruiser Antietam into an aerosteamer carrier, razing the masts and converting it solely to steam power. With a cleared deck aerosteamers could not only take off but also land. One of the old monitors on the Inland Sea had even been converted as an experiment, but nothing had progressed beyond that.

The problem was that without the masts, the ship lacked the range. On engine power alone a ship could cruise only a thousand miles from port and then had to head straight back. In the vastness of the Southern Sea, the hybrid design of sails and steam seemed to be the only answer for the distances that needed to be covered.

Therefore, once launched, the pilot had a most interesting task. On return he had to bring the fragile plane in and land it alongside the cruiser, hoping that the ungainly pontoons underneath endured the shock of landing. The cruiser would then swing out a hoist and pull the scout plane, which was based on the air corps’ reliable Falcon design, back up on board.

More often than not the landing on the rolling seas ended in disaster, and it was lucky if the pilot and his gunner were fished out alive. Even if they survived, not uncommonly a wing would be stove in or the canvas hydrogen bags amidships on the plane would be punctured while being hoisted back on board. Thus, on most voyages, an aerosteamer would be sent aloft only in the direst of circumstances, or when close to port, and the plane could safely make it to land with dispatches.

Gracchi, acting more aggressively, had been launching both Sean and Richard ever since they had crossed the line, and yesterday the result had been Sean’s near death and the loss of a plane.

In the darkness, Richard went forward, stepping aside as half a dozen foretop men raced past, leaping onto the rigging and scrambling aloft into the night. Strange, he was a pilot, but the thought of dangling two hundred feet up, straddling a yardarm in the darkness, was absolutely terrifying to him. Most of the crew thought him mad for being a flyer. He thought them mad for going aloft. They were utterly without fear and on a bet would dance a jig atop the tallest mast.

As he approached his airship, its faint outline was visible in the starlight of the Great Wheel overhead. The frame was covered with canvas, the wings folded back. His launch crew of four came up, reported, and within seconds were at work. At times the drill seemed a futile gesture. Gunners at least fired blanks on a regular basis and even engaged in some live target practice; a barrel tossed overboard and then shot at from a thousand yards out, the crew coming the closest getting an extra ration of vodka.

There were competitions as well between the mast crews for speed of taking canvas in and spreading it. Even the engineering crew had the satisfaction of racing to bring the boilers up to steam and, on rare occasions, especially when they were coming back into port and could waste the preciously hoarded fuel, of unleashing the pent-up steam and bringing the great cruiser up to flank speed.

But for the men of the aerosteamer crew, launch and recovery seamen Bugarin, Yashima, Zhin, and Alexandrovich, the drill was always the same. Pull off the canvas cover, set the wings, then set the burners for the caloric hot-air engine, check steam power to the catapult, but don’t open the line. Every pound of steam was precious and filling the two hundred feet of hose from the boilers was a waste of energy if there was no launch. Then, if given the order to actually launch, pour the five-gallon glass jugs filled with sulphuric acid into the lead-lined vat containing zinc shavings and wait the fifteen minutes for the resulting hydrogen to fill the midships gas bags.

The last two steps were merely simulated and had never actually been done as part of a battle drill. The men had been delighted with the activity of the previous three days, but the crash had dampened their enthusiasm and they expected tonight to be another drill with no results.

Alexi arrived first. He was always enthusiastic, and Richard already knew his words of greeting.

“Well, sire, perhaps this time we fly!”

Alexi’s family had lived in the great woods north of Suzdal, and despite^ having moved over twenty years ago to the Republic, he had grown up accustomed to the old way of address.

“Perhaps, Alexi, something is up.”

“What, sire?”

Cromwell pointed to the southeast, and Alexi, with his catlike eyes, immediately spotted the flickering glow on the horizon, which Richard could now just barely discern.

“Ahh, a fire at sea? Perhaps there’ll be some fun then for us.”

Bugarin, Yashima, and Zhin joined them, gossiping amongst themselves as they cleared the tarpaulin and struggled to swing the wings forward. Richard checked carefully as the team set the locking pins and fastened the bi-level wings into place. Pins not properly set were the most common kind of accidents. The wing would snap back at launch, and the plane would dive straight down. Their comrades on the starboard-side catapult stood around glumly. There was nothing to do now that their plane was gone. Cromwell’s command leveled a few good-natured jibes about their now being drafted to go shovel coal.

The rest of the ship was a flurry of activity. The bow gunner crew was clearing the tarps from the twin-mounted steam gatling guns, uncasing the ammunition drums and slapping them into place. Fire crews connected hoses to pumps and tore the lids off buckets of sand hung from the railings.

