by Aeryn Leigh
Commander Lucius intercepted them, and they halted.
"Nothing heroic," he said. "Especially you, Hunter. Loki, take them up, get an eyeball on them. If they carry bombs or the like, try to shoot them down, or disrupt them enough. If not, do not engage. There's ten of them, and seven of you, remember. Use your heads. Otherwise, remember your training. Go."
The pilots raced to their planes, and climbed up and into the small cockpits.
Loki settled in, and like the others, went through the preflight checklist in his head.
He double-checked the pair of M3 grease guns mounted on each side of the fuselage, the strings attached to the triggers poking through the fuselage canvas and ending in a y-handle just to the left of the control stick.
Rudders. Ailerons. Check.
He finished the rest of the procedures, and waved to his mechanic, standing in front of the wooden propeller out front.
Magneto switch. Centred and on. Fuel on.
He gave the thumbs up.
The mechanic pulled the propeller down and around a half-circle, priming it, then watching his footing, swung the propeller hard. The rotary engine puffed and spluttered into life, Castor oil flying backward in the slipstream. The mechanic circled around, and removed the wheel chocks.
The little aeroplane moved forward. To his right, he saw Aisha's engine start, then catch fire, ground crew running toward the aircraft with buckets of sand, as the pilot killed the magnetos and hastily got out.
Dammit, he thought. Six. He taxied down the runway, increasing speed, and pulled back on the stick a little, to prevent the aircraft's torque spinning it around, until a little over halfway down the runway, the plane lifted off. He looked to his left and right. Four others. Aisha's aircraft blossomed in flame as the fuel tank ignited, and another sat on the tarmac, motionless. David Gravistor's.
Five.
Loki led what remained of the squadron toward the bay.
Chapter Fifteen
A High-Speed Flyby
Lieutenant Vince Pervelli ground his teeth together. The Inquisition flew high above, maybe two-and-half thousand feet, too high for the pair of .303 machine guns mounted to the lighthouse's balcony rail. The two-winged aircraft, painted crimson-red, their engines behind the fuselage's main body, pushing the aircraft forward, carried little black eggs under their wings.
He left the balcony, and hurried inside to radio the Command Bunker, as one of the aircraft dropped two of its black eggs overhead, which dispersed, and rained their contents onto the observation post.
"They're carrying bombs," said Bear, as the air-raid siren fell silent. "Passing overhead the observation post now." Laurie, Ella, and Marietta watched the approaching aircraft from the Command Bunker's slit.
"Thank you, Sergeant," said Marietta. "Yes, Private?"
Private Jasper saluted. "The aerodrome reports only five made it into the air. One is on fire, total loss. The other, engine failure. No casualties."
"Thank you, Jasper."
But another casualty going up in smoke — like the thousands of man-hours of labour being consumed on the runway — is my pride, thought Ella, as eyes turned on her. Brand-new engines, brand-new aircraft, brand-new pilots — just way too many random variables. We need more time.
"Ten aircraft carrying bombs," said Laurie. "Could be worse."
General Marietta started to reply when Bear cut her off.
"General, the lighthouse reports they are under attack. The Inquisition bombers are dropping . . . papers . . . printed letters . . . from captured citizens, our lost army, urging us to surrender."
Marietta gripped her sword. "Is that all?" The enemy fliers were almost halfway over the bay.
"So far, yes," said Bear.
Laurie laughed, a grim chuckle without mirth, as he knelt and patted Skippy by his side.
"And so begins the Phony War," he said.
Ella looked at Marietta, then out over the bay.
Loki blipped the throttle, as his flight fought for altitude against the headwind. Arranged in a loose V-formation, he led the squadron abreast of the incoming flight, headed directly for the capital. The fields below unfolded all around, as the morning suns rose from the east, casting long shadows across the Republic lands, small pockets of cloud far to the west.
There's no chance we can intercept them over the Bay. At best, over the plains in between the beach and the city. The Gruder Mk IV twitched and vibrated, the monoplane spewing its lubricant back over him, and periodically he wiped his goggles clear with the inside of his sleeve, which wasn't covered in castor oil.
