by Eric Flint
"You know, Emil," he chuckled. "I always did like being in an airshow. Remind me to smile when we get to Paris." He looked into his mirror and caught the usually stolid German smothering a guffaw.
"Jawohl, Herr Adler, mein hero!" Emil said with a mock salute.
Jesse returned the salute in the mirror. "Okay, meine Schatzie, let's see if we can now land without hitting a cow or a goat."
The landing was uneventful and Jesse taxied over to the small shed where his two ground crewmen had spent the past four days. The crowd, still cheering madly, was surging behind the line of now dismounted troopers. Jesse smiled and waved, until Sergeant Sauer climbed up to help him unstrap.
"Good morning, Sergeant," Jesse said through a frozen grin. "Let me guess—your relatives have arrived?"
"No, mein... No, sir!" the NCO said. "Henni there." He pointed to a young airman now scuttling towards the shed after setting the chocks. "He went into the village last night and had too much to drink. The dummkopf told everyone at the stammtisch he is the pilot, waiting for his flugzeuge. This morning, I see this." The sergeant waved his arm helplessly at the assembled multitude. "Most have never seen an aircraft before. They want to see him fly." His expression was so woebegone that Jesse's false smile slowly thawed into the real thing.
"Well, at least the French don't know we're coming," he said slowly. "Tell me, Sergeant, do we still have the fuel or did Henni use it for a bonfire last night? You know, just to impress the girls?"
"Oh, no, sir. I mean, yes, sir! We have the fuel ready for you."
"Well, zehr gut, Sergeant. Very good, indeed," Jesse raised his hand. "Now, how about helping me out of here?"
Thirty minutes later, they were ready to depart. Jesse had reluctantly found himself explaining to disappointed townsfolk that Airman Henni only flew on special occasions, which their current mission surely wasn't. His little chore in diplomacy wasn't helped by grinning Swedes, who knew better. He wound up promising that Henni, who was most assuredly one of their finest pilots, would give a flying demonstration tomorrow, after their return. Jesse didn't know who was more upset at the prospect—Henni, who saw the hole he was in getting deeper and deeper, or Emil, who was genuinely outraged at the airman's effrontery.
An additional fifteen minutes later, they were once again at eight thousand feet, headed slightly more south of west, into unknown territory. Into France.
* * *
The flight to Paris would be a long one, almost at the limit of the Gustav's range. However, through long practice Jesse was quite accustomed to dead reckoning and the challenges of navigating by map, clock, and compass. With Emil on the controls, cruising through a still cloudless sky, he had little to do but contemplate his mission, mulling their plan of attack over in his mind. The steady droning of the engine lulled him into a moody state of mind and he felt no desire for conversation.
I wish Hans was here, Jesse thought. Since Hans' death he'd tried to not get any closer to his young charges than necessary and sometimes he worried that he lacked a real feeling for their abilities. His criticisms had become harsher and light moments such as he and Emil had shared only an hour ago were increasingly rare. I may have to send 'em to die, but I won't, I can't, have my guts ripped out, again.
His choice of Lieutenant Castner for this flight was, in a way, typical of his new temperament. Emil was nothing like Hans Richter, who had taken a joyous pleasure in flying. Where Hans had done things with flair, Emil was methodical, almost mechanical. And where Hans had liked to talk, Castner rarely spoke, except when directly addressed. As a result, the normally garrulous Jesse knew next to nothing about the lieutenant, except that he did his job reliably.
And that should be enough, Jesse thought sternly. He's a weapon of war, as much as this aircraft. And no more. The last thing I want on this mission is someone questioning my decisions.
Jesse recalled the last conversation he'd had with Prime Minister Mike Stearns about the mission. Stearns had voiced his reservations, though he didn't go so far as to actually forbid the flight.
"Are you completely sure about this, Jesse?" Stearns had asked. "From what you've told me it's an awfully long way, in a new aircraft. And I'm still not convinced we'll get the results we want, even if you succeed. Far too much can go wrong."
