Beaumont's Gambit
Page 2
Forks stopped in midair and eyes skewed. Beaumont swirled his coffee and frowned into his cup. “We are trying to find where those deaders came from. If there’s a large concentration out there that we can harvest, it might well give us a decisive advantage over the Caliphate.”
“I heard we could field twenty more hulls like the October Sky if we just had the deaders to power them,” Wallace said. Some eyes brightened. Twenty new airships would need twenty new crews, which meant promotions for seasoned veterans and perhaps commands of their own, provided the council didn’t fill the billets with spit-shine bureaucrats.
“Provided the Caliph’s navy doesn’t find them first,” someone muttered.
“Or if that flatlander council agent bollixes the whole thing,” Arthas said.
Wallace said, “Why us? We’re just one ship. How many does the Caliphate have skulking around the wastes?”
Voices muttered assent around the table.
“The reason, gentlemen,” Chevket said, “is that we are the October Sky, and we are disciplined aeronauts, not that barbaric rabble from the Caliphate.”
“We’re not deaders under a crazy necro’s control either,” said Arthas. “We out-think the enemy, sure. Discipline allows us to fight beyond our tonnage, but you can’t tell me the Air Marshal can foresee every possibility.” He paused and seemed to realize he was courting trouble. “But that’s what the Captain’s for,” he added.
Beaumont regarded his navigator. “There are orders, and there are orders, Mister Arthas. We will execute those orders so that Agent Ives will have no complaint. My job is to make sure that Agent Ives is satisfied, and that you all come home safe. From you, mister, I ask only for your trust and dedication to duty so that our ship performs as I know it can.”
Arthas reddened. “Of course, Captain, you always have that, but I wanted to point out the danger that agent puts us in. I’d be lax to keep my mouth shut.”
Beaumont nodded. “Thank you. I would expect no less of you, or from any of you,” he said, looking around the table at faces filled with anger, fear, dedication, and resolve. “For now, rest assured that we’re just on a reconnaissance mission. I expect our charge will bore of these deaders and soon be ready to return home.”
Heads nodded, and shoulders relaxed. Beaumont hoped he was right.
2
Beaumont climbed the bridge ladder behind Ensign Charles and nodded at Helmsman Docks, who stood from the captain’s chair and held it for Beaumont as he settled in.
“Report.”
Docks looked nervous and glanced at Agent Ives, who was studying the navigation table. “Craft secure, all sections nominal. We are tacking across a four-knot wind along a heading of three-zero-four at five hundred feet.”
“What?” Beaumont roared. “What’s our speed?”
“Nineteen knots.” Docks steeled himself and shifted his gaze to Agent Ives.
“I see,” Beaumont said. “Very well, Mister Docks, you are relieved. Go find some supper.”
The normal murmuring of the bridge crew was missing, and all seemed abnormally focused on their stations. Beaumont composed himself and swiveled his chair around.
“Mister Ives, I imagine you dictated this course and altitude?”
Ives looked up, unconcerned. “I did, Captain. Did you have a nice dinner?”
“We’re heading into the heart of the Caliphate.”
“We came across a supply column heading back along the deaders’ path. They’re winding through a narrow pass that will take them most of the night. We’re going to be waiting for them when they emerge.”
Beaumont turned to the man at the damage control panel, Airman Tooley. “Battle stations. I want the gunnery crews ready to fire in two minutes. Helm, take us to altitude one-triple-zero and put her abeam the wind.”
“Belay that order,” Ives said. “We must stay hidden behind the hills and be ready to pick up that column when dawn comes.”
“Assuming their final destination isn’t already in the hills. But we are too low regardless, an easy target.”
Ives seemed amused. “In this darkness, Captain, they can’t see us or hear us. I doubt they can even reach us with small arms even if they could.”
“Mister Ives,” Beaumont said. “What you do not fathom is that supply column is most certainly accompanied by an attack zeppelin.”
“I saw no other craft.”
“Which worries me all the more.” He glanced at the clouds above. “The moon—damned luminous orb!”
