Firestorm

CHAPTER 22

Above Ceylon January 17, 1944

Tikker scratched his ear around the highly polished 7.7-mm cartridge case thrust through a hole a similar cartridge once shot through it. Sometimes it itched, and he’d begun to associate that with a superstitious foreboding. He looked around. Everything seemed fine, and it had been a swell day for killing Grik. The “Nancy’s” engine rumbled healthily above and behind, and they hadn’t been hit by any Grik “shot-mortars” when they bombed the hell out of a retreating column earlier in the flight. It was windy, and the plane bounced around a lot, and the sea to the west showed white teeth, but they should be able to set down safely in Salissa ’s lee. All in all, it was a glorious day, and he didn’t know why his ear was bugging him. A shout from aft shattered his sense of well-being.

“How come you don’t go down and let me shoot more Grik?” Cap- tain Risa-Sab-At, commander of Salissa’s Marine contingent, demanded sharply.

“I don’t see any more,” Tikker snapped. “They’ve had enough. They abandon Saa-lon!” He pointed down, behind them, where Haakar-Faask, Naga, Bowles, Felts, Saak-Fas, and Clark were spraying grapeshot across the rocky, mushy land bridge to India proper, gnashing the remnants of the Grik host trying to cross in daylight with the ebbing tide. The Allied armies were rapidly advancing to chop up what remained of the enemy on Ceylon, and those stranded by the tide would likely be annihilated.

“Then let’s go kill some of those trying to cross the sand!” she demanded.

“Right! We’d probably be hit by our own ships, if we go low enough for you to shoot them with that musket! Besides, we’re low on fuel!” Tikker was growing beyond annoyed. Risa had been cooped up on Salissa throughout the campaign, and she’d begged hm to take her on this patrol. He’d reluctantly agreed when Admiral Keje just as reluctantly gave his blessing. They both knew how anxious she was to get in the fighting, any fighting, particularly after hearing of her brother Chack’s-and Dennis Silva’s-latest… adventures on New Ireland. She’d spent the flight taking potshots at Grik during their bombing runs. At first, the shots surprised and alarmed him. Then they became annoying. He’d told her that if she flew with him, she had to perform all the duties of his spotter/wireless operator, and she’d readily agreed. Once in the air, however, she’d “spotted” all right, trying to get him to dive in on every lost Grik they saw, and he’d quickly determined she barely knew Morse. Except for the column they’d chopped up, it had been a wasted patrol. He hoped the other three ships in his flight had made better observations.

“So,” he said, trying to make conversation and lighten the tension he felt. Risa was a “dish” after all, as the Amer-i-cans would say, and, despite his present aggravation, he actually kind of liked her. There were those pesky rumors about her being “mated” to Silva, and he didn’t know what to think of that. She didn’t seem to be pining for the big chief gunner’s mate, however, and he wondered if he had a chance. He never would have before the war, but now? To say things had changed was a vast understatement. She was just so damn intense sometimes! “What are you going to do? Did you really put in for a transfer?”

“Yes,” she shouted back through the voice tube. “To a line regiment. I want to stay on this front and kill Grik, of course, but I’ll go east if I must.”

Where Silva is, Tikker thought glumly. “There is Salissa!” he said, pointing west-southwest. The mighty ship was anchored a few miles offshore, with Humfra Dar a thousand tails beyond her. Both massive “carriers” were screened by a squadron of “DD” frigates under the command of Jim Ellis. It was a heady sight that banished his gloom. Never had so much combat power been assembled in one place, and soon Arracca and her battle group would arrive. Tikker grinned and turned toward the ships and began his descent.

“Must we return?” Risa asked. “This has been… fun.”

Tikker grinned and was glad Risa couldn’t see his embarrassed blinking.

“Yes, fun,” he admitted. “To a degree.”

