The morning was slightly hazy, thin wisps of mist drifting across the Mississippi. He flew steadily forward for the first mile, watching his gauges, letting airspeed build up to sixty knots, then turned out of the wind. The other planes, which had been circling in their holding pattern to the starboard of the Shiloh at an altitude of a thousand feet, were waiting for him.
He wondered what they were thinking, how many were cursing him, how many thought him mad, how many might actually believe in what they were trying to do.
He wagged his wings, signaling for the group to follow, and all but one fell into line, flying in formation abreast, heading back up the river.
Several miles astern of Shiloh was Wilderness, and a mile behind her the third aerosteamer carrier Perryville. Wilderness had recovered all the planes from her practice, the deck was packed with them and Adam had a cold thought, wondering what would happen if a Kazan aerosteamer should ever catch them thus, planes loaded with benzene lining the deck. The last of the Perryville’s planes were coming in, and to his dismay he saw a burning slick on the water behind her, bits of wreckage floating. Someone had gone in. The light frigate tailing the group had come to a stop, sending a rescue boat over the side, but it was hard to tell if they had managed to pull anyone out.
The practice target for the day was clearly marked along the east shore of the river. It was the hulk of an old ironclad monitor from the last war, anchored in place. The once proud ship had been stripped of her two guns. Observers from the Design Board, who had been dropped off from the escorting frigate to observe the strike, lined the bank. Someone, not trusting the eyesight of the pilots, had splashed red paint on the side of the ship and hung a red flag from atop the rusted turret. Muddy splashes ringed the ship, and to his delight he could see where a barrel of sand had exploded directly atop the turret. Whoever had scored that one deserved a bottle of vodka once they reached Constantine.
The Falcons were practicing bombing today, but the board was still debating if the several hundred pounds might not be better spent on additional ammunition for their gunner in order to provide covering fire for the far more lethal load carried by the Goliaths.
Adam, leading the way, circled in over the monitor, holding at a thousand feet. He looked over at Captain Sugami, leader of the 1st Squadron, who was flying a Falcon just off his wingtip, pointed down, and saluted.
‘Sugami, grinning, saluted back, and led the way, nosing over, cutting into a broad circling turn to bring his unit around to the north for a run down on their target straight into the wind.
Adam realized that in a way the entire exercise was ridiculous. The target, anchored fore and aft, was stationary, no one was shooting back, there was no smoke, and most of all there was no fear, other than the usual knot in the stomach one had when flying a crate loaded with explosives.
The first squadron turned into their attack position, as discussed, three miles out from the target, flying line astern, Falcons first, followed by the Goliaths.
Sugami, in the lead plane, landed his barrel of sand almost square on the monitor’s turret. The next three planes did nearly as well, but the last two were abysmal, one missing by a good hundred yards, the other crabbing at the last second. His barrel hit fifty yards off the ship’s bow.
The four Goliaths followed with mixed results. One slammed his barrel directly across the bow of the ship. The other two hit within a couple of yards. The last was either a fool or his release mechanism was jammed, for the barrel didn’t fall until he was a good quarter mile beyond the target.
Adam motioned for the second squadron to go down while he continued to circle. The results were roughly the same, perhaps a little bit better, with two Goliaths making hits this time.
No maneuvering, no shooting, no smoke, he kept thinking throughout. His heart was beginning to pound. What would the real moment actually feel like?
Finally he was alone, the rest of his planes heading back to the Shiloh. He swung out over the target, skimming along the shore, looking down at the several dozen men and women from the design team.
As he nosed over, picking up speed rapidly, he could feel the five-hundred-pound weight of the weapon slung beneath his cockpit pulling the Goliath down. He leveled out a bit too early, eased down another fifty feet, and went into his banking turn. Coming out of the turn, he lined up on the ironclad.
From three miles out it looked absurdly small, almost difficult to spot except for the red paint and flag. He closed in, wondering what the range was for the Kazan guns, how much fire would be coming at him, what was their tactical deployment, whether they had armed escort ships ringing the targets.
Range was less than a mile. He dropped lower, down to fifty feet, eased back on the throttle, bringing airspeed down to fifty knots. A hint of turbulence buffeted a wing up, and he steadied it out. There seemed to be a slight surge with the engine, but he ignored it. Range was a half mile, and now the ironclad was looking bigger, but the real thing would be far bigger, a dozen times bigger, and shooting at him.
He leaned into the sight, nothing more than a piece of pipe with a crosshair set inside. He aimed straight amidships today, since the target wasn’t moving. When its real aim half a ship’s length ahead of the bow, a few seconds more…he pulled the release.
The Goliath surged up like a bird of prey that had just dropped a burden that had proven too heavy. He gave the plane full throttle, then banked over sharply, circling around, remembering to stay well clear of the monitor. Turning out and away, he caught sight of a foaming wake.
The damn thing was working! It was under its own power, cutting through the water, exhaust from the compressed air spinning the propeller!
He thought he actually caught a glimpse of the underwater, self-propelled mine moving through the water at fifteen knots. This time it was tracking straight in, closing on the side of the monitor.
And nothing happened.
A second later he caught a glimpse of it again…on the other side of the ship! It had gone right under the target.
Cursing, he winged over, following it. The underwater shell continued on its way, going another two hundred yards until finally its compressed air tank lost pressure. The weapon slowed, came to a stop…and finally there was a violent explosion. Water cascaded a hundred feet into the air as it struck the bottom of the river.
“Damn it all to hell.”
It had tracked too deep. Maybe the monitor didn’t draw enough water, but still, he knew how this would affect his men. They’figured the whole thing was a suicidal gesture anyhow. The fact that this, the fourth test, had been a failure as well wasn’t going to help.
Dejected, he turned south, heading back toward the Shiloh. Suddenly there was a flash of fire. Even from six miles away he knew what had happened as he caught a glimpse of flame spreading out astern of the carrier. Someone had crashed and most likely died on landing.
And this is how we are supposed to stop the Kazan? he thought grimly.
Andrew hesitated before knocking on the door, and the mere fact that he did shocked him. The city was quiet this time of night, just after midnight, when he often enjoyed going for a walk. Ditching the guards was an old routine, and they went through the show of expressing their dismay when he returned. He suspected that as usual a couple of them were following at a discreet distance under orders from Kathleen.