The single turret forward, containing a massive fourteen-inch muzzle-loading gun, slowly turned, steam wheezing from the vent ports. From inside, Richard could hear the gunnery master shouting orders, preparing the weapon to be loaded if the captain should decide to go to full alert. The problem was that once loaded, the gun could not be unloaded other than by firing it, and ammunition was too expensive to waste whenever an alert was sounded.

Below, on the main fighting deck, Richard could hear firing ports on the starboard and port side being cleared. Armament below was a six-inch rifled breechloader forward, and another aft, with two ten-inch muzzle loaders amidships. The guns could swing to either starboard or port, then be run out and fired. Farther down, below the waterline in the forward and aft magazines, the steam hoists were tested and the first shells and powder bags loaded in, ready to be sent up through brass-lined tubes to the main gunnery deck.

Secondary guns lined the topside deck, the lighter three-inch weapons maneuvered by the muscle power of their crews.

Overhead, in the three masts, more than a hundred men swarmed, awaiting the command to take in and let out sail. If an enemy was sighted, sails would be furled. All motive power would shift to the steam engines that were still powering up as stokers tore into the coal bunkers, trundling out wheelbarrow loads of the precious black rock, upending the barrels into the open maws of the furnaces, which, with every passing second, glowed hotter and hotter. Rakers spread the hot coals out, the burning heat coiling around the hundreds of feet of piping that fed cold water through the boiler. The water flashed to steam that thundered into the pistons and hundreds of yards of piping that fed power to the turrets, gatling guns, hoists, pumps, pulleys, and Cromwell’s catapult launch.

Richard felt a rumble pass through the ship. The propellers, turning over, dug in. The command then went up for all sails to be furled.

The drill had been done a hundred times since they had set sail, less than a week after his graduation from the academy, but this time Richard could feel the tension. He could see the glow on the horizon from the main deck without aid of field glasses. It reflected off distant clouds, shimmering, then dying down, punctuated by sharp flashes. “Lieutenant Cromwell, you’re wanted on the bridge.” Richard followed the messenger, dodging around fire crews laying out buckets of sand and ammunition carriers bringing up three-inch rounds to the topside guns. Gaining the bridge ladder, he scrambled up. The deck was illuminated only by starlight, and the dim glow of the helmsman’s lamp had an unworldly feeling to it. Gracchi barely looked up at him, just a sidelong glance.

“You ready to fly, son?”

Startled, Richard did not respond.

“Well?”

“Ah, yes, sir.”

Gracchi, putting down his mug of tea, came up to Richard and placed a hand on his shoulder. “I want you to be cautious, son. Get up, use the clouds. I want you to get a good look at what is up ahead. Two things: what is burning, and who the hell is fighting. Don’t let yourself be seen, then hightail it back here before dawn.

“We’re in dangerous waters, Richard. I expect you to find out what the danger is and get back alive.”

Richard, stunned, said nothing. A night launch was rare enough. A night landing, except for some practice runs on the Inland Sea, had never been done.

To his surprise, Gracchi offered his oversize mug of tea to him. Cromwell’s knees instantly turned to jelly. Yet he was even more afraid that Gracchi would see his fear, and he struggled to still his hands. He accepted the mug and took a long drink. He detected a hint of vodka in the drink.

In the dim light he could see Gracchi smile at him in a fatherly way.

“Sorry, lad, but it’s got to be done. Get your bearing from the helmsman. We’ll hold our course steady at five knots. Don’t do anything foolish, just get a good look, then come straight back. We’ll pluck you out of the water, you can count on it.”

Richard simply nodded. Enlisting in the naval flying corps had presented a certain challenge. Why he had joined a service where his name was despised was tied up in his anger toward the race that had turned his father and then destroyed him. He had no real love for the Republic, but at least it had offered him a goal, a chance to rise above the ghastly poverty of those few who had survived slavery and now lived in a desolate land that would never recover from the occupation by the Merki. Now had come the moment to prove something, not only to those around him, but also to himself.

“Take Mr. O’Donald as your navigator and spotter. The boy needs to go back up, shake some of the fear out of him after that crash.”

“Yes, sir.”

Putting the mug down, Cromwell saluted even as Gracchi turned away to other tasks. Getting the heading and location, which was, as usual, just a fair guess, Richard jotted the numbers down and went forward to where his crew waited.

“Alexi, light the engines.”

“Sire?”