Once they reached her, he circled Salissa while his squadron mates set down in the water between her and the shore and were recovered. It would still be bumpy there, but the winds were largely blocked by the bulk of the massive ship. Finally, it was Tikker’s turn. He lined up on the calmer water, fighting the crosswind that would buffet them until they neared the sea, and reduced power. Down they swooped, and he heard Risa shout with glee. Just fifteen feet off the water, he was preparing to cut power even further, when a massive waterspout erupted directly in his path and something tore through the nose of his plane, slashing him along the left forearm. Without thought, he pushed the throttle to the stop and leveled off. More splashes rose, seemingly at random throughout the area of the anchored carriers and their screen. An explosion suddenly rocked Cablaas-Rag-Lan’s USS Scott, and the new frigate coasted to a stop, her fo’c’sle bathed in flames.

“They’re bombs!” Tikker muttered wonderingly, looking at the sky as he pulled back on the stick. “Bombs!” he shouted. “They’re bombs, Risa!”

“Yes!” she shouted back. “Bigger than ours! But where are they coming from?”

“They can only be shells from a mighty ship, like Amagi herself or bombs dropped by aircraft!” He frantically continued searching the sky and the horizon. Nothing!

“What’s that?” Risa yelled.

Tikker turned and saw her pointing almost straight up. He followed her gaze. No! That’s impossible, his mind shrieked. High above, very high, higher than he’d ever flown, thirty or forty massive objects drifted lazily, seemingly effortlessly, eastward. They were long and fat and looked like the “scum weenies” that Laan-yeer, the cook, was always trying to make people eat. They were clearly flying but had no wings!

“Send… flying… scum weenies are attacking!” he shouted back at Risa.

“I… I’ll try!” Risa yelled back as Tikker put the plane in the steepest climb he thought it would handle. He was above the splashes now, and could actually see bombs hurtling down. At that moment, several things happened at once. A strangely formed engine, prop still slowly turning, dropped into the sea, followed by a woven wood contraption of some kind, filled with shrieking Grik. He had no time for the oddity of the sight to register before a bomb erupted directly in the path of another, lower plane, also trying to pull out. The “Nancy” staggered through the spume, but its left wing clipped a wave. Tikker watched in horror as the plane cartwheeled across the sea and literally disintegrated. In the next instant, before he had the slightest opportunity to recover from that awful sight, the horizon before him pulsed with light. A colossal, fiery pyramid of smoke and flame vomited upward and outward from Humfra-Dar, flinging debris, burning planes, unrecognizable fragments, and people through the air like smoldering motes.

“O Maker!” he cried. For an instant, he was too aghast to even remember what he’d been doing. How could one bomb… and then he realized. It hadn’t been just one bomb. The 5th, 6th, and 8th Bomb Squadrons of the 2nd Naval Air Wing had been next in the rotation. They’d been on the flight deck, loaded with bombs and fuel… “O Maker,” he whispered, “guide their path.” He tried to jam the throttle past its stop, then yanked back on the stick again, blinking furiously through the tears filling his eyes. He had to get up there, where the “flying weenies” were. What he’d do-if he did-he had no idea. The “Nancys” still had no weapons besides bombs, and Tikker was out of those. Risa had a musket… Behind him, Risa-Sab-At said nothing.

Baalkpan

Bernard Sandison was a happy man, and he whistled erratically as he walked briskly from his small office in Adar’s Great Hall down the damp, crowded street to the expanding complex past the “Navy Yard” that comprised his “division.” Occasionally, he paused and watched a group of “dames,” newly arrived from Maa-ni-la, being led on tours of the city. Quite a few had wound up working for him in the ammunition factories, and he was admittedly more than a little sweet on a couple. He restrained himself, however. No sense in committing himself so soon when new “drafts” arrived almost daily now. Besides, they all wanted to work and were so willing to please, he wanted to make sure he wasn’t taking advantage of them during this initial, vulnerable time. They’d been virtual slaves in the Empire, and the transition to free citizens with all the rights, benefits-and responsibilities-involved was difficult and confusing for most to adjust to. Not all the guys were so conscientious, and he owled. Dean Laney was probably the worst at “making the most” of the situation, and Bernie meant to have a word with Riggs about that yet again. Laney was such a jerk.