Jesse had stifled his annoyance, an increasingly frequent emotion he felt when dealing with Stearns. Ever since Wismar, he'd become more and more irritated at any expression of caution, no matter the source. He knew the prime minister had more sources of information than he had. He knew Stearns had other considerations, other than striking the enemy whenever and wherever, no matter how deadly they knew that enemy was. Jesse knew those things, intellectually, but didn't—couldn't—agree with them emotionally. Not since Wismar. So his answer had been much less guarded than he might have wished.
"Sir! Mr. Pres—ah, I mean Prime Minister, if I could load three Gustavs with these new incendiaries, I swear, with only two days of good weather, we could burn most of Paris to the ground. Okay, so I can't do that—yet. So the good people of Paris get a pass, while the people of Amsterdam starve and die of plague, while armies chop each other to pieces, and our own people die needlessly!" Jesse caught himself. "Prime Minister, I've got one ready aircraft and I can make a good start. At the very least, removing Richelieu..."
"Jess, Jess," Stearns had interrupted. "I said you can go, even if I have reservations. As far as Richelieu goes, you know my doubts. Come on, Jesse." Stearns had spoken softly and reached over to grip Colonel Wood's shoulder for emphasis. "You can go with the limited objectives we've agreed upon. Understood?"
"Yes, sir," Jesse had replied stiffly, fighting an urge to shake the hand off his shoulder, to reject the familiarity. It was another thing that had begun bothering him recently. He had not been close to Mike Stearns before the Ring of Fire and really hadn't grown all that much closer since. He couldn't help it, he'd always disliked the sense of being manipulated he felt around politicians and he knew Stearns had become a politician of the first order. He couldn't tell if Stearns' friendship was sincere and that bothered him more than anything else. Since Wismar, he'd felt closed off, with no one to share his most private doubts and fears. Stearns' old crony, General Frank Jackson, was no help and Admiral Simpson, who was at least a military professional, was out of touch. Not even Kathy... he'd choked off that line of thought and fallen back on a lifetime of military correctness. "I will inform you when the weather is right for the mission. If I may be excused, Prime Minister" He'd left at Stearns' nod.
* * *
"Fuck it!" Jesse shook himself back to the present.
"What was that, sir?" Emil asked from behind him.
I must have yelled that.
"Nothing, Emil. Nothing."
Jesse spent the next several minutes checking their progress, grateful for the relatively simple task. Nevertheless, another part of his mind had kept processing his previous line of thought. First, they'd hit the attention-getting targets and then go for the main prize. They had good intelligence and a known location for Richelieu. There would be no opposition, of course, not even ground fire. Fifteen minutes over the city and they'd be headed home. In his gut, Jesse knew it would work. A sudden burst of fury came unbidden to him. Richelieu, I'm coming to get you, you son of a bitch!
* * *
Jesse had been on the controls for only about fifteen minutes when he first noticed it. Ahead of them, stretching out of sight from side to side was a small weather front. There was no reason for it to be there, but there it was, just the same. It wasn't much to be concerned about, if one was on the ground. Some bending, some slight fold of conflicting wind currents, had created a weak low pressure system, against which warm air from the south had pushed. Strictly a local phenomenon, it would not have been noticed in either London or Amsterdam, or anywhere else within reporting distance of Grantville. An hour earlier, or perhaps two hours later and it would have been of no consequence to them. But it and they we
re here now, and it stood between them and Paris. Between them and Richelieu.
Jesse tapped his index finger on the throttle, thinking it over. The line of cumulous clouds ahead was just below them, just beginning to build. During his lifetime, he'd cruised over such ripples a thousand times, barely noticing them. But that had been back when he was flying jets, or turboprops, and had looked down from Olympian heights in pressurized comfort. Today, he was flying in a Gustav, a relatively primitive aircraft, flying with a jury-rigged automobile engine, carrying a heavy load. He knew from the tests that the aircraft could go much higher than their present altitude of eight thousand feet. He also knew that there was no telling how high those puffies out there would reach before he was past them. They might grow into behemoths topping twenty thousand feet or they might not grow any farther than ten thousand feet or so. The weather line wasn't even continuous; the cells were still separate, though that would change as they grew. Still, the smart thing to do, the prudent thing, would be to turn around and wait for tomorrow. Just turn around and go have a beer and a schnitzel with Sergeant Sauer and Henni.
