by Giles
It was a bit odd that the station was so empty. In his experience they were usually very crowded, noisy and uncomfortable places. It is no matter he thought Renaud’s train would probably not be here for another hour. Still it was best to check if it was on time. He walked to the clerk’s window and not seeing anyone rapped on the counter. When no one appeared he leaned over the counter to read the chalk boards.
Even though they were written in Danish it was easy to tell that there was no train arriving from Copenhagen or departing to Copenhagen today. Alarmed he rapped on the counter harder.
A sleepy looking clerk came through one of the doors behind the counter. “Ya?” he inquired politely.
“Copenhagen! The express train from Copenhagen! When does it arrive?” Corbin shouted.
The man frowned at him. “No Copenhagen train today. Tomorrow.”
Corbin turned on his heel and dashed for the door. He had to find a cab and warn Gaspe! It was a trick! He had been right to wonder how Renaud could have sent a telegram...
Approx 10:00 am
Bridge of the Discretion
Over Maribo, Southern Denmark
“By god we’ve got her Captain!” Fred exulted from the forward observation bubble.
Phillips started out of his seat, he had been, for the first time since he was a boy, chewing his nails. He realized he was doing it more out of frustration than nerves. Never the less it was not a habit we wanted to renew.
He grabbed the proffered binoculars from the navigator and peered down on the small town. There on its south western edge was the unmistakable cigar shape of a tethered airship right next to what Fred’s map had as the Hared gasworks station.
“Wallace what's our height!” Jerard demanded.
“Two thousand sixty five Captain.”
It was a touch higher than he had wanted but Jerard couldn’t blame the younger man for over estimating. His only instructions had been to keep them high enough to muffle their engine noise from the ground. “Very well Mr. Wallace down angle 20 degrees, throttle back to cruise then level us out right above that French devil."
"Mr. Jones!” Jerard stalked over to the second navigator's desk. “Give me a ship wide broadcast Sir.”
Wordlessly Jones passed him the microphone.
“Now hear this! This is the Captain speaking! We will be diving at a steep angle onto our adversary any moment now. Hold on tight then report to the security locker where Mr. Landover will issue weapons. I expect every man to give their utmost. Phillips out.” He snapped off the speaking button and handed the microphone back to Jones.
Nichols looked up with a face full of concern. “We’re not going in shooting are we Captain?” The senior officer queried soberly. “Tash could be anywhere aboard that ship.”
“I hope just a show of force will do it Lance” Phillips replied evenly. “But I have met this man before, and as you have seen, he is utterly ruthless. When it comes down to it, we must expect the worst.”
Nichols clearly wasn’t happy at the thought but all he said was, “Understood Sir.”
The throbbing of the engines changed its note as Wallace expertly throttled them back. He then angled the nose of the ship downward. The Discretion seemed to leap forward, faster through the air as gravity beckoned them downwards to the unsuspecting French airship.
Philips held tight to Mr. Jones' desk as the deck tilted noticeably. When he regained a measure of balance he reached over and toggled the switch of the speaking grill that would connect him with the nose cone compartment. “Mr. Landover, as soon as we level out, I want you to stitch a line of fire into the ground 500 yards in front of the Amerie.”
“As ordered Sir!” Jeremy Landover replied crisply toggling off the speaking grill.
With the light of battle in his eyes Jeremy Landover moved to the Maxim machine gun and checked the A-K powered loader mechanism. He opened the saftey valves on the outer door then strapped himself into the gantry's chair behind the massive gun. The fingers of his right hand gently caressed the trigger of the machine gun. His left hand hovered over the release switch that would propel the brass and steel engine of destruction outside the ship's hull into its firing position.
Approx 10:05 am
Aboard the "Amerie"
Hared gasworks Denmark
“What is that..?” The faint thrumming of combustion engines reached Gaspe over the strains of Bizet coming softly from the gramophone in his cramped cabin. Tumbling out of his chair he wrenched open the door and dashed to the hatchway. Staring up he saw the dagger like shape of a rapidly descending silver airship. Her bold Pegasus painted on the dark green tail fins glittered in the morning sun.