His expression softened as his thoughts returned to other things. The news on all fronts was good-or at least not bad-and he felt that was largely due to his herculean efforts (and those of all the great people he had working for him in Ordnance). He was still mad at Silva for going AWOL, but the new “Allin-Silva” conversions were coming along nicely. A regiment’s worth of the “kits,” consisting of barreled actions with calibrated sights already installed, as well as cast conversion hammers, were now ready for shipment. The next batch would be ready in half the time, and he expected that to improve even more as production hit its stride. Once the “conversions” arrived at the front, troops in the field could simply install the new barrels and hammers themselves in a few minutes’ time, and then send their old barrels back for lining and alteration. It was an elegant solution that would cause no downtime at all. He’d have preferred the. 45-70 cartridge for ballistic reasons but settled on what was essentially a . 50-80. The extra powder would help make up for the larger diameter, and that diameter would mean the weapons would only be a little heavier than the. 60-caliber smoothbores. What extra weight there was would help tame the heavier recoil. He considered it an ingenious compromise, if he did say so himself. No more smoothbore small arms were being made in Baalkpan.

He’d finally solved the problem of making small cartridge cases too, which made him particularly happy. In this, he’d been assisted by a Lemurian bowl maker who applied his own methods to the task. Bernie had no idea how it “should” be done, but what they did was cast brass case heads at the base of a large, thin disc. The case heads, with primer pockets already formed, were clamped in new specialized lathes with a precision template and a long, thin “live” center in the tail stock. After that, they simply spun the lathe and formed the disc into an appropriately shaped tube. The cool thing was, they could make. 30-06 and. 45 ACP on the same machines since the heads were identical. They just cut the. 45s off shorter. Other machines made. 30-40 for the Krags, 6.5 for the Japanese rifles salvaged from Amagi, . 50 BMG, and some other calibers for the few civilian weapons found on the first visit to Santa Catalina, but most were dedicated to the new. 50-80 cartridge. They’d started out making a few hundred shells a day; however, as production expanded, machines were built, and workers trained, they’d be making tens of thousands a day very soon. Of course, then the shells had to be loaded.

The. 50-80s would always be fed black powder for pressure reasons, but Bernie’s team had finally created suitable nitrocellulose powders for the remaining “modern” firearms. The testing had destroyed a Krag and split a 1911 at the ejection port, but now they had the formulas and loads down to the point that the weapons functioned properly and trajectories matched the calibrated sights. New, fixed ammunition was coming out of Baalkpan Arsenal for the first time. Bernie wasn’t satisfied with that. He was still improving the explosive rounds for the four-inch-fifties and the salvaged Japanese guns, as well as the mortars and bombs. They were still stuck with muzzle-loading, smoothbore artillery for the foreseeable future, but he was making progress toward rifled guns, and ultimately, rifled breechloaders. He was even close to testing new torpedoes at long last. That would make Captain Reddy smile, he knew. He frowned. Captain Reddy may not smile when he finds out about some of the other “projects” Adar’s got me working on. But Adar’s Chairman of the Grand Alliance, and it makes sense to have the stuff, even if we never use it, Bernie supposed. And it’s not as though we can transmit to the Skipper-and even if we could, other folks would know…

He avoided a mud puddle and hurried on.

The other “divisions” hadn’t been idle, he confessed to himself. New ships were coming off the ways, some with bolt-on armor protecting their engineering spaces. They’d finally located and literally hoisted shattered Mahan from the waters of the bay, using two Homes to place her on one of the new floating dry docks. Now the debate raged as to whether they should rebuild her, or incorporate her machinery in new construction. The latter seemed to be the consensus regarding S-19. She was so badly damaged-and nobody but Laumer and a few others really wanted a sub. Riggs and Rodriguez had made electric arc searchlights to replace the one Walker lost and equip new ships with the simple, powerful lights. Based on the USAAF SCR-284 sets that came with the P-40s, Riggs was also on the brink of completing real-voice radios.

Yes, things were going well and Bernie was happy, but that happiness came with a measure of anxiety. It seemed every time they got an edge, the Grik came up with some way to negate or match it, and he couldn’t help wondering what they had come up with in the equally abundant time they’d had to plot and scheme. He snorted. Whatever it is, they’ll be hard-pressed to match us this time! Through the crowd, he caught sight of Riggs and Rodriguez making to cut him off. Speak of the devil, he thought. Despite the heat of the day, he felt a chill when he noticed their expressions.

