And Clippers were damned impressive, capable of hauling six crew, eight passengers, five .30-caliber machine guns, and 2,500 lbs of ordnance at 145 miles per hour. Perhaps even more than the new steel-hulled warships, Clippers represented how far the Allies had come since Walker and Mahan first steamed into this bizarre world. They made good long-range reconnaissance birds, transports, even bombers. Fifteen would be bombing Old Sofesshk tonight, targeting it specifically for the very first time. Fifteen more, the entire remaining complement of Walt “Jumbo” Fisher’s Pat-Squad 22, would—hopefully—add another role to the Clippers’ list of capabilities. With only a pilot and copilot, fuel tanks half full, and all their guns removed, they carried no ordnance. Instead, each would be packed with forty of Chack’s Raiders and all the combat gear they could carry.
“We’re not going to die,” Lawrence hissed, clambering aboard behind Silva, his voice a little odd. Silva looked back, his one eye wide. More troops filed aboard, heavily loaded with weapons and ammunition. Even more weight was represented by the three or four water bottles each had slung over their shoulders. The veterans in Chack’s Brigade had been very thirsty in their last action.
“Why, Larry! You ain’t skeered, are ya?”
“Yes,” Lawrence replied simply.
Taken aback, Silva dropped it. If Lawrence wouldn’t rise to the banter bait, he must really be on edge. Understandable too, Silva realized, bein’ a tad uneasy myself. Not about fightin’, o’ course, he amended, an’ I know that ain’t what’s botherin’ Larry. Nobody’s keen on the way they’re takin’ us to this scrap.
The fifteen bombers were the pathfinders, meant to sow confusion on the ground and light the way. The transports, carrying a combined total of six hundred Raiders, would make as many runs as it took to drop the entire brigade—or as much of it as circumstances allowed. After the bombers’ initial task was complete, they’d be loaded with supplies to be dropped to the troops.
Choosing a different tack, Silva nodded and glanced at the other Raiders, cramming themselves on benches lining the interior of the plane, even squatting on the deck. There weren’t any Grik-like Khonashi aboard; all except Lawrence and Silva were Lemurians. Each was blinking rapidly, unconsciously, a combination of fear—even terror—mixed with determination. “Ain’t natural,” Silva continued loudly. “Takin’ us up in a airplane an’ throwin’ us out to fight. Why, I bet won’t one in ten of us live long enough to fight!”
“An’ you won’t be one of ’em,” snapped a familiar voice. Silva couldn’t see the speaker well in the gloom inside the plane but knew the voice belonged to a grizzled old Lemurian NCO he’d known a long time.
“Well, whaddaya know? It’s ol’ Moe!”
“First Sergeant Moe,” the ’Cat corrected.
“In the First North Borno,” Silva agreed. “Why ain’t you with your lizardy Khonashi pals? They kick you out as too damn old?”
“No. Col-nol Chack asked for NCO volunteers to ride with you.” Moe snorted. “I got volunteered ’cause nobody would.”
Silva feigned a hurt expression. “But why?” he asked, the picture of innocence.
“Cause you crazy!” Moe snapped. “You maybe save the baattle, but you get ever-body ’round you dead.” A lot of the ’Cats blinked even faster.
“I bet I’ve fought alongside plenty o’ these other fellas before,” Silva pointed out. “An’ look at Larry! He’s been in more fights with me than I recall an’ he ain’t even half dead yet!”
“He haas been—an’ he’s just as crazy as you.”
Silva nodded philosophically. “Can’t argue that. But what makes you think I’m done for?”
Moe hacked a laugh. “You chute!” he said. “Ain’t no way you gonna laand soft enough to live, big as you are an’ as much junk you caarry!”
