1636: The Ottoman Onslaught

by Eric Flint

  * * *

  Julie had decided to start shooting from the vantage point of the gondola. She wouldn’t be able to do that with the Beckworth .50, which Dell had placed in a compartment of the main deck above. The rifle was simply too big, too heavy and too clumsy to deploy effectively in the confines of the gondola.

  But as long as she was using her regular rifle, which was a Remington Model 700, the gondola had advantages. The main advantage was that it had a much wider field of fire than she could get shooting from the main deck—360 degrees, in fact, although the slope of the envelope right behind the gondola gave only a very narrow band through which she could fire.

  In practice, however, her restrictions would be greater than that. Leaving aside the fairly crowded conditions of the gondola, which she’d have to share with the three members of the flight crew, Tom Simpson, and Dell Beckworth, there was a structural problem. Unfortunately, when they’d designed the Magdeburg, Maarten Kortenaer and his fellow Dutch engineers hadn’t foreseen the tactic of firing rifles from the gondola or the main deck compartments. So, while they’d made provision to allow some of the windows to be partially opened to let in fresh air, they had not designed the windows to be removed altogether.

  That modification had to be hurriedly done while the Magdeburg had been en route from Hoorn to pick up Julie at Freising. And they’d only had time to allow for removing about a third of the windows. Still, she’d be able to cover most of her potential targets so long as the Magdeburg was within range and at roughly the right altitude.

  * * *

  Once they reached Freising, there was another impromptu change of plans. After they showed Julie the steel sheets they’d brought with them to build what amounted to a well-protected “shooter’s house,” she vetoed the idea.

  “Do we have any reason to think the Ottomans will have sharpshooters of their own?” she asked. To hell with false modesty: “In my league, I’m talking about?”

  Well… no.

  “Then screw it. Trying to shoot from inside a cramped box will be a royal pain in the butt. If it turns out we need it, we can install it later. Eventually, we’ll probably have to. But not in this first engagement.”

  * * *

  Within range, for Julie using her regular rifle, could mean anything up to one thousand yards. If she were firing from a position on solid ground, at least. She didn’t know yet how much the movement of the airship would affect her aim. Less than if she’d been on a boat at sea, certainly; but there was bound to be some unpredictable movement due to turbulence.

  In the end, she decided that her outer range with the Winchester would be seven hundred yards; with the Beckworth .50, five hundred yards—although she wouldn’t be surprised at all if that wound up being much closer to three hundred yards. Beckworth insisted that he had the huge gun sighted in, but since Julie hadn’t been able to do that herself, she was a tad skeptical of the claim. For that matter, she’d only been able to fire a few test rounds from the monster—and she’d done that after they were in the air, firing at passing geese. (Which she hadn’t really been trying to hit, anyway. Julie didn’t much like geese—who did?—but she had no particular animus against the birds.)

  “You’re in range, Julie,” Beckworth announced.

  They’d already settled on taking out the pilots first. Presumably, the Ottomans would have backup pilots on every airship, but those were not likely to be equivalent to the co-pilot of a commercial aircraft, back up-time. Such co-pilots were pilots in every respect, who normally spent as much time guiding the aircraft as the pilot did.

  There was really no purpose to that on an airship designed for military operations, though. Such vessels were not flying constantly, almost round the clock except for occasional maintenance, with interchangeable crews. Typically, they’d only be flying for a few hours on a specific mission, and their crews would be fixed and invariable, other than to replace members who’d gotten sick or been injured. So why not use the same man all the time to be the established pilot? All you needed was for one, or perhaps two, other members of the crew to get enough training to be able to get the airship safely back if the pilot suffered a mishap.

  An overly optimistic attitude, perhaps. But it was an inevitable byproduct of the fact that no one in the world except Mike Stearns and Tom Simpson had seriously contemplated how one airship might be able to take out another in aerial combat—and they’d only thought of it because they knew Julie’s capabilities with a rifle.