“C’mon, Bernie!” Riggs said urgently. “We’re headed for the Great Hall.”

“I just came from there! I have work…”

Without a word, Riggs thrust a sweat-darkened message form into his hand.

FROM KEJE-FRIS-AR CINCWEST AND CMDR FIRST FLEET X TO ALL STATIONS

X SUBJECT GENERAL ALARM X AT 0855 THIS DAY A LARGE FORMATION GRIK REPEAT GRIK DIRIGIBLES REPEAT DIRIGIBLES ATTACKED FIRST FLEET WITH HEAVY BOMBS FROM HIGH ALTITUDE ESTIMATED 15000 FEET X SEAPLANE CARRIER HUMFRA-DAR DESTROYED WITH ENTIRE 2ND NAVAL AIR WING MINUS SQUADRONS ALOFT THAT WERE RECOVERED ABOARD SALISSA X FEWER THAN 300 SURVIVORS X RESERVE CAPTAIN GERAN-ERAS AND COFO LT CMDR ALFRED VERNON USN MISSING AND PRESUMED LOST X SERIOUS DAMAGE ALSO SUSTAINED TWO DDS X MINOR DAMAGE SUSTAINED SEVERAL AUXILIARIES X NO EFFECTIVE ANTIAIR EFFORT POSSIBLE BUT CAPTAINS JIS-TIKKAR AND RISA-SAB-AT DESERVE NOTICE FOR CLOSE INSPECTION AND DESCRIPTION OF AIRSHIPS AS WELL AS SENDING ONE OUT OF CONTROL WITH MUSKET FIRE X NUMEROUS OTHER ENEMY CRAFT DESTROYED BY INEXPERIENCED HANDLING X EXAMPLE: RAPID UNCONTROLLED ASCENT AFTER DROPPING BOMBS APPARENTLY CAUSED CATASTROPHIC STRUCTURAL FAILURE AT LEAST SIX (6) GRIK ZEPPELINS X DESCRIPTION GRIK ZEPPELINS: APPROXIMATELY 100 TAILS (YARDS) LONG WITH 4 TAIL-MOUNTED CONTROL SURFACES AND 5 HORIZONTALLY OPPOSED TWO-CYLINDER ENGINES X COMMODORE ELLIS DESCRIBES AS “STUMPY VERSIONS OF ACRON OR MACON” X MAJORITY OF SURVIVING AIRSHIPS RETIRED 345 DEGREES RELATIVE OUR POSITION TOWARD MAINLAND X SOME CONTINUED ON BEARING OF 115 DEGREES POSSIBLE TARGET ANDAMAN X DO NOT REPEAT DO NOT ASSUME THIS IS ONLY RAID X MAKE ALL PREPARATIONS FOR ATTACKS SINGAPORE ARYAAL BAALKPAN X JAP ADVISOR KUROKAWA MUST BE INVOLVED SO REMEMBER JAP AFFINITY FOR COORDINATED AIR ATTACKS X CINCWEST SENDS X

“Oh my God!” Bernie breathed. “Zeppelins! It makes perfect sense, though. No Grik’s ever going to sit in the cockpit of a proper plane. Look, you guys go ahead! I’ll run out to the airfield and give Mallory the dope! We can’t let those bastards hit us here! Not now!”

“Relax, Bernie. We’re hardwired to Ben’s CP from the comm center. He’s already got the word and says he can get four ships in the air if he has to. He’ll have them armed and prepped just in case the red rockets go up. Everybody’s watching the sky, and we’ve already diverted a squadron of PatWing One ‘Nancys’ on a training flight. More planes’ll be up within the hour.”

“Okay, I’ll come with you,” Bernie said, relenting, but then his face turned ashen as he stared toward the Great Hall. Red rockets arced from under the boughs of the Sacred Tree, and others flew skyward from Fort Atkinson and several other designated OPs. “Shit!” he said as the popping sounds of the rockets reached them and general alarm bells began clattering across the city. High above, barely visible in the west-southwest, a jumbled school of what looked like giant fish emerged from the late-afternoon haze.