Lemurian parachutes worked very well—they were simple enough after all—but that very simplicity made them difficult to control. Those who used them were pretty much at the mercy of the wind. More to the point, however, like ’Cats, they were fairly small. They’d save a normal-sized man, which was close to what the ’Cats now weighed with all their gear, but Dennis Silva was . . . a little bigger. And as usual, he carried quite an arsenal. In addition to the Thompson SMG slung low across his front so it wouldn’t interfere with his parachute, he wore his signature weapons belt with braces. It was loaded down with a .45, 1917 cutlass, ’03 Springfield bayonet, and lots of ammo pouches. In fact, he’d forgone his usual canteen for a couple of water bottles with shoulder straps so he could carry more ammo on his belt. In addition to all that was a new holster he’d made for Captain Reddy’s single-action Colt .44-40, which the skipper insisted he keep for now. Over and above everything else was his very favorite weapon of all, his Doom Stomper. It looked like the standard Allin-Silva breechloaders only it was much larger, having been made around a turned-down 25 mm Japanese antiaircraft gun barrel. It fired a 1-inch slug from a straight brass case that looked like a 10-gauge shell. The Doom Stomper didn’t weigh much more than the fully loaded Thompson, but it was long, bulky, and very abusive to shoot.
“Then it’s a good thing for all you little kitties that Colonel Mallory gave me a man-sized parachute; one o’ the extras they had for the two P-Fortys we got left out here!” Out of twenty-odd P-40Es they’d long ago salvaged out of the old Santa Catalina, only four remained in flying condition. One, Ben Mallory’s personal M plane, was only marginally so. His and Shirley’s, the last of the old 3rd Pursuit Squadron, were still aboard Big Sal and wouldn’t see action in this fight. They and two others still in Baalkpan must be saved in case of desperate need against the League.
“Five chutes won’t take you down safe,” Moe scoffed.
“I just got the one, an’ you better hope it will,” Silva said with a smile. “Yer gonna need me—an’ all the junk I carry. Guaranteed.”
It was getting darker outside, and bare feet rumbled above them as ’Cats propped the engines. All four quickly coughed to life and Silva saw the ’Cats hop down on the dock. He turned back to Moe, genuinely curious. “I don’t know why you’ve took such a set against me,” he shouted over the noise. “I thought we was pals. Had some fun times, chasin’ rhino pigs, rompin’ across Borno, an’ fightin’ Japs together. You never even got hurt, as I recall. But you been skittish o’ me ever since.”
Moe’s voice changed, and Silva would’ve bet that if he could see him, the ancient ’Cat was blinking embarrassment. “I am old,” he finally admitted, “but I got a new mate baack in Baalkpan.”
Silva gaped. “Why, you ol’ scudder! I always thought you was joshin’ us. You really did buy some sweet young thing with all that prize money you got outa that ol’ Jap bomber!”
“I got money,” Moe confessed, “but I not buy mate. You no buy people!”
Silva waved it away. “Figure o’ speech.”
Moe ignored him, continuing. “My mate is old an’ ugly, like me. Still, she knows old ways—like Kho-naashi, but for ’Caats—an’ say she ‘sees’ my time to come, in dreams. She always say I come home, the waar over . . . unless I fight with you.” Moe’s dark form looked at the ’Cats around him. They were listening intently. “She say you get me killed an’ I never see the end o’ this waar.”
Silva snapped his fingers. “So that’s what you’re worried about! Gettin’ home to your mate!”
Moe suddenly grinned, showing his few teeth in the darkness. “I don’t care about thaat. I got no use for homes or mates. Never much did.” He sobered. “But I waant to see the waar over.”
Silva conjured a bantering retort but let it pass. “Well,” he said as low as his voice would carry over the engines. The plane was wallowing now, moving away from the dock. Another would take its place. “I never knew you was so damn superstitious.” He waved his arms. “Guess I am too, a little. That’s why I always say ‘We’re all gonna die.’ I’m just funnin’ an’
ain’t nothin’ to it. Kinda like knockin’ on wood.” He was met by uncomprehending stares. “Like predictin’ somethin’ so it won’t happen, see?” he urged, then looked at Lawrence. “You get it, don’t you?”
“No.” Lawrence turned to the others and raised his voice. “Yet I ha’ seen hany ’attles hith Dennis Sil’a. He does all-’ays say it, and I not dead.”
“Sure. See?” Silva rolled his eye. “Here, Larry, hold my Doom Stomper. I’m goin’ forward an’ see who’s flyin’ this crate.” Handing off the big weapon, he squirmed through the tightly packed compartment until he reached the elevated flight deck. Stepping up, he stood behind the flight crew, busily maneuvering the floundering beast into the lane between the ships that had been cleared for their operations. To his surprise, he saw several Clippers already waddling through the choppy water ahead. Even more unexpectedly, he recognized the pilot of their plane. “Hey, Jumbo. What’re you doin’ here?”
