Turning away from the image, Cobham caught sight of Kassandra’s face. Her eyes were intent, focused on the aeronaught below. Her brow furrowed in thought. Just audible above the thunder she asked Sparrowknife, “Does the Windram look to you to have the same cladding as the downed dirigible?”
At first the airman was taken aback. Then he nodded. “If I had to guess then, yes. I would say it looks the same. It would make sense since the wreck was one of the Southern’s.”
“Then we have a chance. Constable get the other crate and bring it here. Airman is there any access to the gas cells here? We need to fill the weather balloon as quick as possible.”
Not sure what Kassandra had in mind, Cobham pulled the lid off of the crate. He handed the folded package of the balloon to Sparrowknife. Taking out the rope Cobham swung back to Kassandra.
“We’re going to need every length of rope here, Constable. Start tying them together.” She reached out taking the end of the first coil of line from him. Then she stepped up to the steam harpoon. There she joined the length coiled at its base to the other, continuing to tie on each length of rope he found for her, pulling each knot tight. Finally, Kassandra tied the rope to the end of the harpoon load. She stepped back a moment surveying their work as Sparrowknife and several other airmen drug the large weather balloon into the bay.
“What are we doing, Kassandra?” Cobham asked now completely confused.
She looked past him through the open bay doors. The Windram rose below them once more. “Sparrowknife,” she called, “how much do you think the captain trusts me? I need him to bring us close enough to the Windram that we can hit it with the harpoon gun.”
“Why?”
“You gave me the answer earlier in the day. What can destroy a ship this size?”
The airman’s eyes lit up with comprehension, “A lightning strike. A strike with the same cladding as the other ship had....” He took a deep breath, “Ye gods it could work. But we would have to be well away from the resulting explosion.”
“That’s why I’m thinking of something else you told me. We wait until they fire again. Then set loose a few of our gas cells to make them think we’re hit. We can plunge past the Windram, fire the harpoon, play out the balloon and then get as far away as possible.”
Sparrowknife called the other airmen over as he and Cobham took hold of the balloon. He gave them terse orders sending them off to the bridge and the upper tiers, respectively. “This crazy idea better work or I’m going to be grounded for good.”
From the other side of the balloon, Cobham replied, “I think we’ll all be under the ground in a permanent fashion if this doesn’t work.
Kassandra joined them taking hold of the balloon. She tied the rope to its bottom and then tied the wrench that Cobham had used earlier several feet below the balloon. She grasped two fistfuls of the balloon fabric saying, “You’ll need to make the shot Sparrowknife. You’re the expert here.”
“I’m no expert at this craziness but at least you’ve given me a target that will be difficult to miss.” The airman spun the locks open on the harpoon gun opening the steam valve to let the pressure build. Once again the Sharpshin bucked and spun. “That would be the cells away.” The thunder was so loud now that they couldn’t even hear their pursuer firing its guns.
Cobham and Kassandra struggled to maintain their grip on the weather balloon as it rippled and flexed under their hands. The surface of the Windram spun closer and closer. Cobham thought he could see the individual panels that made up the skin of the aeronaught. “Take the shot,” he cried.
“Not yet,” Sparrowknife screamed back over the rushing wind.
Now Cobham could see the rivets holding the cladding down. Surely, the cannons had a bead on them by now, he thought. As he was waiting for the inevitable shudder from the impact, Kassandra cried, “Let go!”
Confused, Cobham maintained his grip on the balloon as it surged, sucked downward as the Sharpshin rolled. He slid across the floor with the gas bag, letting go at the edge of the bay. For a moment, the balloon hung there in the opening. Then it was gone and the rope sang over the edge, coil after coil unfurling. With a chuff of steam that filled the bay for a second before being sucked out, the harpoon fired. The bolt arrowed downward to disappear into the skin of the Windram.