“Son of a bitch!” Riggs swore. “I didn’t really believe they’d come here! No way they’re the same ones that hit First Fleet! How many of the damn things can they have?” He paused. “Okay, guys. Do not go to the Great Hall! The last thing we need is everybody under one bomb! I’m heading back to the comm center!” He looked at the two men. “Go wherever you want, but split up! And pass the word to anybody you meet: take cover!”

Kaufman Field Baalkpan

Ben Mallory dropped his coffee mug on the table in the shade when the alarm bells began ringing and the rockets popped over the city. The cof- fee spilled across the table and dripped on the ground. “Jumbo!” he shouted at a tall, still-emaciated lieutenant who’d recently arrived from Maa-ni-la. The man had supposedly been a good pilot despite his regulation-busting six-foot-two frame, but he was still in no condition to try out for the P-40s. “Get over to Flight Ops and warm up the radio!” They had one of the spare radios configured for ground use, with a hand crank and dynamo. He looked at Soupy, Mackey, and “Shirley”-the shortest female ’Cat in the Air Corps-and the only other person besides himself and the previous two yet qualified in the P-40E. They’d all been gathered in the shade, waiting, since the first alert. “Let’s do it,” he said a little nervously. “If they’re popping rockets, the damn things must be in sight!”

Together, the four fliers, two human and two ’Cats, ran to the four planes parked two by two out on the strip. Ben leaped onto the trailing edge of the port wing near the fuselage of the plane now sporting a big white cursive M painted on the cowl, and stepped into the cockpit. He immediately flipped the battery switch on and reached for the primer handle with his left hand, unlocked it, and pumped it vigorously to give the engine a good gulp of fuel. Still pumping, his right hand found the starter switch under the throttle quadrant and flipped it from Off down to Energize. The high-pitched, dynamo starter wound up and Ben realized he hadn’t been counting thepriming “shots” he’d sent the big Allison V-1710 in front of him. If he’d given it too much, there’d likely be an induction fire.

“Crap!” he growled aloud. What a “newie” mistake! Of course, he was a “newie” when it came to a combat scramble! Thinking the number felt about right, he locked the handle with a twist and pushed the throttle forward about an inch. The dynamo had reached a fever pitch. “Clear prop!” he yelled, moving the starter switch to Engage. The plane shook violently when the clutch grabbed, and the three-bladed Curtiss electric prop began to turn. The engine chugged, popped, and then several loud blasts blew soot out the exhaust stacks and the big prop blurred. Quickly, he pushed the mixture to Auto Rich, released the starter switch, and jockeyed the throttle. “C’mon!” The Allison blatted up to 900 rpm, let out a string of explosive farts, then stopped firing. “Goddamn crappy gas!” he shouted in frustration, unlocking the primer pump again and waiting for it to refill while the prop windmilled down. He jammed the handle forward, eased the throttle just above idle, and the engine finally caught and roared to life. It hadn’t rained in two days, and a white cloud of dust erupted and gushed aft of the plane.

He buckled the lap belt, looking left and a little behind at the ship beside him. Soupy’s engine was alive, beginning to behave, and the ’Cat was looking nervously around, bouncing up and down on his cushion and parachute, trying to settle himself. Ben’s ears reddened when he saw Lieutenant Mackey in his mirror, looking back at him. Mack was grinning, his engine running smoothly. The prop on Shirley’s ship was still turning on its starter, and Sergeant Dixon trotted out where Ben could see him, shaking his head and waving them on. Mallory nodded irritably and stirred his stick, then lowered the flaps. They’d learned from experience to take off side by side, a little staggered-and try to leave the dust-spewing, chip-throwing strip as quickly as they could. Mackey, as tail end Charlie, would wait until the dust settled. Someday they’d have a grass strip, but in the short term, “paving” and rolling the crushed limestone and coral they had plenty of was easier than grading, filling a billion stump holes, rolling the soft earth-and then waiting for grass to grow. Ben held his brakes for a brief mag check and listened while the others did the same, then pushed the throttle forward. The plane didn’t move!