The RAF matched the enemy's heading, and still he led them upward, urging the frail aircraft higher, into the twin suns. The wind chilled him to the marrow, even with the insulated flight suit, and by his rough calculations put the enemy at around three-thousand feet, his squadron now around five-thousand. He waggled his wingtips, and banked on an intercept course.
Just a flyby, he thought, that’s what Commander Lucius called it. A high-speed flyby, to evaluate, then act. He nudged the throttle to maximum, and the baby-cloned Wright radial snarled in response.
The squadron raced toward the flight of red sea-biplanes. Loki saw they were of the Supermarine two-seater pusher type Ella had drilled them on, the pilot and gunner forward of the rear-mounted propeller, a copy of the aeroplane she'd duelled at the Battle of Harmony Bay, complete with their twin rudders. The Inquisition flight also flew in a V-formation, and their gunners swivelled their machine guns in their direction. Only a few thousand yards separated them now, the air rushing past, and Loki forgot to breathe. Seconds passed, and just as sparks of flame spat from the closest machine gunner, he shoved the stick forward, down below the gunner's arc of travel, the tracer rounds shooting harmlessly overhead while the airframe groaned in strain.
The squadron followed their leader, ducking under the Inquisition formation, and got a good look at the enemy aircraft. A straight copy of the Supermarine seaplane Commander Ella engaged, down to the last spar and rivet, and underneath each wing, five black bombs each side, the black-finned eggs at least a foot long.
Bomber, thought Loki. No defences underneath. We swing around and attack from below. The enemy bombers continued as if nothing concerned them.
Arrogant bastards, well let's show them.
He led the four others on a wide circular anticlockwise turn, and started their attack run from their western astern, from just below.
Too easy. The range closed, and Loki took hold of the firing string. The automatic machine-pistol's effective range of one hundred yards meant a point-blank shot, but that suited the RAF fine. They'd drilled for this.
Five-hundred yards. You dumb Inka bastards. Stay right there.
They didn't. The four seaplanes on the right wing flipped over in a terrific show of aeronautical skill, maintaining altitude and formation, and spat death at the incoming fighters.
Bullets chewed into his Mk IV, yet Loki held his nerve, and pulled the firing string at one-hundred and twenty yards. The pair of grease guns unloaded, and Loki's guns returned the favour, scoring hits into the nearest red plane.
And his own. The last bullet rounds of the M3's shattered his propeller, sending his plane spiralling. Loki reached out and flicked the magneto switch, killing the engine, and regained control, in an enforced emergency glide. For the first time since starting his attack run he twisted his head around to see what had happened.
All ten Inquisition aircraft remained aloft.
Only two of theirs did.
Marianne and Max.
Inger’s fighter gushed thick black smoke as she tried for an emergency landing in a potato field, seeming to make it, then hit a raised vegetable mound, flipping the aircraft onto its back.
No sign of Victoria.
The ground came up fast. Loki aimed for the dirt road that ran past the farmlands, and kissed the earth. The plane bounced, landed, bounced, and stuck to the dirt path, as farmers dived off the road, abandoning th
eir carts. A pair of trees shepherded the path, and Loki smashed through them, removing the wings, before his beloved Mk IV, speared into a large mound of hay bales, bringing it to rest.
Loki shook his head, and undid the simple harness, getting out quick. As the farmers nearby rushed up to him, seeing if he was okay, the squadron leader watched the enemy formation drop their bombs at will over Fairholm, unharmed.
Chapter Sixteen
Not Alone
Thorfinn examined the two-foot bomb casing dropped on the city, its black paint scratched in places.
"Somebody knows what they're doing," he said, to the small group assembled in the Engineering Room. "Small propeller on the tail-screw winds open the metal casing, letting out whatever’s inside." His eyes dropped to the pile of hand-sized papers sitting on the corner of the work bench. "This is the only intact bomb from the raid. It fell into the city fountain outside the museum. The others are squished. Curved pressed-steel construction, machined edges, spot-welded joints."