  Three seconds later, Julie fired at the nearest Ottoman airship. That was the one on the far left of the second line of enemy vessels. They’d decided to start by targeting that line of ships because, assuming the Turks were following the same tactics they’d used at Vienna, the first line would only be laying down smoke—as, indeed, they had just begun doing.

  “Got ‘im,” grunted Dell.

  Julie had time for one more shot before she’d have to start aiming at the second vessel in the line. But, before she could bring anyone into her scope, all the other members of that crew had ducked out of sight below the gunwale of the gondola.

  “What the hell,” said Dell. “Try a shot through the hull. You might hit one of them—or something worth hitting, anyway.”

  Julie thought that made sense. Aiming at a spot where one of the Ottomans had ducked out of sight, she fired a shot about a foot below the gunwale.

  By then, the Magdeburg was nearing the next airship in the second line of vessels. Julie brought the pilot of that craft into her sights and fired.

  “He’s down,” announced Dell. “Go for the guy with the fancy uniform.”

  He was presumably an officer—and not as quick-thinking as the crew of the first ship. He was just standing there, his mouth open, staring at the oncoming Magdeburg.

  She fired again.

  “He’s down, too,” said Dell. He shifted the spotting scope to bring the next airship into view. As they “crossed the T,” each ship was getting closer and closer. The third vessel they were nearing was no more than five hundred yards away. And, fortunately, the Magdeburg was still riding smoothly. The air was very calm today. Of course, that was part of the reason Sultan Murad had chosen to launch his attack.

  * * *

  Moshe Mizrahi realized instantly what had happened to his pilot, and called out: “Everybody get down! Take cover! They have a marksman on that ship!”

  He did so himself, even while still shouting. So, he was in position to see the next bullet pass right through the wall of the gondola—so much for thinking kalkan shields would provide adequate protection—and, as neatly as a tailor cutting off an extra bit of cloth, snipping off the very top of one of the incendiary bombs.

  There was a little jiggle—just his airship responding to slight turbulence. But it was enough to send a few drops of the infernal substance inside that bomb flying out of the now-open top and splashing on the deck of the gondola.

  He stared up at the bomb, momentarily paralyzed. If it shattered and spilled all of its contents…

  The incendiary bombs were essentially just ceramic amphora with a simple fuse inserted into the top spout. The enemy bullet had cut off that top and sent it flying somewhere. Completely out of the gondola, Moshe thought. Glancing around, he couldn’t see it or the fuse anywhere.

  There was no time to waste. He came to his feet, seized the bomb by its handles, and hurled it over the side. With no fuse, it wouldn’t ignite when it hit the ground unless there was a fire nearby. But at least it was no longer a threat to his own vessel.

  He heard that distinct crack again. Then, a few seconds later, still another.

  The airship’s engineer, Mordechai Pesach, was at his side by then. Like Moshe himself, staring at the closest Ottoman airship. That was the Ihtiman. None of its crew were in sight and the vessel was clearly drifting out of line.

  One—probably two—of that crew had been shot. The rest were apparently hiding somewhere in the gondola.

  Moshe was in command of
this line of five vessels. But how was he to transmit his commands to men who weren’t even looking at his semaphore?

  “What do we do?” asked Mordechai.

  He heard the cracking sound again. More distantly. By now, he realized that was the sound of the enemy marksman’s rifle and he was beginning to suspect they’d just encountered the legendary American female. The half-mythical monster they called the Jooli.

  The huge enemy ship was now passing in front of the third vessel in his line, the Mostaganem.

  Again, the crack. The Mostaganem’s gondola erupted in a ball of fire. A moment later, another and much greater ball of fire exploded. Within seconds, the envelope itself was starting to burn.

  The lines holding the gondola to the envelope were severed by the intense heat and the gondola—what was left of it—plummeted to the ground many kulaçs below. The fiery envelope drifted away, now completely unguided, and began following the gondola downward, although much more slowly.

  * * *

  “Holy shit,” hissed Dell.