Walt “Jumbo” Fisher was almost as big as Silva, which made him a very unlikely fighter pilot in the world they’d left behind. What had been barely possible in the P-40s he’d loved, however, hadn’t been remotely so in something as small as a P-1 Mosquito Hawk Fleashooter. Too good a leader and pilot to waste, he’d been given Pat-Squad 22. He might miss the performance of a pursuit plane but fit more comfortably in the bigger aircraft. “I’m about to fly, you dimwit,” he responded sarcastically to Silva’s question.
“Well . . . yeah, I can see that. But I figgered—you commandin’ this flock o’ geese an’ all—that you spent mosta yer time sittin’ on a porch in a rockin’ chair somewhere, drinkin’ mint jaloops.”
Jumbo barked a laugh. “Ha! Yeah, you caught me. That’s my usual pastime. But knowing what you’re going to do, I wanted to take you to this party personally.”
“Bullshit,” Silva said. “No way you’d know I’d be in your plane.”
Jumbo shrugged. “I’m in charge. I know everything.” He grinned back at Silva. “Now I get to watch your crazy ass fall out of the sky!”
Still unconvinced, Silva watched the first of the planes ahead start their takeoff runs. The sunset glared in the spray they made like rainbow rooster tails. “How long after we’re airborne before we drop?” he asked.
“About two hours. We’ll have to gather my geese, as you say, and stay as tight as we can. And we’ll have to do it over the target too, if you don’t want to wind up in the river, or on the other side of it. That would be tough. Bombers coming down from the Comoros Isles should hit the joint half an hour before we get there, if the wind doesn’t slow ’em down. It’s picking up out in the strait again,” he added with a tinge of concern. “Another storm brewing out there. Sky Priests say this one might be a strakka.” He shook his head. “Won’t stir things up much tonight,” he reassured, “and with any luck, us showing up right after the bombers’ll make the lizards hunker down, expecting more fireworks.” He glanced back at Silva again. “Imagine their surprise when you show up!”
“I expect they’ll be a touch flustered,” Silva agreed, “if enough of us land close enough together to actually accomplish anything,” he countered gloomily.
“You will.” Jumbo shrugged. “Look, none of us has done anything like this, but the whole formation will circle the target. You’ll probably be scattered fairly widely over the city, but you’ll be in the city. I guarantee you’ll see the palace, even in the dark. Shouldn’t be hard to gather up there.”
“Circle,” Silva said with a frown. “All while they’re shootin’ them damn rockets at us.”
“Well, yeah,” Jumbo conceded. “Probably. And that isn’t any fun. But they have a hard enough time hitting us in daylight. Dark is harder. And they’ll set their fuses too long, to burst way above us, since we’ve never bombed from as low as we’ll be dropping you.”
“Right. About fifteen hundred feet,” Silva agreed, remembering the briefing.
“That’s the plan.” Jumbo nodded ahead. “Now shut up and go sit down. We’re next.” He glanced back once more. “Your job is to get everybody out, as fast as you can, as soon as I say.”
“I know,” Silva confirmed. “That’s my first job.”
“Good. And as for the rest . . . Good luck.”
Silva went back and joined Lawrence leaning against the aft bulkhead while the ungainly plane labored into the sky. There’d been no way to shift enough ’Cats to cram his butt on a bench, and Lawrence wasn’t built to sit like that. Silva wondered how they managed it on planes carrying Khonashi. Probably had ’em all lay down, spoonin’ on the deck, he mused. When the Clipper was airborne, he lurched forward and clung to the heavy bamboo frame supporting Jumbo’s wicker seat and talked to the pilot some more, learning about Jumbo’s adventures during the Battle of Mahe. Silva and Chack’s—and Lawrence’s—exploits at the time, on the Western Mangoro River, were well known. Sooner than Silva would’ve expected, he could see gun flashes below, forming a surprisingly large, blinking semicircle, delineating the respective positions of the forces around Tassanna’s Toehold near the Neckbone. He’d heard the mutual bombardment was nearly continuous, if desultory. Both positions were strong and well protected by now. Grik guns fired to harass, provoking Allied guns to try to destroy them. A brighter, sputtering series of flashes showed that at least one Grik gun or its caisson or limber had been hit. More strobes of light started flickering far to the northwest.
