Down to the Sea (37 page)

He slammed the throttles up. The massive caloric engines hissed, fumes from the burning benzene washing over him. With the extra five hundred pounds on board the ship felt heavy, the launch deck impossibly short as he rolled forward, thankful for the extra fifteen knots of wind blowing up from the south, sweeping along the deck. The wings bit, controls felt lighter, and he lifted. The fact that the airship had only enough fuel on board for the demonstration flight was worrisome, and he wondered how it would handle when fully loaded.

The morning was slightly hazy, thin wisps of mist drifting across the Mississippi. He flew steadily forward for the first mile, watching his gauges, letting airspeed build up to sixty knots, then turned out of the wind. The other planes, which had been circling in their holding pattern to the starboard of the
Shiloh
at an altitude of a thousand feet, were waiting for him.

He wondered what they were thinking, how many were cursing him, how many thought him mad, how many might actually believe in what they were trying to do.

He wagged his wings, signaling for the group to follow, and all but one fell into line, flying in formation abreast, heading back up the river.

Several miles astern of
Shiloh
was
Wilderness
, and a mile behind her the third aerosteamer carrier
Perryville
.
Wilderness
had recovered all the planes from her practice, the deck was packed with them and Adam had a cold thought, wondering what would happen if a Kazan aerosteamer should ever catch them thus, planes loaded with benzene lining the deck. The last of the
Perryville
’s planes were coming in, and to his dismay he saw a burning slick on the water behind her, bits of wreckage floating. Someone had gone in. The light frigate tailing the group had come to a stop, sending a rescue boat over the side, but it was hard to tell if they had managed to pull anyone out.

The practice target for the day was clearly marked along the east shore of the river. It was the hulk of an old ironclad monitor from the last war, anchored in place. The once proud ship had been stripped of her two guns. Observers from the Design Board, who had been dropped off from the escorting frigate to observe the strike, lined the bank. Someone, not trusting the eyesight of the pilots, had splashed red paint on the side of the ship and hung a red flag from atop the rusted turret. Muddy splashes ringed the ship, and to his delight he could see where a barrel of sand had exploded directly atop the turret. Whoever had scored that one deserved a bottle of vodka once they reached Constantine.

The Falcons were practicing bombing today, but the board was still debating if the several hundred pounds might not be better spent on additional ammunition for their gunner in order to provide covering fire for the far more lethal load carried by the Goliaths.

Adam, leading the way, circled in over the monitor, holding at a thousand feet. He looked over at Captain Sugami, leader of the 1st Squadron, who was flying a Falcon just off his wingtip, pointed down, and saluted.

‘Sugami, grinning, saluted back, and led the way, nosing over, cutting into a broad circling turn to bring his unit around to the north for a run down on their target straight into the wind.

Adam realized that in a way the entire exercise was ridiculous. The target, anchored fore and aft, was stationary, no one was shooting back, there was no smoke, and most of all there was no fear, other than the usual knot in the stomach one had when flying a crate loaded with explosives.

The first squadron turned into their attack position, as discussed, three miles out from the target, flying line astern, Falcons first, followed by the Goliaths.

Sugami, in the lead plane, landed his barrel of sand almost square on the monitor’s turret. The next three planes did nearly as well, but the last two were abysmal, one missing by a good hundred yards, the other crabbing at the last second. His barrel hit fifty yards off the ship’s bow.

The four Goliaths followed with mixed results. One slammed his barrel directly across the bow of the ship. The other two hit within a couple of yards. The last was either a fool or his release mechanism was jammed, for the barrel didn’t fall until he was a good quarter mile beyond the target.

Adam motioned for the second squadron to go down while he continued to circle. The results were roughly the same, perhaps a little bit better, with two Goliaths making hits this time.

No maneuvering, no shooting, no smoke, he kept thinking throughout. His heart was beginning to pound. What would the real moment actually feel like?

Finally he was alone, the rest of his planes heading back to the
Shiloh
. He swung out over the target, skimming along the shore, looking down at the several dozen men and women from the design team.