Ives’ eyes narrowed. “What do you mean?”
The upper turret’s speaking tube whistled. Ensign Charles answered, and swallowed hard. The bridge ladder rang with footsteps as Chevket and the senior bridge crew rushed to their places.
“Two ornithopters incoming,” Charles called out.
“Fire at will,” Beaumont said.
“Where did they come from?” Ives said.
Beaumont caught Ives’ gaze and cocked an eye upward. “The carriers fly at higher altitudes.” Beaumont put the man from his mind and concentrated on his crew. He swore to himself that he would stay calm for their sakes.
The one-man ornithopters flashed past the bridge like silver needles and arced away as the belly turrets fired.
“I want those top batteries laying fire before the next strafing run, Mister Chevket.”
“Aye, sir.” He turned to a bank of speaking tubes and relayed orders.
The ornithopters disappeared overhead, and Beaumont straightened his back against the fear urging him to duck his head against a stray bullet making it through the bridge’s lightly-armored bulkheads. Cannons boomed above, then came the unmistakable rattle of bullets ricocheting through the airframe.
“Helm, report,” Beaumont said.
Docks pulled at the control yoke. “Losing altitude, Captain. Compensating.”
Certainly one and perhaps two helium cells breached. The October Sky could stay aloft with such damage, provided they were repaired in time and no more were lost.
“The ‘thopters are splitting fore and aft,” Charles said.
A mistake, thought Beaumont.
“Turn us ten degrees into the wind, Mister Docks. Mister Chevket, direct the port batteries to focus fore, the starboard batteries aft. Let them try escaping our broadsides.”
A shudder ran through the deck, and the engines went silent. Beaumont grabbed the tube to the engine room.
“Engine room, bridge. Report.”
The distant, tinny voice of Mister Wallace came back. “We’ve burnt out a deader, engines inoperable.”
Beaumont bit back the “why” and focused on what to do next. “How long to swap in a new one?”
“Five minutes, Captain.”
The fore and port batteries boomed.
“We don’t have that long, Mister Wallace. Do better.”
“Aye, sir.”
Mister Docks, deprived of the engine’s help, fought to keep the October Sky oriented with the rudder and elevators alone. The ornithopter before them spat fire from its nose as it dodged and weaved through the Sky’s cannonade. More fabric ripped, and Beaumont winced as he imagined the giant helium cells above him perforated and deflating.
The ornithopter pulled up in a tight loop, and exploded. A cheer went up on the bridge.
“One to go, gentlemen,” Beaumont said.
As if on cue, the aft and starboard batteries opened fire. Agent Ives ran to the mirrors pointing aft, but Beaumont didn’t bother. The airship’s frame blocked most of the view, the mirrors used mostly for monitoring the ground during landing.
“Damage report,” Beaumont said.
“Cells one, five, and six holed, but stable,” Arthas said. “Cell two lost.”
A howling built on the starboard side, building to a scream as the last ‘thopter streaked toward the bridge. Smoke streamed from the craft, and its pilot fought to keep it straight and level. The chin and belly turrets opened up, peppering the craft with near hits.
“Emergency vent, sound collision alarm,” Beaumont said.
The October Sky plummeted as its helium cells opened. A klaxon blared as cannon fire sought the corkscrewing enemy. The ‘thopter’s nose twinkled with twin flashes as its pilot sent a stream of bullets into the October Sky’s deflated envelope before exploding when a shell hit it square-on. Shrapnel rained on the October Sky’s airframe like nails on a tin roof.
“Close vents. Reserve bottles to full. Dump ballast,” Beaumont said. He glanced at the helmsman’s altimeter dial, spiraling down to zero. He didn’t believe for a moment the craft would avoid crashing; it was just a matter of how hard. The impact came without warning, a giant’s hand that threw him against his seat restraints. The envelope’s frame groaned, and the giant’s hand tossed them in the air.
“We’re bouncing like a toy ball, Captain,” said Arthas.
“Trim out the cells, and make ready the landing hooks, Mister Chevket. I want the ship secured on our next bounce.”