"May I?" said Ella. She walked over and peered down. She sighed. "Grieg was a busy boy. It's a copy of a Luftwaffe SD-2 practice bomb, but modified."
"So, we're not the only ones cloning Earth designs," said Laurie, leaning against the workshop's window. Ella nodded her head.
"What does this mean?" said General Marietta. "They can fill this bomb with something more lethal than paper?"
"Yes," said Ella, beating Thorfinn to it. "Explosives, incendiaries, concrete, concrete mixed with metal scraps and explosive — a lot of nasty things."
"Which can be dropped on us unchallenged," said Merrion. "The first combat outing of our little Air Force was a disaster."
Ella ignored him. "It went as well as could be expected," she said, "for an unproven and under-resourced operation."
"Under resourced? You've had the full support of the Republic for over one year. What else do you need?"
"Fifty years of German industry and knowledge would be a good start," said Ella. "But we don't have that."
"A good mechanic never blames his tools."
"Where did you hear that?" said Ella. "They most certainly can if their toolbox is scheisse."
"Enough," said General Marietta. "Break it down for me. Now the skies above our head invite danger. What went wrong today?"
"Rob?" said Ella.
"Thanks," said Rob, scratching his nose with one greasy finger, his coveralls too covered in grease and oil. "The pouring process used to cast the rotary crankshafts wasn't good enough. Two failed, one on the tarmac, one in the air."
"Victoria's," said Ella. "Lucky she's alive."
"Yes," said Rob. "Both cranks broke at the same point. We can make changes and fix that."
"With the general's permission, I'd like to run the remaining engines non-stop until they break," said Ella. "It will use lots of fuel, but if we identify further problems in the existing rotaries, we can implement improvements, as Rob just said. Ideally, we'd take the new engines, and run them until they each break too, work out problems, and repeat."
"I'd have to consult Lieutenant Ginger first, and her logistics hoard, but that might be acceptable. And Loki's aircraft?" said the general.
"A fault in the interrupter camshaft, which synchronises the ability to fire bullets through the propeller arc," said Ella, scratching the back of her head. Marietta and Merrion looked at her, blinking. "The cam lobe broke?"
"I see," said Marietta. "Can it be fixed?"
"Yes?" said Ella.
"Right," said Marietta, walking up to the window where Laurie still stood. She gazed out, looking at the charred remnants of the fighter sitting across the tarmac three-hundred yards away. "Thank you, Rob. You may go."
When Rob left the building, and the door closed, she turned around. "Do what you have to Ella to fix that 'cam lobe', but make getting that seaplane and gliders of yours built full priority. What progress have you made in the last few days?"
Ella looked at Laurie. "We've finished the first scale prototype of the Catalina, a quarter-scale mock-up of the assault glider, and if everything goes well, we begin building the full-scale immediately afterward."
"Good," said Marietta.
"We're going night and day at it, General," said Laurie. "It's pointless rushing and the planes disintegrate with everyone on board."
"Well then, don't let me stop you." Marietta gestured toward the door. When they'd left with the dogs, she walked to the workbench and picked up the sheath of papers.
"Propaganda," said Merrion, the two of them alone in the room which stank of oil, metal, and gasoline. "That's what it is called now."
"Fantastic," said Marietta. "I can wipe my butt with it."
Chapter Seventeen
Unpleasant Surprises
"Merrion?"
"Yes, General?"
"Please distribute the following message to all Republic citizens: Inquisition propaganda is not to be used in lavatories. Especially by women."
"And why is that? Wait, why are you walking funny?"
"The paper reacts with urea, Merrion. It — burns. I'm going to kill those bastards, if it's the last thing I ever do. And if you ever tell anyone, you'll be first to go."
Griffin consulted his clipboard. One final company of the rebuilt Third remained to run his little gamut. Out in the middle of the firing range, in the belly of the Inquisition tank, he looked back at Rob, and nodded. Rob cranked the starter motor, and the Inquisition straight six rumbled into life, belching white grey smoke from its twin stacks.