Instead, Jesse pushed the throttle up and began to climb. Tomorrow might see the onset of normal weather patterns, with winds from the north and west and no chance to get to Paris. Behind him was—behind him. Ahead of him was Richelieu.
"Pilot, copilot," Emil sought his attention.
Jesse knew Emil was asking to be filled in, as was completely correct.
Keep him thinking about how, instead of why, Jesse thought.
"Emil, we're going to climb over that weather ahead of us," Jesse said in a matter-of-fact voice and switching to his instructor mode. "Can you tell me the difference between our best-rate-of-climb and our best-angle-of-climb?"
As his copilot recited the technical answer, Jesse trimmed up the aircraft at the best-climb-rate airspeed and watched the line of blossoming clouds now only a few miles ahead. It was too early to tell how fast the clouds were growing, but he could see the tops bulging, expanding, reaching higher and wider. Somewhere under those clouds, a heat source was pushing them up.
Jesse shook his head in disgust.
He aimed at a gap between two baby storms, just beginning to grow and merge. The altimeter passed ten thousand feet and he switched on the supercharger and retrimmed. They were still climbing steadily. As Emil finished his answer, Jesse asked another question.
"Okay, Emil, now tell me about hypoxia. At what altitude do we need to worry about it? Do you know your personal symptoms?" Jesse knew they had some thousands of feet to go before oxygen deprivation would be a problem, but it made sense to prepare.
Emil responded, "Yes, sir. Hypoxia is possible at altitudes above ten thousand feet and the effects depend upon the length of exposure to the thinner air. My personal symptoms include tingling fingertips, blurring of vision, flushed skin and a burning sensation on my face. Other possible symptoms include..."
Letting Emil drone on, Jesse looked left and right, trying to gauge the danger. Portions of the weather line, separate, stronger cells, were already topping their altitude on either side, swelling rapidly. The two storms directly ahead were growing faster now, though still lower than the rest. And getting closer. The aircraft's altitude was now passing thirteen thousand feet, but their rate of climb was slowing. Jesse raised the nose further and trimmed up to best angle of climb. Emil was silent, now. No doubt he was staring outside. If he had any sense, Jesse thought, he'd be praying.
They were over the edge of the merging clouds, now, climbing up the front of a white mountain of vapor and passing 14,200 feet, hanging on the prop. Jesse's eyes flicked to the engine and oil temp gauges and he grimaced at the readings. If the engine quit now, Jesse and Emil were dead.
Climbing slower now, and the clouds ahead were just above them. They were above their tested service ceiling, but that didn't matter. They must be getting some push from the updraft. Silently, Jesse willed the plane to keep climbing.
Jesse idly noted that his breathing was too rapid. He'd been hyperventilating, but couldn't stop it. They were starting to bounce around, affected by the upper reaches of the storms closing around them. Emil was saying something, but Jesse couldn't understand the words because his ears were ringing. He rubbed his numb face and felt dizzy. Wisps of cloud were passing over them, topping them and he noticed the airspeed was dangerously close to stall, but he suddenly couldn't remember what that meant.
"Hans would know," he mused softly to himself. "Wish old Hans was here."
Jesse, lower the nose.
"What?" Jesse asked muzzily. "Hans? Is that you?"
Yes, Jesse, it's me, Hans. Lower the nose, Jesse.
"Hans!" Jesse yelled happily. "God, it's good to hear you, son! Where are you?"
I'm here, Jesse. I'm here. Now, lower the nose, Jesse.
"But the clouds, Hans..."
Don't worry about the clouds, Jesse. You're between the cells. Lower the nose now, Jesse. Not too much. Maybe five degrees. Do it, Jesse.
"Okay, Hans," Jesse said dreamily. He released a bit of back pressure. "How's that?"
That's good, Jesse. That's good. Now keep it there.
Jesse vaguely noticed that the aircraft was surrounded, completely immersed in cloud. The blue sky above had disappeared. Daylight faded into gray dimness. The bouncing and jostling got worse, but Jesse couldn't bring himself to care.
"Where ya been, Hans?" he asked. "I've missed you a lot."
I know, Jesse. Watch your ball. Wings level, now.
"Gotcha, Hans," Jesse said. "Jus' like ol' times, huh?"