As the ground came to meet them, lines fired from pneumatic launchers. The October Sky crashed into the rocks, kicking up sparks in the gloom. The ship bounced and shuddered as the mooring augers and grapnels dug in among the rocks. When the October Sky settled to the ground, Captain Beaumont unbuckled his restraints and looked around the bridge.
“Well done, lads. Let’s see what’s left of her.”
Agent Ives stumbled up from the navigation table, pale but glowering. He seemed to catch himself, and regained a semblance of composure.
“Good job, Captain,” he said.
Beaumont nodded to the council’s man and extended an arm to the bridge ladder. “After you, sir.”
3
False dawn’s light blotted at the darkness. The October Sky listed to its port side, weighed down by its flaccid envelope. Crewmen scurried over the craft’s superstructure like ants on a dying whale, shouting out reports of battle damage to their section chiefs below. Beaumont paced the ground from bow to stern, allowing the crews to see him as they went about their jobs. Agent Ives trailed behind him, saying nothing.
They had been fortunate to land in a pocket canyon; the enemy would have to be directly overhead to spot the October Sky. However, their hidden berth would only buy them a few extra hours should the Caliph’s airships discover the battle-wrecked ornithopters and begin an organized search. With steep walls lined with loose rock, the canyon would become an unescapable killing ground once under attack. Captain Beaumont checked the riflemen at the canyon’s rim, braced against the scree and ready to call out should anything approach.
“Captain,” Chevket said.
“How bad is she?” he said.
His first officer ran a hand through his hair and glanced back at the ship. “A dozen injured, but thankfully no lives lost. We have twenty cells holed beyond repair, twice that need patching to become airworthy again. The belly turrets are inoperable, and we have numerous twisted struts and popped rivets.”
Beaumont had feared as much. “And our helium?”
Chevket blew out and shook his head. “Mister Wallace is still making his estimate.”
“You’re quibbling, aren’t you?” Ives said. “You know, but you don’t want to be the bearer of bad news. Just spit it out, man.”
Beaumont arched an eyebrow at the agent but looked back at Chevket. “Well, Mister Chevket?”
Chevket spared a dark look for Ives before swallowing. “It doesn’t look good, sir. I hope Mister Wallace will prove me wrong.”
“Then let’s go see what our engineer has to say,” Beaumont said.
Mister Wallace came from the bowels of the ship, covered in grease and shallow cuts. When he saw Beaumont and the others approach, he shouted at a deck hand to make sure the deaders were chained securely before turning his back on them. He stormed over to Beaumont and pointed at Ives.
“You incompetent flatlander! How does it feel to know you killed us all?”
Ives’ hand drifted to hover over the sidearm strapped to his belt. “Keep talking,” he said.
“Belay that, Mister Wallace,” Beaumont said, and grabbed Ives’ wrist. “Explain yourself, and leave the dramatics out of it.”
Wallace glared at Ives as he spoke to the captain. “This fine gentleman wouldn’t let us stop to swap out the deaders. ‘Mission imperative’ I think he called it. So consequently, when we spin up to battlestations, there’s not enough juice in ‘em and we stalled out.”
Beaumont turned to Ives. “Is this true?”
Ives shrugged. “A calculated risk against losing the element of surprise. There would have been plenty of time to resupply the dynamos with a fresh team of deaders once we were on station, and we would be fully charged when our quarry emerged from the hills. I deemed it an acceptable risk.”
“You deemed?” Beaumont said. “You deemed? Why did you not consult with me?”
“You were at dinner,” Ives said. “It seemed important to you.” His face was impassive, but his voice carried an edge of disdain.
It would be easier all around to have him shot, Beaumont thought. He could list Ives as lost in action if they should ever find their way back to civilization. The man was worse than a fool: he didn’t know what he didn’t know.
Beaumont waved at the ship. “In the future, Mister Ives, you will defer to me in matters of ship’s operation. I do not mind the inconvenience.”
Ives gave a curt nod, though with an insolent gleam in his eye. “I understand, Captain.”