  Julie stared at the furnace the third Ottoman airship had become, just a few hundred yards away.

  “What happened?” she asked.

  Dell shook his head. “I’m guessing, but I think that second shot you fired into the gondola after they all ducked down must have hit one of their incendiaries—and then it set off a bunch of others. And if I’m right…”

  “To hell with shooting at crew members,” Julie concluded. She got a very grim expression on her face. “Okay, change of tactics. Let’s see what happens.”

  The Magdeburg continued onward. In less than a minute, they’d be crossing the T on the fourth vessel—and now the range would be down to three hundred yards. If the Turks had any sharpshooters of their own on their airships—she hadn’t seen any yet, but who knew?—things were going to get a lot hairier.

  * * *

  “What do we do?” repeated Mordechai.

  Moshe glanced at the Ihtiman. By now, it had drifted still further out of line and would have been at risk of running into the Mostaganem except what was left of that ship was no longer there. The burning gondola had already struck the ground and the envelope was nothing more than a fireball which would impact the ground itself within a minute.

  Thankfully, one of the surviving members of the Ihtiman’s crew had gotten back up and was looking at him.

  Moshe glanced to the rear of his gondola. The last member of his crew was on his feet also. That was the new bombardier who’d replaced the one killed at Vienna. He’d been cross-trained as a semaphore operator.

  “Tell the Ihtiman to follow us!” he said. Then, moved quickly to the controls in the bow of the gondola. He’d also been cross-trained, and would now have to serve as the ship’s pilot.

  Moshe didn’t think there was much hope that any of the other ships in his line would survive the Jooli. But at least his ship and the Ihtiman could complete their mission.

  Yes, he’d have to answer to the sultan when this was all over. But Murad would forgive a commander whose force had suffered terrible casualties because of enemy action, so long as he kept to his duty. He might even reward him, in fact. He’d have no mercy for a commander who flinched.

  Once he was sure he had the Chaldiran back under control, Moshe looked to his right and to his rear, to see what was happening to the last two ships in his line.

  He did so just in time to see the gondola of the fourth ship, the Cerbe, turned into another fireball.

  North bank of the Danube

  About a mile west of the village of Langenstein

  Sultan Murad straightened up and walked away from the telescope. Once he reached the railing of the platform atop his observation tower, he leaned over and shouted down to the three radio operators in the shed they’d erected to shelter their equipment. One of them, as always, was standing in the open in case the sultan had orders for them.

  “Send a message to the Pelekanon,” he commanded. “Şemsi Ahmed is to cancel the airship assault and bring back his vessels.”

  The operator hurried into the shed. Not long afterward, he re-emerged.

  “The binbaşı asks if that is to include the smoke ships,” he said.

  Murad had been pondering that very issue.

  “Yes,” he replied. With no possibility of softening the enemy’s lines with the airship firebombs, he could see no point in ordering the janissaries forward. They would just get butchered.

  What might still be possible would be a charge of his sipahis, following a katyusha barrage. The casualties would be heavy, but the cavalry might be able to cross the open ground fast enough to get in among the defenders.

  But limiting visibility would just be a hindrance for that. Horses were skittish beasts. It would be almost impossible to drive them into smoke clouds at any pace faster than a walk. And for such a charge to succeed, they’d need to close at a gallop.

  Steyregg, on the north bank of the Danube across from Linz

  “They’re going back, Tom,” announced Dell. “Should we pursue them?”

  Tom Simpson looked at Julie. “It’s your call, I figure.”

  She thought about it, but not for long. The fifth and final ship in that second line had veered aside as soon as she’d blown up the fourth ship’s gondola. She’d taken a couple of shots at it, but didn’t know if she’d hit anything important or any member of the crew. She obviously hadn’t gotten any of the incendiaries on board.

  By then, her angle of fire had been awkward, because—whether from shrewd calculation or just happenstance—the enemy vessel had climbed as well as veered. After her second shot, which she’d hurried, it had risen out of sight above the Magdeburg’s envelope.