“Damn it, Alexi,” Richard snapped, “it’s ‘sir,’ nor ‘sire.’ Light the engines. Yashima, make sure the fuel is topped off and ammunition is aboard. Zhin, open the line to the steam piston.”

He spotted Sean standing next to his empty catapult, launch crew gathered listlessly around him, watching Cromwell’s team at work. He casually walked over.

“Sean, would you mind going below and getting my flight gear and yours?”

“Mine?”

“The old man says you’re going up with me.”

“I’m flying?”

Richard nodded, and in the starlight he could see the look of confusion mixed in with excitement at the realization that they were about to do a night launch.

“Richard, we’ve never done this before. I mean, a night launch and recovery.”

“You’re telling me?”

Sean forced a smile and took off, returning several minutes later with flight overalls. Richard slipped into his and buttoned it halfway up. The night was still warm, but aloft it would cool down a bit. He strapped a revolver around his waist, then pulled on a leather cap, goggles up on his forehead. Sean did the same, and the two waited as his crew continued preparations. Alexi, who normally would have gone up as his gunner and spotter, was obviously glad to be relieved of the assignment and said nothing.

“Top off the airbags?” Bugarin asked.

Richard nodded, unable to speak for a moment. Bugarin broke open the hydrogen generator box, carefully put on gloves, leather apron, and face covering, lifted out the five-gallon glass jar of sulphuric acid, and poured the contents into the lead-lined box filled with zinc shavings. Sealing the box, he connected the gas hose to the aft air bag, which was built into the tail assembly of the ship. It would provide just enough additional lift to get the scout plane aloft.

Richard started to pace back and forth nervously as his crew sprang to work. Then, chiding himself, he stopped, and put his hands behind his back, though he was still clenching and unclenching his hands.

The hissing of the caloric engines, which took only a few minutes to generate power, caught the attention of the gun crews. A chief petty officer came over to Richard.

“Going up, sir?”

Richard, not sure if he’d have control of his voice, simply nodded.

“Well, good luck.”

Again, only a nod.

The petty officer backed off.

The minutes slowly passed. Richard, finally breaking free from his statuelike pose, moved slowly around his airship; careful to avoid the single propeller aft, which was beginning to windmill. Alexi was up in the nose hatch, pulling the canvas hood off the forward gatling, which would be controlled by Richard once they were aloft. Zhin, carefully closing off the gas, then joined Bugarin on the traverse gear, which pointed the launch ramp off at a ten-degree angle from the bow so that the plane would not snag on the jib bow at launch.

It was time.

His crew, finished with their tasks, stepped back, staring at Richard and Sean, illuminated only by the dim starlight.

“She’s all set, sir,” Zhin announced, his English soft and precise.

Richard nodded stoically and, without comment, clambered up the ladder hanging from the side of the launch ramp and into the forward cab. Sean, following, climbed up past Richard into the observer/gunner’s position amidships. Richard handed back the paper with their coordinates, and Sean slipped it onto the clipboard holding his navigation chart.

The instruments were all but invisible in the darkness. He knew the bearing, but seeing the compass was all but impossible…damn.

Get a bearing on the Southern Triangle once aloft, he realized, then reverse it on the way back. He passed the suggestion back to Sean, who announced he had already thought of it.

Richard tapped his rudder pedals, looking back over his shoulder to glimpse the tail, then checked his stick. Next came the throttle. The engine hummed up smoothly. No way to check the gauges-he had to do it by sound and feel alone.

“All ready, sir.”

Alexi-Cromwell could sense his excitement-was standing up on the side of the plane.

“Ready.”

“I’ll get you off on the uproll, I promise it, sir.”

Richard, annoyed by Alexi’s fussing, said nothing.

There was no way to delay longer, though he had a sudden longing to get out of the plane and let Sean do the whole thing by himself.

He raised his right hand out of the cockpit, clenched fist held up, signaling the crew that he was ready.

What happened next came as a shock. Alexi, misreading the signal in the darkness, hit the steam release valve, slamming the launch piston forward.

Cursing silently, vision jarred by the unexpected blow, Richard clutched the stick with his left hand, pulled back too far and pitched the plane into the edge of a stall; propeller howling, the plane hung above the waves. He shoved the stick forward. For a gut-wrenching second nothing happened, and then the nose finally slipped down, leveling out.

He caught a glimpse of the jib boom to his right, then it was gone. His heart still thumping, he leveled off, putting the plane into a shallow banking turn.