“That’s our bombers hitting Old Sofesshk,” Jumbo confirmed. “A little early. You’ve got about forty-five minutes, so you better go on back and get your guys ready.” Without a word, Silva squeezed Jumbo’s shoulder and went to stand among what he was starting to think of as his platoon. The large hatch cover had never been clamped in place and the opening gaped before him. There’d be no moon at all that night, but the stars made it lighter outside. That didn’t dispel the sense of void beyond the opening, in reality and metaphor. They’d all soon be jumping into the unknown, in more ways than one.
After a while, Lawrence moved to stand on the other side of the hatch, still holding the Doom Stomper. “I go hirst,” he said simply, low enough that only Silva could hear. “Hut . . . you got to throw I out.”
Silva’s eye widened, but he nodded. “You bet, buddy. I may have to do the same with some o’ these other rascals. I’ll crack jokes about it later, o’ course, when recountin’ the hee-roic tale o’ the first-ever airborne assault in the history o’ this goofed-up world, but”—he grinned—“I kinda wish somebody’d throw my ass out!”
Squinting in the darkness, he noticed some dull red lights for the first time, pacing them, and realized they were the wingtip navigation lights of other planes. Smaller aircraft didn’t have them, relying on each other’s exhaust flares to prevent collisions in the dark, but even though Clippers had exhaust as well, their size and need to maintain tight formations made such lights essential. He figured they must be shielded from below since he’d never seen them before.
Another light, impossibly bright, suddenly streaked past, clawing straight up into the sky atop a column of flame and sparks. “Whoa!” he shouted, recoiling involuntarily. To his dazzled eye, the thing could’ve been right there, or a quarter mile away. Another one shot past, then another. “Goddamn!” he yelled. “We must be gettin’ close for sure. They’re shootin’ rockets at us!”
The Grik had been gifted simple rockets, and many other unpleasant things, by the Japanese under Hisashi Kurokawa. According to Muriname, none of these benefactors besides Ando’s pilots remained. An’ Kuro-kawwy got his final reward, Silva reflected with satisfaction. But the technology his people unleashed was still plaguing the Allies. Grik rockets were ridiculously crude, their engines merely a solid column of black powder. Ignited at the tail, a jet was directed through a simple conical nozzle. At first they’d been little more than projectiles with light, contact-fused bursting charges, more dangerous to their operators and their own people on th
e ground than to their targets. But more and more Grik, as they came of age (artificially, by Grik reckoning), were apparently contributing intuitive improvements to what the Japanese gave them. The rockets kept getting bigger and more capable, tipped with heavier warheads that detonated on a time fuse set to explode and spray shrapnel in all directions at calculated altitudes. They still couldn’t be aimed very well, and certainly not guided, and the vast majority still missed their aerial targets. But “vast majority” wasn’t the same as “all,” and as the weapons and their operators improved, they were taking an increasing toll. Just as bad, the Grik had finally figured out that rockets were pretty effective against ground targets. The only good thing was, the bigger they got, the easier they were to spot from the air, and Ben Mallory’s Army and Naval Air Corps hunted them with a passion.
Another rocket screeched by, likely exploding far overhead—Silva didn’t see—and on reflection, Silva thought there really didn’t seem to be that many, compared to earlier accounts he’d heard from Mark Leedom, Tikker, even Jumbo himself. An’ they don’t shoot ’em off where they might come down on Old Sofesshk at all, Silva remembered with relief, so we shouldn’t be in the barrel long. . . .
A rising lance of fire slammed into the belly of the Clipper flying off their port wing. The plane didn’t stop the rocket and it blew out the top of the fuselage at a distorted angle. Unfortunately, the cutting-torch heat of the jet ignited everything in its path and the body of the plane aft of the cockpit burst into flames. The nose dropped, the control cables to the tail probably cut, and the Clipper started to fall with forty troops and two pilots. Silva caught a last brief glimpse of burning, writhing bodies leaping out the hatch or side windows just before the fuel tanks caught and the big plane shattered into a cloud of plummeting meteors.
A damn unlucky shot, for us, Silva knew, but he suddenly sensed that the dread he’d felt—and felt around him—had turned. He and his platoon still weren’t looking forward to what they had to do, but they were ready for anything that got them out of the plane and on the ground where they could fight. They might still die, but they wouldn’t be helpless targets, sitting on their butts.
Pass of Fire Page 20