As he nosed over, picking up speed rapidly, he could feel the five-hundred-pound weight of the weapon slung beneath his cockpit pulling the Goliath down. He leveled out a bit too early, eased down another fifty feet, and went into his banking turn. Coming out of the turn, he lined up on the ironclad.

From three miles out it looked absurdly small, almost difficult to spot except for the red paint and flag. He closed in, wondering what the range was for the Kazan guns, how much fire would be coming at him, what was their tactical deployment, whether they had armed escort ships ringing the targets.

Range was less than a mile. He dropped lower, down to fifty feet, eased back on the throttle, bringing airspeed down to fifty knots. A hint of turbulence buffeted a wing up, and he steadied it out. There seemed to be a slight surge with the engine, but he ignored it. Range was a half mile, and now the ironclad was looking bigger, but the real thing would be far bigger, a dozen times bigger, and shooting at him.

He leaned into the sight, nothing more than a piece of pipe with a crosshair set inside. He aimed straight amidships today, since the target wasn’t moving. When its real aim half a ship’s length ahead of the bow, a few seconds more…he pulled the release.

The Goliath surged up like a bird of prey that had just dropped a burden that had proven too heavy. He gave the plane full throttle, then banked over sharply, circling around, remembering to stay well clear of the monitor. Turning out and away, he caught sight of a foaming wake.

The damn thing was working! It was under its own power, cutting through the water, exhaust from the compressed air spinning the propeller!

He thought he actually caught a glimpse of the underwater, self-propelled mine moving through the water at fifteen knots. This time it was tracking straight in, closing on the side of the monitor.

And nothing happened.

A second later he caught a glimpse of it again…on the other side of the ship! It had gone right under the target.

Cursing, he winged over, following it. The underwater shell continued on its way, going another two hundred yards until finally its compressed air tank lost pressure. The weapon slowed, came to a stop…and finally there was a violent explosion. Water cascaded a hundred feet into the air as it struck the bottom of the river.

“Damn it all to hell.”

It had tracked too deep. Maybe the monitor didn’t draw enough water, but still, he knew how this would affect his men. They’figured the whole thing was a suicidal gesture anyhow. The fact that this, the fourth test, had been a failure as well wasn’t going to help.

Dejected, he turned south, heading back toward the
Shiloh
. Suddenly there was a flash of fire. Even from six miles away he knew what had happened as he caught a glimpse of flame spreading out astern of the carrier. Someone had crashed and most likely died on landing.

And this is how we are supposed to stop the Kazan? he thought grimly.

Andrew hesitated before knocking on the door, and the mere fact that he did shocked him. The city was quiet this time of night, just after midnight, when he often enjoyed going for a walk. Ditching the guards was an old routine, and they went through the show of expressing their dismay when he returned. He suspected that as usual a couple of them were following at a discreet distance under orders from Kathleen.

He could see that lights were still on where Pat lived, which had been Andrew’s home until the presidency forced him to move back into the White House. Reaching the porch of his home, he felt a wave of nostalgia. It was where they had raised their children, and it was in that front parlor that they had held the wakes for the ones who had died. How many evenings, he thought with a smile, did we sit on this porch, the children playing in the New England-like town square? The few men left of the 35th Maine and 44th New York would often gather here in the evening, drinking lemonade spiked with a touch of vodka, laughing about the old days, remembering comrades lost. The tales kept growing, enlarging in memory through the years until it seemed that they had once lived and fought in a golden age.

The children would frolic in the front yard, sometimes stopping to listen, other times wandering off to play tag around the statue dedicated to the memory of the fallen, or dance around the bandstand where, on summer evenings, light waltzes and traditional Rus tunes would be played.

He turned back to the task at hand, lifted the heavy eagle brass knocker, and let it drop.

No answer. He rapped again, several times. Finally he heard a mumble from the parlor. Knowing what it meant, he opened the door and walked in.

Pat was sprawled out on a sofa. Andrew was glad Kathleen was not along. She’d had the sofa specially made, patterned after the designs popular back on Earth just before they had embarked on “their journey.” It was a beautiful piece made with dark walnut and upholstered with a light green silk. Pat, dusty boots still on, had his feet up over the side, an empty bottle of vodka on the floor next to an overturned spittoon and another bottle, which was lying on its side, half empty. The place stank.