“Ce bâtard Phillips! Comment at-il s'en tirer à nouveau!” he snarled in his native tongue.
Diving into the control gondola he screamed at his crew to cast off immediately! They had enough fuel for the mission and the British dog has made a mistake. He was coming in too high to stop the Amerie regaining the air. Phillips had the luck of the very devil himself but not his timing it seemed!
“Major!” his engineer exclaimed wild eyed at the sight of the descending British airship. “We cannot shut off the gas in time.”
“No matter. Secure our intakes only. Let the Danes worry about their end!”
The Engineer was horrified at the prospect of leaving the reinforced ropelike pipes spewing flammable gas into the morning air. He opened his mouth to object but Gaspe’s expression brooked no disagreement.
Damn Corbin and Renaud for making him wait! He should have left Renaurd to rot in Denmark. If he was a true agent he would have used his own initiative to find his way back to France. “Allez! Engage engines now! Why are those lines still attached?” he thundered at the crew. “Cut the mooring ropes you dolts. Now!”
“Fuel lines clear!” The terrified Engineer called out.
Grabbing the Amerie’s steering yoke himself Gaspe throttled the trio of engines to power and the ship began to lumber along the open ground like a swan laboring into the air.
“She’s twitchin’ Captain!” Wallace called as the Amerie struggled to get airborne.
“Stay right above her William. Deny them the open air and they’re ours.”
At 600 feet the nose doors opened and the Maxim deployed on its gantry. The gun was scarcely locked into place when Jeremy Landover pressed the trigger and spat a jagged line of bullets a hundred yards ahead of the Amerie's stumbling course.
“Steady Jeremy.” Phillips hissed aloud.
“There's a right panic going on down there.” Fred called out.
“Only to be expected Fred. We must look pretty menacing from the ground.”
“Certainly Captain, but I don’t think its us they’re running from. Good God!” Fred's Voice was filled with real terror. “Pull up! Pull up!” He screamed lunging for the helm.
The Amerie's crew began to panic as the stream of bullets ploughed the ground ahead of them. But Gaspe’s eyes merely narrowed. Thrusting the controls at the slack jawed pilot he strode to the rear of the ship.
Flinging open the hatch to the bomb bay he strode purposefully along the catwalk on his way to the rear engine compartment. He scarce noticed how Smythe-Harris and Nordstrom were clinging to each other as the ship lurched along the ground.
“What's going on!” Tash demanded.
Gaspe smiled cruelly and paused long enough to draw his pistol and level it at her pretty face. “Your employer is about to lose some assets. Sit down mademoiselle unless you wish to be among them!” He turned on his heel and continued to the rear hatch and threw it open angrily.
He actually smiled when the engineer stationed there attempted a small salute. Good to see at least one of his crew could maintain focus and decorum even under extreme pressure. He resolved to find out what the man's name was later in case he could be of use again. But for now it was time to do something about Captain Phillips.
Crossing to the locker on the right hand side of the cramped noisy engine
nacelle he pulled out the flare pistol and set the device's priming cylinder. He pushed open the rear observation window and leaned out. The gasworks was in chaos, men were running and shouting in confusion. Gaspe aimed the flare gun at one of the abandoned gas feed pipes. "Good bye Captain Phillips." He murmured as he pulled the trigger. "Give the devil my regards!"
Hundreds of cubic feet of hydrogen gas suddenly ignited. As the pressure wave hit her bows the Discretion lurched as if hit by a giant’s hammer. The gas did not explode as the one might have expected instead it flashed to life as livid tongues of golden red flame spewing from the abandoned fuel lines. A wave of heat pummeled the Discretion's skin.
Wallace and Randal wrestled the ships wheel, desperately trying to get control. If they passed through the towering tongues of fire or even came close to them the whole ship was in jeopardy! Finally the two men managed to roll the the Discretion to the port side. She skated the fire plume, barely, just barely.
Jerard picked himself up off the floor and scanned the bridge. Then he glanced out of the forward window. “Bloody hell!“ He exclaimed.