Damn it! The chocks! He pulled the throttle back to idle, cursing his jitters, but saw a ’Cat emerge from under the right wing, the triangular blocks from the left main already in his hand. He made a “hold on” motion, and pulled the right chocks from under the plane by the rope connecting them. Pitching the bundle of wooden blocks aside, he came to attention and saluted with a toothy grin. Ben grinned back, relieved, and returned the salute. Glancing at Soupy again, he briskly pointed down the strip.

The ’Cat nodded back; Ben shoved the throttle forward in a fluid motion and the Allison roared. The sudden noise and wind blast painfully reminded him he’d made another “newie” mistake. He’d neglected to don the leather helmet, headphones, and goggles still on his lap! Oh well, that would have to wait, but the noise was physically painful. He fed in a little left rudder as the plane accelerated, and he brought the tail up. Now he could see the strip in front of him when the P-40’s long nose leveled out, and he danced on the rudder pedals to keep it straight. Another quick glance showed him Soupy still beside him and not lost in the growing dust cloud.

The plane got light on the gear and he eased back on the stick, lifting off and accelerating. The “Nancy” hangars by the river were geing larger, but he waited a moment longer to make sure his ship wouldn’t bounce. Satisfied, he tapped the toe brakes to stop the spinning wheels, depressed the gear handle locking pin, and pulled the lever up. His head bobbled like a gobbler in a turkey shoot so he could keep track of his surroundings and watch the multitude of gauges, and he squeezed the hydraulic pump switch low on the stick that both raised the landing gear and allowed him to milk the flaps while the ship gained more speed. He confirmed that the strange landing gear position indicator was telling the truth when the left main completed its rotation and clunked into the port wing, followed moments later by the starboard, and the Gear Unsafe light went out. Now, with everything up, he had to resist the temptation to lift the nose and go straight at the enemy. He needed speed first; then he’d claw for altitude. He pushed the throttle past the established thirty-five inches of manifold pressure and immediately a loud glacker-ing sound reached him even over the buffeting wind and now almost-agonizing exhaust. “ Goddamn crummy gas!” he yelled again, unheard even by himself. He backed the throttle down half an inch or so, and the detonation quit. Guess we’ll have to settle for what we’ve got, he thought, finally closing the canopy and muffling the terrible noise.

Airspeed passed 190 as he roared over the river at a hundred fifty feet-just enough to clear the highest trees on the other side. At 220, he pulled the nose up about thirty degrees, and the altimeter needles spun as he shot upward. The airspeed was holding and he trimmed her up. Finally he had a chance to put his helmet on. That helped a lot. He could actually hear himself think. Climbing through five thousand feet, his speed started bleeding and he advanced the throttle. The manifold pressure had been dropping about an inch per thousand feet, and now it came back up-but the engine started clattering again! If the detonation continued, it could overheat the engine, burn a hole in a piston, or-according to the manual-even blow a cylinder head off the block! He’d honestly never considered the possibility he’d have to climb this fast, this high, on this world for any reason, but he wasn’t even half as high as the bizarre gaggle of Grik airships looming ever closer to Baalkpan.

I’ve got to get up there! he raged. He had one trick left, something he hadn’t tried since that first, short flight when he was trying to impress Adar. He shoved the mixture control into the manual, Full Rich position. This was usually an emergency setting for low altitude when the auto feature failed due to a ruptured diaphragm in the controller. Normally, it would flood the engine or foul the plugs, but… What the hell. In this situation, the Devil’s gonna take the hindmost! He was almost surprised when the detonation quit. He pushed the throttle forward and still didn’t hear any clatter. A grin formed, and he eased the prop control back to 2,600 rpm. Not only did the engine still sound happy, but there was a definite increase in thrust. He raised the nose slightly and the speed settled at 160. Satisfied at last with his ship’s performance, he activated the Bendix hydraulic gun-charging system. His plane was armed with only two guns, but it had extra ammunition. None were incendiary rounds since today they’d been loaded for more ground attack training.

They were lucky to have any bullets to train with at all and wouldn’t have if Bernie hadn’t solved the ammo issues. As it was, they had one precious tracer for every six rounds. Those damn Grik zeps had to be filled with hydrogen… didn’t they? A tracer ought to light that… shouldn’t it? One way or another, their fifties would shred them, he was sure. He held the Squeeze to Talk switch on the throttle knob to report what he’d done to overcomeetonation issues and called “Tally ho!” on the Grik airships, just now beginning to move over the city. There had to be twenty or more.