Gettysburg stood out faintly in the starlight, her sails drawn in, her mast bare. He swung around her, mainsail yardarms at wing level. Something caught his attention. The wake of the ship glowed with a rich phosphorescent green that stretched back for a mile or more. The sight was stunning and revealing, as well; a clue as to how to spot a ship at night.

He swung out behind Gettysburg more than half a mile, then gingerly circled back in, lining up on the wake of the ship, and started to climb. He flew straight up the line, taking his bearing on the Triangle, which was off the starboard wing, bisected by a forward strut.

Directly ahead the glow of fire drew him as he winged up over Gettysburg, mast tops now a hundred feet below. Figuring it was best to gain altitude, he continued on his slow climb, pushing forward at nearly fifty miles an hour, climbing at two hundred feet a minute.

As the long minutes passed, wind slipped past his windscreen, heavy with tropical warmth and rich with salt scent. The glow on the horizon began to spread out, a clear indicator that it was close, not more than forty or fifty miles.

An errant breeze caused the plane to buck, rise up, then steady back out.

“Smell that?”-Sean shouted.

Richard raised his head up…smoke.

He pressed on. They slipped into a wisp of cloud, the temperature instantly dropping, then came back out. He descended slightly, leveling out, or at least tried to level. With less than twenty hours of flight time on scout planes, half of it gained over the last three days, he was still amazed that he had survived the launch. The thought of landing was more than he wanted to contemplate at the moment.

Bracing the rudder with his knees, he raised his field glasses, tried to find the fire, then gave up.

“Sean, use your glasses. Tell me what you see,” Richard shouted.

“Already on it.”

Richard looked back over his shoulder and, in the starlight, saw the outline of Sean above him, elbows braced on the upper wing.

“Damn big fire. Can see buildings. Damn big. It’s a harbor.”

They flew on for several minutes. Sean remained silent, half standing, elbows braced on the upper wing, scanning forward. He lowered his glasses and slipped back into his seat.

“Ships!” he cried. “I see ships burning, there’s shooting…there, a gun flash, you could see the ship.”

Richard, peering forward, wondered how Sean did it. He could see the flashes, the fire, but only as pinpricks of light.

“Richard, I don’t like this.”

“What is it?”

“Those aren’t pirates or raiders. Those ships are too big.”

“We better get in closer.”

Richard edged the plane up, taking it into the bottom of the clouds; dodging out, slipping back in again. Soon he could pick out individual flashes of light, forward of the city. Rippling lights erupted, flashes of fire that climbed heavenward, then winked out. Seconds later splashes of silent fire detonated, brilliant yellow lights that winked out as quickly as they ignited.

“You see that?” Richard cried. “Like rockets.”

“Hundreds of them,” Sean shouted excitedly.

More and more flashes were visible, spread out for what he estimated to be miles to either side of the burning city and forward of it.

He tried to brace the rudder again and raised his glasses. This time he caught glimpses, startling glimpses of fire, explosions that danced and weaved in his vision, one so brilliant that he was temporarily blinded.

“Richard, may I ask that you just fly? I’ll look.” Richard, surprised by Sean’s commanding tone, almost fired a quick retort, but then realized that his observer was right. His job was to fly, O’Donald’s was to look.

He reset the glasses in their rack. He had a momentary shock when he realized that he had drifted from what he had hoped was an arrow-straight course. The Triangle was directly off his starboard wing.

He banked over sharply, embarrassed and a bit frightened by his lapse. How long had they flown thus? Would he be able to find Gettysburg now?

A brilliant flash erupted, towering upward, expanding out.

“By all the gods,” Sean gasped. “I think an entire ship went with that.”

Several minutes later, a dull rumble washed over them. Watching the pattern of lights, Richard sensed that this was not an attack by some alien fleet on a city. Rather, it was a battle between two fleets. The burning city was merely a backdrop.

The dull distant rumble of the battle grew in intensity. Another detonation, as brilliant as the first one; the flash so bright that it lit up the sea as bright as day, and Richard could actually see other ships.

“Never seen anything like them,” Sean cried. “No masts, round things on top instead.”

“Turrets, like monitors?”

“Like giant monitors, four round turrets on one. Damn, did you see that one shoot?”

Richard had caught the flash of the guns, but in the confusion and distance he wasn’t sure.

“Just hold her steady, Richard, take us straight on in.” The sound of’gunfire was continuous, the shock waves rippling over them with sharp intensity.

There was no longer any doubt in his mind that two fleets were in action. He caught glimpses of sparkling shells arcing upward, disappearing into the darkness, then seconds later causing flashes on the water as the shells exploded. The only question left now was who, and in his mind there was no doubt.