“Hold on,” Sparrowknife sang out as the Sharpshin dove toward its foe. The airship skimmed well between the outthrust spars of the aeronaught’s giant fans to continue its plunge toward the sea below. The cargo bay doors swung ponderously closed. As the airship picked up speed, Cobham heard the whine of the ship’s own fans cranking well past their safety limits. He could feel a slight change in their angle. The fans were going so fast now that the entirety of the Sharpshin shook in sympathetic vibration. As the airship leveled out, Sparrowknife gestured them all toward the bridge. They raced through the hallways being battered against the sides as the ship shuddered onward. Cobham burst out on the decking after the others as Captain Bornesun set the fans to freewheeling, letting them cycle down. As rough wind continued to buffet the airship, they all found themselves clutching the brass railing as the captain brought the Sharpshin around.
“What now, Captain?” asked Sparrowknife.
“If your crazy scheme doesn’t work we’re going to ram them. There is no way I am letting that ship back to its home port if I can stop it.”
There was a moment of quiet as they turned to watch the cloud deck above them. The Sharpshin had dropped low enough that the waters of the North Atlantic rippled beneath the ship. From the black cloud emerged the prow of the Windram. Their ploy was unsuccessful. The aeronaught pulled a full third of its length through the clouds angling toward them.
Bornesun levelled out their course aiming the Sharpshin’s prow at the Windram. The Captain reached down for the fan gear shaft, preparing to ram the aeronaught. A flash lit up the cloud deck as an immense arc of electricity flung itself from cloud to cloud. It branched like a fiery tree. The skin of the Windram glowed with blue luminosity for an instant. Then the entire front of the aeronaught dissolved into a billowing cascade of fire. Orange and reddish light lit up the horizon. As more and more of the dirigible fell below the layer of cloud, further explosions rocked the skies. Shredded wreckage drifted down over the ocean like charred snowfall. Still the immense ship fell. Gas cells burst from the frame work to detonate into incandescent flares. The prow was now reaching the water level as the entire pillar of radiance collapsed under its own weight. The sound wave struck the Sharpshin and the airship shuddered under the violence of the Windram’s passing. Bornesun silently crossed himself and set to turning the airship away.
“I wonder what happened to Cyrus the ghost,” Sparrowknife asked.
“I suspect that destroying the expedition and doing in Moore probably set things to right for him,” Kassandra said in a dull monotone.
Looking away from the wreck of the Windram, at Kassandra, Cobham found her lips set in a hard line. “We’ve done good today, Constable. Even though we had to fight them on their own terms,” she stated. The light of the burning pyre caught the glass pins in her hair, the shine in her eyes of unshed tears.
We’ve done good, he thought. Perhaps they had. Perhaps that was what he was meant to do. He could do it one person at a time on the streets of Amphyra or perhaps he was meant for more. Cobham was certain of one thing, he’d never felt as alive as he had in the last few hours. It could be that was one reward for doing the right thing. If that was the case, then sticking by Kassandra’s side was the right decision. “Thanks for the excitement,” he said quietly. She chuckled and laid a hand over his for a moment. Then she turned to walk down the stairs to the crew quarters.
Sparrowknife tipped his head to one side. “You know, I never saw Moore board the Windram.”
“I didn’t either. I’m certain she knows it as well, but we should let that be for the moment.”
Both men turned back to look at the fading light from the wreck of the
aeronaught as it fell into the distance. The storm rolled over the blazing remains, obscuring them from view. For now Cobham was content to be headed home. He knew he’d chosen a dangerous path, but now there was a certainty that he’d often seemed to lack, a confirmation that he’d chosen the right one.
King and Country
Richard Marsden
They said he followed his orders without question or hesitation. They were right, but that didn’t make Brian Willox feel any better about his situation. Patriotism tended to wither under the heavy automatic fire of a Kaiser-Guard, though he was sure it would return later. It always did. His teeth rattled as another spray of ammunition pelted the feeble cover he hid behind, sending bits of concrete past his face. He gripped his Webley revolver and laughed at how puny it seemed in his hand.
His squad was doing the same as he was; desperately hugging every bit of masonry or dirt they could find within the ruins of a building they had incorrectly thought was safe from prying eyes. The sky was overcast, giving everything a gray tinge to its appearance. In-between firing at the armored figures of Germany’s best, his men glared at him. Their uniforms were khaki and spattered in mud from the hours of nighttime crawling that had gotten them this far. They had made it beyond no-man’s land, through the Kraut trenches, and had managed to elude or stay hidden from enemy sentries and patrols for three solid days. It was just their rotten luck to stumble across the near-invulnerable soldiers of the Kaiser only an hour away from their objective.