“All right, you lizardy bastards! Let’s see how your balloons stand up to flasher fish!”

Mack had joined on Soupy’s left wingtip, and the three P-40Es scorched across the sky and plunged into combat. If the Grik dirigibles had been a surprise to the allies, Ben’s new toys came as a very rude shock to the enemy. One of the strange airships appeared in Ben’s excellent (but according to Mack, dangerous in a crash) gunsight, and he fired a burst into the thing. Both his guns responded, and the target immediately seemed to become misshapen. One of its engines fell off and became entangled in some sort of netting that covered the craft. The red tracers bored in, smoking white, and what began as a blue flicker above the odd “gondola” erupted into an orange torrent of flame, and the craft sagged in the middle as the fire raced fore and aft. Soupy’s voice reached him through his earphones, screeching with glee as two more zeppelins gushed flames. Ben shredded another himself as the planes blew through the ragged formation that scattered before them like terrified, lethargic fish. They did look something like fish, Ben thought as he avoided debris that both rose and fell. They weren’t perfectly cylindrical but had an oval cross section. He briefly wondered what advantage that shape might provide.

There was no time to ponder that; dark objects began falling from the survivors of the first pass, plummeting toward the city below, and all three planes climbed slightly and stood on their right wings to tighten their turns for another strike. “Reduce speed!” he ordered. “We have to spend more time shooting! Did anybody see anything that looked like weapons on those things?”

“No weapons I see!” Soupy answered. “Look at that one! And that one! They go up! I chase?”

Ben watched as several airships almost rocketed higher into the sky as their bombs tumbled away. “No, leave ’em for now. They’ve already dropped their bombs, and they’re probably goners, anyway. Look at the junk falling off them! They can’t take that kind of upward acceleration! They get high enough, their gas bags’ll crack ’em wide-open! Concentrate on the ones with bombs!”

The formation had completely broken with that first pass, and the Grik were now flying in all directions, dropping their bombs as fast as they could. Ben destroyed two more in rapid succession, then stitched another that had already dropped, but had apparently dumped enough gas to prevent a catastrophic climb. He made sure it went down in flames. No sense in letting any “smart” ones survive! Mack torched three in quick succession, and Ben could only marvel at the guy’s gunnery skills. He’d already learned the man was a hell of a pilot.

“They make for shipyard!” Soupy squealed, tearing into another zeppelin that was dropping right then but maintaining its altitude.. . at least until its aft end bowed under a torrent of fire. “We eat them up!” Soupy yelled. “This big skuggik shoot!”

Ben was turning again, lining up on a pair of airships heading for the airstrip, when he happened to glance down. He gulped. Smoke was rising all over the city like malignant gray-black toadstools. “Shut up!” he shouted. “Maybe we’re eating them up, but they’re pasting our goddamn Home! Quit crowing and kill them!”

“Colonel,” Mack’s voice sounded. “You’re not going to believe this, but something just dropped out of the sky and knocked a hole the size of a baseball in my left wing! I’m losing fuel.”

“Okay, Mack, set her down. You’ve done a swell job. Soupy and I can handle the rest of these freaks. Looks like just a couple left, anyway. Over.”

“Wilco, Colonel. You guys didn’t do too shabby yourselves. I’ll see you on the ground!”

“Roger, and out!” Ben said, opening up on the last two airships he could see, even as their bombs dropped away. One ship lit off, and it was close enough to its companion to ignite the gas it was venting. The combined fireball was enough, finally, to make Ben whoop. “Anything else, Soupy?”

“No, Colonel. Nothing near our level. A few still high up, but pieces falling off, so watch out!”

“Yeah. Don’t want a whole engine falling on us! Let’s scout around a bit, all the same. There may be stragglers, or even another whole batch behind this one.”

“Ah, Roger, but if that’s true, I better get more bullets!”

“You shot yourself dry?”

“Not completely.”