It was the Kazan.

He had to make a decision. Continue to press in, get a close-up look, or come about and carry the precious information back. The Kazan had been found at last, and, given the similarity of the ships engaged, they were at war with one another.

“Damn!”

Richard saw it a second later, flashing by underneath, illuminated by the flash of an explosion…a flyer.

Startled, he pulled up, looking back over his shoulder. Behind him Sean had unfastened the lock holding his gatling in place and started to swing it around.

“Don’t shoot!” Richard shouted. “He might not have seen us.”

“We suspected they could fly, but did you see the size of that thing?”

Richard wasn’t sure. It was hard to judge in the darkness.

He headed upward, but there were no clouds nearby.

Three more flyers slipped underneath. Watching carefully, he judged them to be five hundred or more feet below. Then one of them started to turn.

O’Donald shouted a warning even as Richard pulled into a sharp climb.

“It’s lining up on us!”

Height or speed? He hung on to the stick for several seconds, frozen with indecision, and spared a quick glance back. He spotted a flicker of movement, starlight illuminating the white wings. It was hard to judge the distance, but a guess told him it was several hundred yards back. The plane was within range if they had machine guns, and given the carnage going on straight ahead, it was idiotic to assume otherwise.

He nosed over, going into a steep dive that in seconds put the scout plane up to its maximum speed of ninety miles an hour. The ocean, though several thousand feet below, seemed to rush up, and the raging battle seemed perilously close.

“Where is he?” Richard cried.

“I can’t tell, lost him when you dived. Next time warn me!”

A flash of light snapped past.

Time seemed to freeze. He remembered lectures at the academy, talking with old sailors, veterans of the Great War, about what it was like. The shock of realization that for the first time someone was shooting at you, trying to kill you…and that in another instant the world would continue to spin on in its grim course, and you would not be part of it.

Another flash shot past. Sean cursed, steam hissing as he opened the cock. The’gatling spun to life, spitting flame, the vibration blurring vision. Richard wondered if the chocks that shut the gun down would work if Sean should happen to swing it due aft, where his shots would shred the propeller.

He still couldn’t see the instruments in the darkness. Sense alone told him that he was pushing the plane beyond any speed he had ever flown before. Chopping back the throttle, he pulled up sharply, the control stick shaking a violent tattoo, wires humming, one parting with a riflelike crack.

“Where the hell is he?”

There was no reply.

Richard spared a quick glance back over his shoulder and was stunned by the sight of Sean hanging half out of the plane, arms locked around the breech of his gun.

Richard leveled out, and Sean swore wildly, swinging his legs back into the plane.

“Damn it, why aren’t you strapped in?” Richard screamed.

In the starlight, he could see Sean’s terrified grimace.

“Where is he?”

“How am I supposed to know?” Sean gasped.

Completely disoriented, Richard looked around. There was a flash directly below him, a mushrooming cloud of fire spreading out across the sea, the explosion soaring up, the shock of it rocking his plane. He felt a shuddering shriek, the nearby passage of a shell sounding like an out-of-control train rushing past.

He nosed his plane over, banking sharply, putting the fire of the city directly behind him.

“We’re getting the hell out of here.”

He continued to dive, the wind shrieking, pushing the plane. He looked aft, caught a glimpse of the Triangle.

Looking forward, he saw Gavala, the star that was the point of the Hunter’s Spear, low on the horizon, and two points off to port.

He raced back out for the open sea, pulling up to clear a ship that suddenly appeared out of the darkness and in seconds disappeared astern. It was a ship without masts, he realized, turrets mounted fore and aft.

The ocean seemed to spread out to either side, and with a start he realized that he was only feet above the water.

“Five more degrees to port,” Sean cried.

“What?”

“You’re about five degrees off.”

Sean had always scored highest in their navigation classes, so Richard followed his order without comment.

But after a few minutes something else caught his attention.

A fire glowed on the horizon, not as big as the one he had been approaching less than half an hour ago. It was simply a pinpoint, flashes of light that popped, flared, and disappeared.

A thought crossed his mind. From the position of the Great Wheel, which showed intermittently through the scattering of clouds, he judged it was little more than halfway through the first watch. Less than three hours ago he had come awake and wandered to the galley for a cup of tea and biscuits before going on watch. Three hours ago he would have had no idea of what it was he was now seeing, or how to judge it.

Ahead there was another fight, ship to ship, and someone was burning. Was it his ship dying? Were they now alone a thousand miles from home?