Bleary-eyed, Pat looked up and frowned. “Get the hell out and leave me alone,” he growled.

Andrew, without saying a word, headed for the kitchen. A low fire still glowed in the wood stove. Picking up a handful of kindling, he tossed it in, found some tea in the pantry, and set a kettle to boiling.

“What the hell are you doing?”

He looked up. Pat stood in the kitchen doorway, leaning heavily against the frame.

“Getting you sobered up, damn it,” Andrew snapped.

“What for? Now leave me alone.”

“How long have you been on this drunk? Two days, three?”

Pat grinned foolishly. “I don’t know.”

“We’ve got things to go over.”

“Let it wait till morning. I’m tired.”

“A wire came up from Bullfinch an hour ago. There’s a report of smoke from ships being sighted inside our boundary. It might mean they’re coming a hell of a lot quicker than we expected. Bullfinch is sending up an aerosteamer now. It will be out there by dawn.”

“So?”

“Pat, if they’re inside our boundary, as defined by the treaty, that means Cromwell was right and we’re at war.”

“Cromwell. God damn his soul.” Pat turned, staggering back to the parlor. Andrew could hear a bottle clattering and followed.

Pat was standing by the parlor window, bottle up, ready to take another drink.

“Drop it, Pat.”

Pat looked over and smiled, but there was a light in his eyes that Andrew knew well.

“Drop it, Pat,” he said slowly.

“Are you going to make me, Andrew darlin’?”

“If I have to.”

Pat laughed, tilted his head back and started to drink.

Andrew strode across the room and struck the bottle away. It slammed against the window, shattering a pane.

Pat turned with a roar. Grabbing Andrew by his shirt, he slammed him up against the wall. “No one, not even you, stops me from a drink,” he cried.

Andrew remained motionless. “Let go of me, Pat,” he said softly, “I’ll fight you, by God, if you want, but let me take my jacket off first.”

Pat looked at him, wide-eyed. The front door out in the hallway was flung open, and two of Andrew’s bodyguards rushed in, one of them with pistol drawn.

“Get out!” Andrew shouted. “Get the hell out of here!”

“Sir?”

The two stared at them, obviously terrified, with their charge pinned to a wall by a drunk senator.

“I told you to get the hell out of this house!” Andrew yelled, his voice nearly breaking. “Wait out in the street until this is over.”

The two looked at each other, a few words were whispered, and they backed out the door, not bothering to close it, and waited on the porch.

“Are we going to fight, Pat?” Andrew asked.

Pat let go of him, and Andrew, without waiting for a reply, fumbled with the buttons of his Lincolnesque longtailed jacket. He let it fall to the floor and raised his one hand and balled it into a fist.

Pat stood stock still and then turned away, shoulders beginning to shake. Within seconds he had dissolved into sobs.

Andrew came up to his side, put an arm around his shoulders, and led him back into the kitchen, settling him down in a straight-back chair next to the stove. He found two mugs and poured out the boiling tea. Clumsily holding the mugs in his one hand, he kicked another chair over to Pat, sat down, and offered him one.

Pat, face covered with his hands, continued to sob. “Come on, old friend, drink some of this.”

Pat looked up, face red from crying and far too many years of drinking. “And you with one arm wanting to fight me, no less.”

“Because I’m your friend, Pat.”

That started the tears again.

“I’m ashamed of meself, Andrew darlin’, ashamed I am.” He slipped into such a heavy brogue, Andrew was not sure of what he said next.

Finally he looked up at Andrew and, surprisingly, made the sign of the cross. “May the saints damn me forever if I ever touch you again in anger.”

“Just drink the damned tea,” Andrew said wearily. He almost preferred Pat belligerent rather than sunk into a maudlin display of Irish drunkenness.

Pat did as ordered, half draining the scalding brew, then finishing the rest while Andrew sipped his own. He sat back and waited for the effect. A long minute passed. Pat stood up, staggered out onto the front porch, and got sick. After a long while he came back, features pale, and Andrew tossed him a towel. Wiping his face, he dropped the towel onto the floor and sat back down while Andrew found another cup and refilled it. This time Pat drank more slowly.