Just one more company. Then he could go for a walk with Athena and go sample his latest efforts at bourbon moonshine. In the somewhat spacious tank, his tank crew held their crossbows ready, their bolt tips blunted and wrapped in thick wads of cotton, dripping red. Red dye.
Only those who’d survived his war game exercises this last week were allowed to take turns of being his tank crew. Each company assaulting the tank had been kept segregated, before and after, this last group now huddled behind a reasonably-close sandbagged wall. Griffin smiled, as he rolled the unlit cigar around his teeth. He’d made damn sure sure the other companies could hear it though. Low rumblings, random bursts of noise and fireworks. Nothing like a bit of screaming and explosions to add some weight to the pregnant, swollen air of fear, dread and anxiety.
Those that passed however, got double rations and a extra one hour of shut eye.
From the inside of the tank, they could see out through the small, narrow gun slits, and yet again Griffin quite admired the engineering, as well as the raw psychological terror it inflicted. You had to. This thing was a beast. The only intact tank remaining from H-Day, this one managed a bare dozen paces out of the surf before the crude gearbox failed. It kept firing however, until those inside ran out of flamethrower fuel and bullets.
It had a crew of ten. The effect those tanks had on the inexperienced Third Army could not understated. The noise, the sheer cacophony of sounds, the deadly, Devil’s-own flamethrower, the four Maxim-clone machine guns, assisted by another half-dozen Inka Marines shooting out from the myriad gun slits, with that unbelievable four inches of sloping forward plate armour, these things were a Viking bastard to kill. Even with Betty, and armour-piercing loadouts, he still had trouble penetrating the thing straight on.
Griffin had insisted at least one remaining Inka tank be used as training, not to be dissected and studied. General Marietta agreed, and so after a few weeks of evil thoughts down at the Rusty Axe, Gunnery Sergeant Griffin Huey developed his own tank training battleground, to help tame those fears.
"Ready?" he shouted. The others dipped their heads. "Right." Another grin. He took out the silver whistle, also taken from a dead Inka squad leader, and blew it three times. The tank’s only forward gear engaged, and the tank moved towards the target building, one-hundred and sixty yards away.
The defender’s objective was simple. Prevent the tank from reaching flamethrower range of the bunker, by making it to the rear of the tank, and removing
the green flag sticking out. Out of the eight companies today, none yet claimed the green flag.
Belching fire and smoke, the upturned bathtub trundled towards the bunker. Dotted around them, here and there, the broken shells of other Inquisition tanks, smashed sections of ship hulls, and other bits of detritus, the only cover within a quarter mile all around. The tank reached its top speed, a blistering 3 or 4mph, the noise inside the contraption incredible.
Griffin smiled at Mick, sitting right in the flamethrower’s position and the Australian began pumping furiously the large black canister to his right. "They’re gonna love us after today mate," said Mick, wiping his brow.
"Damn huh. Don’t give a shit ‘bout that," said Griffin. "I just want those damn bastards to live. Alright ladies and gentlemen, here we go, and look, this time they’re actually following the fucking advice I gave them."
Ahead, the eighth company split into three. Divided into three squads of ten, they began their attack, moving into cover. Griffin gave a short blast of the whistle. Three pounds of carefully shaped explosive detonated in front of those seeking cover behind the left tank wreckage, detonated by General Marietta's observers. The squad running up to that tank utterly shit themselves and dove deep down into the grass. The second squad remained directly in front, Griffin knew from the smoke grenades they’d thrown. The third began to flank them on the right, and Griffin gave another short whistle. A second explosion, this one more smoke than fury, made a rather satisfying bang, sending showers of sparks up into the air. Into the flattened first flanking squad, Griffin fired burst after burst of red dye-balls from a modified Lancaster .303 machine gun, their powder cartridges dialled back, the ‘bullets’ wads of dye-soaked wax balls.
A line of red bloomed across their backs.
Around him, the twang of crossbow bolts, the blows from the already blunted and force-reduced crossbows still enough to give you a nasty bruise. A big splash of red paint on you however, and you're out. Dye splattered soldiers laid in the grass, out of the game. Mick laughed grimly, shaking his head.