  She was getting a better sense for the tactics involved in these airship-to-airship fights. They’d caught the Ottomans by surprise today, but it wouldn’t last. The next time they met, the Turks would be doing their own maneuvering—and they’d have their own sharpshooters aboard.

  Of course, they wouldn’t be in her league. Still, it would be a real fight, next time.

  “No, I don’t think so. But what’s happening to that first line of their airships? The ones laying down the smoke?”

  Tom hadn’t been paying much attention to them, since they hadn’t been the targets. He moved to the bow of the gondola and peered out. “Where are…?”

  The Dutch pilot understood the question. He pointed toward the Pöstlinberg. “All five of the smoke ships broke off. They’re flying back now, over the hills to the north.”

  Looking that way, Tom spotted them. “Can we intercept?”

  “Maybe the closest one,” said the pilot.

  “It’s worth a try. Let’s go for it.”

  * * *

  “They probably won’t have any incendiaries aboard,” Julie mused. “And the crews are bound to have figured out by now that they need to stay out of my sight below the gunwales.”

  “Time to use the .50, then!” Dell exclaimed, enthusiastically. “They can’t drag those big boilers out of sight. I’m telling you, Julie—dollars for donuts—the .50 will punch right through that steel.”

  “Oh, joy,” said Julie, rubbing her shoulder in anticipation.

  * * *

  Dell proved to be right. The first two shots Julie fired just ricocheted off the boiler of the ship they targeted. Through his spotting scope, Dell could see that the bullets had put big dents in it, though. So his enthusiasm didn’t flag.

  And, sure enough, the third shot struck the curved surface of the steel at just the right angle and penetrated.

  There wasn’t the spectacular explosion Tom had foreseen. Judging by the feebleness of the Ottoman propellers, he’d already figured out that their steam engines didn’t operate at the same pressure and temperature as those designed by the USE or the Dutch.

  Still, there was an impressive cloud of steam produced, and they could hear at least one man screaming even at that distance. So they’d done some immediate damage, and regardless of a
nything else that airship was probably doomed. With no engines, they’d just drift. They’d have to exhaust hydrogen from the envelope and try for as soft a landing as they could manage, without being able to steer the ship.

  Good luck with that, in these hills.

  “Okay,” said Tom. “Let’s head back. A good day’s work, folks.”

  North bank of the Danube

  About a mile west of the village of Langenstein

  Murad had summoned his best combat engineers and weapons designers to join him atop the observation platform.

  “We need our own Joolis,” he pronounced. “Make them.”

  Chapter 57

  Vienna, former capital of Austria-Hungary, now occupied by the Ottoman Empire

  Uzun Hussein was in a good mood, which was quite unexpected. When he’d awakened in the hospital weeks earlier, and recovered enough from his wounds to think about anything beyond the pain, he’d been plunged into anger and resentment. He couldn’t remember what had happened to him in the final assault on the bastion, but whatever ball had removed his right eye and cut a deep gouge into his skull—it had been pure luck that he hadn’t had his brains spilled out altogether—had left him unconscious for days.

  Which meant he’d missed out on all the loot his comrades would have plundered. In Vienna! Capturing this city had been a dream for Ottoman soldiers for more than a century—and now that they’d finally done it, he’d gotten nothing beyond his janissary’s pay.

  So he’d remained for the rest of his stay in the hospital. Sullen and unwilling to talk to anyone.

  Finally, the day before, an officer had come to give him his new orders—and he’d been plunged into still deeper anger and resentment.

  His days as a combat soldier, it seemed, were over. He’d be allowed to remain in the janissary corps, but henceforth he would be assigned to police duties. Which paid less than he’d been getting, and had almost no chance for loot at all.

  Hussein had had no choice in the matter, so he’d kept silent. If he’d given vent to his fury he’d simply have been punished—and there was no life for him outside the janissaries; certainly not now, when he was one-eyed.