“See that you do,” said Beaumont. He straightened and turned to his engineer. “How soon can we take her up, Mister Wallace?”
Wallace’s shoulders slumped. “We’ve enough helium to inflate half of the envelope once repairs are finished, but not enough to lift her, Captain.”
“I see,” Beaumont said. Chevket sighed and shook his head. Ives seemed taken aback at the somber crewmen.
“We can find another source, surely,” he said.
Beaumont looked to Chevket, silently granting his second in command permission to respond.
“Sir,” he said to Ives, “helium is essentially mined from layers trapped under the surface rock. It is an exceedingly rare occurrence to find such a pocket, and in any case, we haven’t the heavy equipment needed for such an endeavor.”
Ives’ face reddened. “Are there no alternatives? Could we not use hot air like balloonists?”
Wallace sniggered, stopping as both Chevket and Beaumont frowned in his direction. Chevket went on.
“Hot air is inefficient. We could not possibly generate enough hot air to lift the October Sky.”
Wallace snorted again, and turned away as he fought for composure.
“What about the Caliphate’s navy? Perhaps we could raid one of their stations for the helium,” Ives said.
Beaumont paused to consider. “Perhaps, though we would likely run out of consumables before finding such a supply base. Furthermore, a base would imply enough air traffic to necessitate refueling and resupply.” He shook his head. “I can’t see such a raid succeeding.”
“Maybe with your men,” Ives said, quickly holding up his hands as Chevket and Wallace stiffened. “Able airmen all, no doubt, but my men are fighters. Smash and grab operations are what they excel at.”
“The handful yet unable to walk?” Chevket said.
“A promise of money always finds them eager to shed their aches and maladies,” Ives said.
“I don’t like it, Captain,” said Chevket.
Beaumont removed a pipe from his jacket pocket and began plugging it with tobacco. “Were it not a plan relying on blind luck to find a hypothetical supply base, I would say we are desperate enough to try. We need a definite target before we commit our meager resources.” He tamped the tobacco down and struck a match.
; “I don’t know about helium, but I know where we could get hydrogen,” Wallace said quietly.
Beaumont cupped the flame and lit his pipe. He lifted his eyebrows in a question.
“We find the nearest body of water and use the deaders to electrolyze hydrogen directly.” Wallace turned and pointed at the deaders chained outside the October Sky’s engine compartment. “Two of them and a portable dynamo would be enough to fill an air cell each hour.”
Chevket tilted his head, and counted to himself. “That would take forty hours to fill each lifting cell, plus transport time to and from the worksite. Can we afford such exposure?” He looked at Beaumont.
“Can we afford not to?” Ives said.
Beaumont puffed, the spice-scented smoke and heat in his chest calming his nerves. “We may find that we need less than forty. Hydrogen is more efficient a lifting gas than helium, for all its more undesirable characteristics.”
Wallace laughed. “Shouldn’t be a problem, so long as we avoid smoking, cooking flames, ornithopters bearing incendiary rounds, and electrical strikes.”
“Quite,” Beaumont said. “What say you, Mister Ives?”
“I see no other choice. My men and I will be coming along to provide security for the work party.”
Beaumont inclined his head. “Make ready the excursion team, Mister Chevket.” Chevket went oddly stiff, and looked from Ives to his captain. Beaumont felt his distress, doubtlessly weighing the costs of speaking out against his captain’s decision when there was no alternative to suggest. There was a place for questioning, and a place for obedience; a good commander would know on which side of the line to fall.
Chevket, to his credit, merely bowed. “Sir.”
Ives counted ammunition while Beaumont surveyed the lake below. At least the man had the good graces not to smirk. Why they had come under attack from one of the Caliph’s carriers was now obvious, as was its supply depot. A handful of huts and tents surrounded an old wooden building at the lake’s edge. Men in the distinctive belt-wrapped robes of the Caliphate went about the camp, some pushing carts from the wooden building to an area carved into the hill well beyond the tents. Beaumont’s eyes strained to make out the cart’s cargo: metal cylinders marked with the single red circle used for marking hydrogen.