Jeremy Landover hung from his harness straps swinging rhythmically in the wind. Upon seeing his captain the big man tipped an imaginary bowler hat and made pointing motions to the gunnery gantry above him. Sooty burns outlined his face and the glass of one of his goggles was cracked but the man appeared to be in good spirits otherwise.
Jerard returned the man’s ridiculous salute, “Mr. Jones, rescue party to the nose gun.” Turning to the engineer's station he added. “Lance get up there as well see if you can spot any damage to the outer hull. What's our situation?”
“Rescue part...?” Jones began.
“I have this Mr. Jones.” Nichols interrupted and headed for the bridge door.
Randal spoke up. He had released the helm and gone back to the forward observation bubble. “We’re level at about 200 feet captain, bearing about 260 west, can’t see the Amerie.”
“William bring us about ninety degrees south and up three hundred. Fred good spotting back there, now do it again and find me that airship!”
With the exception of Fred the crew stared at him for a moment. Still shocked by the sudden blast. “Move it gentlemen!” He barked “This isn’t a game of cricket, this is a hunt!” Wallace straightened and spun the wheel.
“Turn’n to 170 south, Aye captain, airspeed 15 knots.”
“Increase to half ahead Mr. Wallace.”
Jeremy Landover's big frame thumped into the glass of the gondola as the ship began its turn. The big man spun helplessly, unable to cushion his impact. One of the harness straps snapped under the sudden strain.
“Good Lord!” Fred breathed, wishing he could just reach through the toughened glass of the gondola. Landover couldn’t have been more than five inches from him.
“Amerie sighted Captain.” Jones declared calmly.
“Confirmed.” Wallace agreed. “ ‘bout half mile ahead, looks ta be a hun’red feet an climbin’. Estimated airspeed twenty knots an acceleratin’.”
“Pursuit Mr.Wallace. Do everything you can to get us above them, but as gently as you can for Jeremy’s sake Sir!”
“Nichols to bridge!” The speaking grill broke in.
“Go ahead Mr. Nichols.” Jones replied.
“Captain we can’t reach Mr. Landover the air pressure is pushing him under the nose of the ship right next to you. Suggest you reduce speed so we can get a line out to him.”
Damn it all, Phillips cursed. He had to catch that ship but he was damned if he’s lose another crewman ether. “Wallace hold at twenty knots. Match the Amerie if you can, steady as she goes.” Jerard moved to the speaking grill to answer Nichols himself.
“Mr. Nichols we’re holding steady for you but its Tash or Jeremy unless you can get creative Sir.”
“Working on it Sir” Nichols shouted into the speaking grill. With him now were Roger Landover and Geoff Adams, but not much in the way of supplies to work with. Wind howled into their faces from the opened gun bay hatch. Unlike the hapless Jeremy they hadn’t had time to don flying goggles.
“Roger, get some of the line from the harpoon bay. Mr. Adams let’s have another look at the gun gantry’s pistons.”
The two technicians peered through the wind at the warped brass and steel track array. The main gantry itself was in fair shape but where the stronger steel was bolted to the duralium airframe, the bolts had warped and half pulled free from the softer metal. The gun might retract once they reconnected the AK pressure feeds to the steam capsules. But then again the bolts might pull right through instead.
“What d’ya think Geoff?”
Adams was checking the pressure left in the Armstrong-Klein tanks that powered the gantry pistons. “We have about 40% pressure left Sir. Enough to bring the gun back in but that harness will snap if we do. See how its jammed in the trackway?” Geoff Adams pointed to the rails that the gun mount sat on. The remaining straps of the gunner’s harness were virtually wedged under the small steel wheels.
“Rope Sir.” Roger Landover stated flatly, as he re-entered the gunnery room.
“Just no way to get it to him until we stop!” Nichols spat in frustration.
“Don’t you worry about that Sir, I’ll go get him you two just haul us back in.” Roger Landover stated matter of factly.