Ben sighed. “Okay. We’ll touch all the bases and head for the barn. The rest of PatWing One ought to be up by now. Maybe they’re looking in the right direction this time-up!” It had occurred to him that the attackers had to have flown over at least a few of the patrol ships, and their pilots simply hadn’t imagined anything flying higher than they did.

“Colonel Mallory.” Jumbo’s voice suddenly came through Ben’s earphones. It sounded strained. “This is Kaufman Field Flight Ops. Be advised, a few bombs hit the strip and there’re some craters. There’s a clear lane, and we’ll mark the damage, but just… be careful. Over.”

“Roger, Kaufman Field. Soupy? Go ahead and take your ship down. Mack’s dust should be clear by the time you get there, and yours’ll be gone by the time I come in.”

Ben flew a little longer, enjoying the responsive fighter and his sense of accomplishment. He’d finally fought his first real air action, and although the targets had been sitting ducks, the threat had been real and the stakes enormous. It was a big deal. Only a couple of the enemy could have escaped, and only if they’d gained control of their airships before they came apart, high above. Even then, where would they go? He was pretty sure this part of the Grik blitz had been a suicide mission. He couldn’t imagine they’d have the fuel to return after what had to be one of the longest flights in the history of this world. He looked down. The damage below looked bad, and fires started by the bombs and fallen airships blazed vigorously here and there. The shipyard seemed to have been spared, but it looked like at least one of the zeppelins had gone down right near the airstrip. Other than a corner of the Ordnance complex, it looked like the worst hit were civilian areas. Of course, damage always looks worse from the air, he consoled himself.

Finally, he turned for home, descending rapidly. He’d been right. The damage did look worse from higher up, where the smoke clouds broadened and made the fires look worse than they were. There was damage, sure, but he was proud they’d prevented far worse. Gear down, flaps down, he brought his “M” plane fluttering (and blatting loudly, still Full Rich) in over the airstrip. The dust had settled, but smoke was thick. At least the new craters had been well marked with red flags. Then, just as Ben’s tires touched the crushed, packed strip, and his own dust cloud bloomed behind, he saw that what he’d taken for a burning airship wasn’t an airship at all, but one of his precious P-40s lying twisted and scattered, the main portion of its corpse on its back, beyond one of the relatively small rock-filled cavities in the strip. Stunned, he let his plane roll nearly to a stop, then stood on the brakes. Letting off, he gunned his engine and turned toward the wreckage.

Black smoke still roiled skyward, but the fire had largely burned itself out. All that remained were the charred bones of a plane. He killed the Allison, slammed his canopy back, and stood in the cockpit. He couldn’t tell whose plane it had been… until Soupy ran up and leaped on the wing beside him, his furry face wet with tears.

“Jumbo say he touch down just as bombs hit,” Soupy almost moaned. “Big smoke, big dust.” He shook his head, blinking. “He say even if he go full throttle then, he still hit hole. He screwed.”

Jumbo, Sergeant Dixon, Shirley, and many more began gathering around Ben’s plane, and he removed his helmet and dropped it on the seat. Stepping out, he saw many tears-but none on Sergeant Dixon’s expressionless face. The man seemed to notice the scrutiny and managed only a shrug.

“Mack was a swell guy, Colonel,” he said roughly, “but I can’t tell you how many times I saw this exact same scene in the Philippines before the Japs caught us. So many swell guys… An’ then with all that happened on that goddamn Jap ship… I just… I ain’t got any tears left, ya know? I’ve bled ’em all out.” He turned to the others, ’Cats and humans. “An’ I won’t cry a tear for you neither, none of you! I’ll help keep these planes going until every last one is gone, because there’s a war on and… Here we are. Beats where we were. But I’ll spit on the bones of the next bastard that dies-and takes a good ship with him-’cause if he’s dead, he ain’t killin’ those Jap-Grik bastards that just killed my friend!”

With that, Sergeant Dixon wheeled and stormed off in the direction of the hangars. Jumbo started to follow, but Ben called him back. “Leave him be, Lieutenant. I guess we all know how he feels. There’s not a soul here who hasn’t lost somebody in this damn war. Now we’ve lost somebody else. We’ll bury him in the old Parade Ground Cemetery, beneath the Great Tree… and pray we all don’t run out of tears before this war’s done.”