“Sir, forget King n’ Country! We’re n’ Krautland as it is,” Sergeant Lemwill shouted over the roar of automatic fire. “Leg it fast n’ we’ll be sippin’ champ-e-anee n’ Paris n’ a few days time.” He popped up from the bullet-ridden wall he was using for cover and fired his trench-gun. The boom was deafening and in response Lemwill was forced to curl up tight as sprays of gunfire dashed about his position.
Brian was sorely tempted to take up his Sergeant on the offer, but he had a reputation to maintain and a career to build. While saying ‘yes’ to suicide missions had not exactly propelled him up the ranks, he was damn sure saying ‘no’ wouldn’t help much either. Besides, he could feel something within him twisting. Refusal to obey brought about an unexplainable pain to him that could override the worst of terrors. The rising agony increased as he pondered, if but for a moment, calling it quits.
He nodded his head in the direction of the enemy. “Sergeant, keep those Kaiser-Guard still. There are only three of them. I’ll close.” The pain fled as he voiced his plan. Brian glanced around the hunk of wall he was crouched behind. On the far side of the ruined building he could make out three lumbering shapes. The armored plates they wore were decorated liberally with rivets and their breastplates were marked with chipped, worn, but very evident iron crosses. Their faces were hidden behind armored gasmasks and they wore the distinct helmets the Germans were so fond of, proudly displaying the spike that most soldiers abandoned because it made hiding difficult. Kaiser-Guard didn’t need to hide. The three hand-picked warriors of the German Emperor moved confidently through the rubble, firing their multi-barrel chain-guns in destructive, swaying patterns.
“Only three, he says!” Sergeant Lemwill looked upon the five other men in the squad. “Mores, Bentlock,” he barked. “Grenades. Rest of you lot, covering fire for the officer.”
Mores and Bentlock licked their lips. They waited for the others to open up with their feeble bolt-actions before producing grenades. They pulled the pins and waited a moment, a dangerous maneuver if done improperly. Just before the explosives detonated in their hands they stood, tossed the primed weapons, and then ducked.
Brian waited until he heard the twin booms of the grenades. He then darted forward through raining bits of brick and earth and a cloud of debris. He severely doubted the grenades and small arms fire of his men would stop the trio of walking tanks, something more personal would be required for that. He dived behind the remains of a chimney and let out a shuddering breath. The chain-guns started up again. While the grenades hadn’t slowed them, it had provided him a shield of smoke to advance through.
He heard the heavy footfalls of the Kaiser-Guard. “Christ,” he whispered as he saw the skeletal walls rattle with their inevitable approach. The chimney was a tight fit, but with force, effort, and a sucking in of breath, Brian pushed himself into it. The chimney vibrated and a few bricks tumbled loose both from his desperate burrowing and that of the footsteps of the advancing soldiers.
The next burst of automatic fire deafened him as the sound echoed within the tight, sooty confines of the chimney. He could barely hear his men’s return fire. A few pops and the occasional plink of a round deflected by the German body-armor was hardly uplifting. Half the chimney collapsed and Brian stifled a cry as a few bricks bounced upon his helmet. They hadn’t fallen from too great a height, but a brick to the head was a brick to the head. His helmet crunched atop his skull and his teeth clamped shut. Through holes in the chimney he saw the three gargantuan soldiers stomp past, weapons blazing. He could hear their heavy intakes of air and see steam and exhaust belch from their over-sized backpacks. One paused, as if sensing an enemy to its rear.
Brian’s vision was still swimming from the bricks that had fallen, and yet remained, atop his helmeted head. He held his breath and closed his eyes. If the Kaiser-Guard saw his feet in the chimney, there was nowhere to run; he had sealed himself in his very own coffin. He tensed up, waiting for the roar of the chain-gun and prayed that his death would be at least quick, if not pleasant.
“Come on then, ye bastards!” Sergeant Lemwill howled. The distinct booming of his trench-gun thundered.
