The sound of Abakan’s broadside split the silence with a loud roar. Six rounds blasted into the cotton canopy stretched over the duralumin airframe of Alexandra, penetrating easily and exploding deep within the ship. Not even the Vulcanized gas bags could close a wound from a high explosive shell in that caliber. Alexandra shuddered under the blow, sheets of her envelope fabric torn and set afire, gas bags penetrated and venting their precious helium, shrapnel cutting men down on ladders and lacerating the interior ballonets with a hundred tiny cuts.
“Drop ballast!” Karpov shouted over the action of the guns. “Full retraction on that spy basket. Fire for effect!”
Now both ships seemed to belch white falls of water from the ballast tanks on the undersides, which fell in a grey rain seeding the clouds below. Abakan immediately began to rise, intending to stay well above her adversary, even as the open top gun deck on the Alexandra desperately trained and returned fire with the two 76mm recoilless rifles there. With the spy basket now clear, the second volley from Abakan struck her foe again, and two guns hit that platform, killing every man there and silencing Alexandra’s only reprisal unless she could gain parity in altitude.
But that would not happen. Karpov smiled as he watched the gun duel through his field glasses. There was a moment when the aft 20mm AA gun on the enemy ship was able to rake his central gondola with a burst of fire, but then the big 105mm gun under the bridge scored another direct hit on the brow of the enemy ship.
“That’s the way!” Karpov shouted. “That’s my big bag buster!” He could see that there was now severe damage forward on the Alexandra where the 105 had ruptured at least two main gas bags with that last shot. Even though the elevator controls were desperately trying to get the ship’s nose up, and Alexandra was bleeding more ballast forward, the ship’s tail was much lighter. The airship’s nose tipped downward, and the tail rotated wildly off axis as it careened up, riddled by continuing gunfire.
They put fifteen holes in the outer canvas in the first three minutes. Smoke bled from the nose of the ship, and her big tail fins seemed to jut obscenely up, the rudder moving to try and control the airship’s wild turn. Then one of Abakan’s 76mm guns put a round right into the aft port engine near the tail, and it exploded in angry red and yellow fire. Karpov clenched his fist when he saw the propeller blown clean away, still spinning wildly as it plummeted down and away from the ship.
The spy pod was finally hauled up, and Karpov smiled to himself. A pity I didn’t just put Symenko in there so he could see what I did to his ship, he thought.
Now he turned his field glasses north to see what was happening with Angara in its engagement with the Oskemen. His ship had the advantage of surprise, but that battle was still raging. That stiff prick, Symenko had talked about, Captain Petrov, was better than he expected. He had been ready on all ballast tanks and he dumped everything at once in a desperate emergency drop to try and rapidly gain altitude. He had his nose up, engines full out, good elevator control, but it wasn’t going to be enough. His ship still had nearly a full contingent of troops aboard, and it was just too sluggish with all that weight. Angara was much lighter, maneuvering in a nimble, fiery dance above the other ship and riddling the enemy’s tail fins and elevators with deadly fire.
Both ships rose up into the grey sky, but Angara maintained the advantage of position, and so Oskemen decided to run. Karpov could see all six engines revving madly to gain power, and he saw the enemy ship level off, no longer trying to gain altitude it could never reach in time.
“That’s right, Petrov, you son-of-a-bitch,” Karpov breathed. “Yes! You run level when outgunned from above. You get your ass out of there.” He could see Angara revving up her engines to pursue, but that ship had risen over a thousand meters above her foe and the gunfire was now less effective. Rounds were reaching the target, but exploding above and beside the enemy ship in bright angry blossoms of fire that became blackened roses of smoke in the sky.
Karpov took one look at the Alexandra, burning forward, belching smoke from her wounded brow, flames devouring the cotton canvass envelope. He knew that ship was finished. We must have ruptured half her gas bags, he thought. They’ve lost all buoyancy and gone critical. That ship is going down.
Alexandra had dropped too much ballast trying to climb, and now he saw men flinging equipment overboard in a desperate attempt to halt their descent, but with a full battalion still aboard the loss of buoyancy had become fatal. They could try to jettison their spy baskets and cargo lifts, thought Karpov, but it will still do them no good.
There came a terrible hissing sound, and Karpov knew that the other ship had opened all their emergency pressurized helium tanks and were pumping it into any gas bags that were still intact. Then he heard another explosion, and saw the side of the ship burst open, revealing the duralumin frame like the bare metal ribs of an animal that had been flayed alive. A man dangled from one of the girders, then fell, a tiny speck vanishing into a cloud below with a fading scream.
“They blew a main gas bag amidships!” said Bogrov. “Tried to pump in too much reserve helium! They’re finished now.”
“All engines ahead full!” Karpov shouted. “Come fifteen points to starboard! Let’s get after the Oskemen!”
He took one last look at the Alexandra, seeing the ship falling like a stricken whale descending into the depths of the sea of clouds. It was a long way down. They were up over 4500 meters, and the ship was now going into an uncontrolled descent, nose down, trailing black smoke as it vanished, swallowed by the cloud deck.
The thrum of Abakan’s engines was a loud roar now as the airship hastened north. Karpov could see that Angara had halted her rapid ascent by venting helium to her reserve tanks and pumping air to the ballonets. Now that airship had leveled off and was also running in pursuit of the Oskemen, about 1500 meters above the enemy ship and an equal measure behind.
“Range to Oskemen?” He looked at his gun director and had an answer soon enough.
“Sir! I make it 5200 meters, and we’re closing.”
“He’s going to dive, Admiral,” said Air Commandant Bogrov. “He’s going to try to get into that cloud deck.”
Yes. Petrov was another sort. He had the nose of Oskemen down, and slipped deftly into the thickening mist. Once masked by the clouds their gunfire would not be able to sight on the target. Damn, thought Karpov. Now we will need to track them on radar. I must get to work with a way to radar control these guns.
“Topaz system! Call out enemy contact by range and bearing.”
“Sir! I have the range at 5000 meters, bearing 290.”
“Gun Master. Fire on those coordinates. We may not hit anything, but we can damn well let them know we are coming. Signal Angara. Tell them to drop a thousand meters elevation.”
They were gaining on the unseen contact, but Karpov knew his fish might easily slip off the line. At this rate Oskemen could run half an hour or more before we might make visual contact to get guns properly trained again. Petrov might even get down below the deck to prevent that unless we come down to look for him. That could be dangerous in this weather… and there is still that third ship to worry about out there. The bastard is good. He’s done everything I would have done and he just might slip away.
The roar of Abakan’s engines was fearfully loud now. The men huddled in their heavy woolen coats, dark Ushankas crowning their heads with the flaps pulled down over their ears, warming them as they muffled the sound. The airship vibrated with the urgency of its labor, and then the engine status board lit up with a bright red light. Bogrov’s eyes flashed as he scanned the board.