Yes, just like old times, Jesse.
With surprising quickness, the aircraft burst from cloud into brilliant sunshine. Jesse squinted and turned his head away from the light.
You've got to descend now, Jesse.
"Yeah," Jesse replied and lowered the nose.
Pull off some power, Jesse.
"Okay, Hans. Where you been? I've missed you. Sharon will be so happy..."
I know, Jesse. I've been around. How are you feeling?
"Pretty good, Hans," Jesse smiled. "Back hurts some, but otherwise, just fine. Damn, it's good to talk to you, again."
Same here, Jesse. But I have to go now. Do you understand?
"Oh, sure, Hans. Sure," Jesse said. He shook his head and took a deep, contented breath. Awareness burst into his head and he heard Emil over the intercom.
"...was magnificent, Herr Oberst!" Emil said excitedly. "I confess, I was a bit concerned for a few minutes. The other pilots told me about it—how calm you are when things become really difficult. But to hear you continue instructing while flying through those storms, as if we were merely practicing landings! Simply wonderful, sir!"
Jesse responded carefully. "Yes. Thank you, Emil." Slowly taking stock of their situation, he saw a large, distinct smudge in the distance. Smoke from a city rose high into the otherwise pristine sky and flattened into the typical anvil shape where it hit a temperature inversion. It was Paris.
Jesse waggled the rudders. "Take over for a minute, Emil. Level off at eight thousand."
Emil shook the stick in eager response. "Copilot's aircraft."
Jesse lowered his head and rubbed both palms against his wet eyes.
Goodbye, Hans, he thought.
* * *
Within minutes, they were approaching the outskirts of Paris. Although it was a huge city for the period, Jesse nonetheless thought of it as shrunken from the city he had visited several times, many years ago up-time. Luckily, the route of the Seine hadn't changed and they followed it towards the city center.
Jesse heard Emil say something over the intercom, but couldn't understand him. Pinching his nostrils between his thumb and finger, he blew hard, in the classic valsalva move. Both ears popped, thunderously, and he could hear again.
"Say again, copilot?" he asked.
"Are you all right, sir?" Emil asked. "Do you want the controls?"
"Yes, yes, give me the aircraft,"
Jesse said, though he still felt a bit disoriented, a little woozy.
Emil pumped the rudder pedals and Jesse shook the stick. The air was a bit hazy from smoke, and Jesse had difficulty finding landmarks. He decided to descend to three thousand for a better look. From there, they could easily see faces, whole crowds of them, turned upward, many pointing, drawn by the sound of their engine and shiny wings. Jesse almost slid his canopy back to wave and thought better of it. He did waggle the wings, a bit, in the age old signal, "Hello," before remembering their purpose there.
Well, I always did enjoy being in an airshow, he thought. Time to get to work.
The river turned to the northwest and he followed it, finally recognizing the big, sweeping hook in the city center. Suddenly, he had his orientation, spotting the huge edifice of Notre Dame on its island, with the royal palace, the Louvre, just beyond it. He circled again, much lower this time, looking for the Sorbonne and its supposedly distinctive church dome, but couldn't find it. There seemed to be a hundred church domes in the city.
A thought struck him. "Shit, is it the Left Bank from upstream or downstream?"
"Sir?"
Jesse realized he'd been squeezing the stick and the intercom button in a death grip and loosened his hand. "Nothing, copilot. Stand by for Pre-Attack Checklist."
Jesse figured it must be from upstream, but still couldn't find the Sorbonne. He did, however, spot a juicier target: the Bastille, only recently put in use as a prison by Cardinal Richelieu.
Screw the Sorbonne, that's our first target, he thought. Now that he had placed it, the prison's eighty-foot walls and moat stood out like a thumb. Best of all, a large street led straight from the Bastille to the Louvre. And Richelieu's palace was just across the street from the royal palace. He began to climb.
* * *
Cardinal Richelieu heard the shouting through the large windows of his private study. The windows faced the Louvre and overlooked a spacious garden where, a moment earlier, two dozen ladies and their escorts had been playing some silly game. It was their shouts that brought the clergyman to the large balcony above the garden, where he was shortly joined by one of his secretaries. Richelieu's eyes were turned skyward.