Brian popped an eye open. The three Kaiser-Guard were moving slowly, but unerringly, towards Lemwill. “Bless you, Sergeant,” Brian whispered before wriggling his way out of the chimney. Getting in was easier than out and he had to twist and wriggle to get free. He shook his head as the weight of the bricks left him and still had a hard time seeing clearly. However, it would be impossible to miss the giant forms of the enemy.
Sparks flew from their bulk and they answered each round fired their way with a buzz-saw chatter of their own and a cascade of glittering, brass shell-casings. From the front, they were as indestructible as tanks. They could stride across no-man’s land and were often at the fore of grand assaults. Brian had seen more than a few killed before, usually with a direct artillery strike or a blast from a flame-thrower. He currently lacked both of these. Grasping his revolver, he advanced.
The first of the armored soldiers was stepping over a pile of wood that once perhaps was a piece of furniture. Brian crept up behind him and saw a gap in the armored plates, revealing the man’s neck. Stuffing the muzzle of his gun in-between the gaps, Brian pulled the trigger and felt the recoil. The round sped through the German’s neck, then head, and burst through his skull and made a distinct metallic thunk as it imbedded inside the crown of the helmet. The German fell face first.
The deafening chatter of the chain-guns covered the sound of Brian’s shot and the collapse of their comrade. The two remaining Kaiser-Guard, oblivious to the danger behind them, sprayed a torrent of rounds into the ruins where Brian’s squad hunkered down and feebly returned fire.
Moving, Brian hopped over the dead Kaiser-Guard and closed on the rear of the next soldier. His men, only a few yards off, caught sight of him and ceased fire. The pair of Germans did the same and a sudden silence filled the air. The armored German leveled his smoking chain-gun preparing another burst, but before he could fire, Brian repeated the precise shot between gaps in the armor. He was already running towards the last soldier before the other had fallen over dead. The sound of the shot and the clattering of armor echoed loudly.
The exhaust pipes on the backpack of the remaining foe belched out a cloud of vapor. The hulking form half-turned and upon seeing two of his comrades dead and Brian rushing him, let out a bestial roar. The chain-gun sputtered to life.
Brian saw the spinning barrels and
watched the glittering tracer-rounds spit past him. The animal inside him cried out for him to cower. To do so was to die. The pain inside him bubbled and boiled, as if the thought of retreat somehow made his own body reject him. Training, and the unnatural agony, shouted down instinct and Brian replied with his own roar, not nearly as menacing, but certainly primal. He leveled his pistol and squeezed the trigger again and again. The revolver bucked while he ducked under the climbing spray of rounds. He could feel the air displace just above his head as he rushed the German like a rugby player. Brian’s squad stood up, lending throaty cheers.
His two shots bounced harmlessly off the armored plates of the Kaiser-Guard. In desperation, Brian continued to rush the man, jamming the barrel of his weapon against the eye-piece. He pulled the trigger just as the heated barrels crashed into his side, flinging him away under its weight and the enhanced strength of the elite foe.
Brian rolled over rough earth, hissing as his leg went numb from the impact of the earth and several bits of concrete and splintered wood bit into his flesh. He glanced up, raised his pistol, and pulled the trigger.
Click.
It didn’t matter. Smoke ghosted up from the German’s shattered eye-piece. He waivered, took two blind steps, and collapsed heavily, causing his armor’s engine to sputter out with a rattling cough.
Panting, Brian curled up. He felt fear, worry, panic and rush back into his veins as the unexplained pain vanished the moment the crisis was over. While his men cheered his bravery and called him mad, Leftenant Brian Willox vomited. He had performed dozens of such ‘heroic’ acts and each time he felt sick afterwards. In a few days time the madness of it all would fade and he would accept the next assignment. Besides, saying ‘no’ tended to inexplicably hurt.
As if reading his thoughts, Sergeant Lemwill hauled him to his feet with a grimy hand. “You’ll be dead n’ no time, beggin’ your pardon, sir.” He gave Brian a long, solemn look that was contrasted sharply by the smiles of the others.
Clockwork Chaos Page 4