“Your strength will be better suited for that Mr. Landover.” Gopal spoke calmly from the doorway. No one had heard him approach over the shearing wind.
Roger Landover opened his mouth to object to the Indian manservant’s counter suggestion. The words died on his lips as they all took in Gopal’s appearance. Gone was the pale garments of silk and fine cotton that he habitually wore. The apparition before them wore nothing but black. A loose black shirt was tucked into loose fitting black trousers which were in turn tucked into black leather boots. A black leather belt held a pistol on one hip and a dagger to the other. His turban was also now black.
He swept into the room and plucked the hawser from Landover’s fingers and headed to the swaying gantry. “Secure the other end.” he declared and backed to the gunnery hatch. With a slight smile he stepped off backwards into the wind.
A loud thump shocked the whole Bridge crew as something large landed on the top of the Gondola. Outside, on top of the bridge’s projecting lintel Gopal steadied himself while wrapping a length of rope about his waist. Keeping about ten feet of the rope free he peered over the edge of his narrow platform to where Jeremy Landover spun slowly just below him.
“Above you!” He shouted with all his strength over the wind and engine noises.
Landover’s head snapped up and he raised his arms, fingers outstretched. Like cracking a whip Gopal flipped the free length of the rope towards his outstretched fingers. When Jeremy had a firm grip the Indian proceeded to draw the man's spinning form towards the Bridge’s roof. He grasped his coMr.ades wrist with a strength that surprised the big gunnery sergeant. With his other hand Gopal yanked twice on the rope leading back to the gunnery room.
“He’s got him!” Nichols cried as he saw more than felt the rope twitch with Gopal’s signal. He and Roger hauled in on the slack rope while behind them Geoff Adams pulled as well, as soon as he had a spare couple of feet Adams looped the rope around the steam feed pipes as an anchor.
Gopal’s black turban, seemingly immune to the wind, edged into view. A few more pulls later and the Indian had regained the gantry his right arm still dragging Landover behind him. Eternal seconds passed and the big gunners other hand snapped around the gun’s trackway in a vise like grip. On their hands and knees Jeremy Landover and Gopal crawled back inside the ship.
“Good work Sir!” Nichols declared when the pair of them were safely back inside. “Gopal please take Mr. Landover to see Mac directly. Roger I need you to get that rope around the gun array, we need to get it back inside or we’ll not make top speed. Geoff stand by the gantry controls.”
“Begging your pardon Sir. I am uninju
red and requesting permission to help.”
“Beg all you want Jeremy, I want Mac to clear you first, we’re going to need everyone fit when we take that damned French ship down.”
“Yes Sir!” Jeremy snapped and marched out of the gun bay; Gopal fast on his heels.
Nichols shook his head and sighed before toggling the speaking grill switch. “Nichols to bridge. We have him Sir.”
“Excellent Mr. Nichols!” Jerard replied, then toggled the grill off. “You’re free to go William: flank speed. Height and position of target Mr. Randal?”
Fred stopped staring at the suspiciously boot shaped dents in the gondola’s roof and bent down to his sextant. “She’s still accelerating Sir, I estimate about forty knots. Five hundred feet and nearly two miles ahead of us...”
Damn it that French ship was fast off the mark! But ruthless efficiency had been the Frenchman's trademark all those months ago in Rüerberg as well, Jerard recalled grimly. “Very well, William its all or nothing; take us up two hundred more feet, full boost, disregarding reserves. Fred can we catch her in time?”
Fred Randal sat down at his desk and pulled a pad and pencil and began scribbling furiously at the maths. “Ye-es, I think so Captain. But it’ll take about thirty miles and twenty minutes to do it.”
“But wha’ then Captain?” Wallace cried. “We canna shoot her down, no’ wi’ Miss Tash aboard.”
“I have no intention of that William. Concentrate on getting us right above their tail for now. I have an idea that might work.” Jerard stood. “Mr. Jones, you have the bridge. I need to check the nose section.”
As Phillips left the bridge Randal turned to the other two and muttered “This is where you chaps will see why Jerard Phillips should have won the flight competition last March.”