His voice trailed off and he looked away for a moment.
“By Kesus just don’t get yourself killed. You remind me a bit of old Ferguson, you’ve got a great mind and for my penny’s worth I’d have Keane ground you the moment this is over. So just fly careful, will you?”
Adam nodded, realizing that every word Theodor had said was right.
“Thanks.”
“Hell, I needed to say something. I’m about ready to bust, myself, with the damn waiting.”
Adam looked up at the sky; the afternoon sun was tracking westward. Somewhere, off to their starboard, about eighty miles away, all hell must be breaking loose.
In spite of the fear, Yasim felt compelled to watch. It was a remarkable sight, the swarm of dots on the northern horizon growing larger, coming in. The outer ring of ships were positioned correctly, forming a screen between the main battle line and the coast, which was less than ten miles away.
His own aerosteamers were directly above. He tried to count them; twenty at least still survived. A few of the human aerosteamers, slightly smaller and faster it seemed, were mixed in, tracers streaming back and forth. Even as he watched, one of his flipped over, bursting into flames, and started to spiral downward.
The fight was trivial, unimportant. What was important was the attack coming in, the last desperate gasp according to Admiral Ullani.
Milky white puffs of smoke were igniting in the sky, the outer ring of ships sending up shells from their light guns, tracers streaking into the sky. An airship burst in a silent flash, another exploded seconds later.
They pressed on.
Yasim could not help but feel a touch of pity, of admiration. The attacks, which had been coming in for the last half hour, were completely uncoordinated, three or four planes at a time. The strike by the scout planes had been brilliant, catching them just as they were taking off, breaking up any hope of formation. It was going perfectly, just one more attack to weather and then they would press in to start the bombardment.
The dots were resolving themselves into thin lines, four of them bi-winged aircraft with two engines, and also several smaller, single-engine machines zigzagging back and forth above. And one larger, a four-engine plane almost as big as their own Zhu patrol aircraft.
Now past the outer ring of frigates, they dodged through the inner ring of cruisers, crisscrossing fire dropping one. They were less than a mile off now, leveling out; two sections of two. The four engine machine was joined with a two-engine companion trailing a quarter mile behind the first.
Every gunner forward was ready. He looked down at them, bright shell casings littered the deck from the repulse of the previous attacks.
A command echoed and everyone opened up at nearly the same instant, a staccato thunder, smoke rolling up as twenty gatlings and all the mid-range guns fired; gatlings with tracer rounds, the mid-range guns with explosive shells.
The fire swept out, water spraying up in front of the attacking airships, which continued to press in. Shell bursts blossomed. One of the twin-engine machines disintegrated in a violent explosion. The one behind it flew straight into the expanding ball of fire and debris, then emerged out of the other side, half a wing gone. It rolled up on its side then spun down, cartwheeling into the sea.
It was almost obscenely easy, and he could hear some of his warriors down on the foredeck break into laughter.
The other two banked slightly, swinging out and around the explosion, one of their escorts flying with them. The other two starting to pull up, moving to engage several of his own airships.
The action unfolded before him in a remarkable display of fire and explosions. The range closed rapidly. The two-engine plane started to trail smoke, then simply nosed over and went straight in. The four-engine plane continued to press in. Excited shouts erupted around him, several of his guard moving in closer. He could see flames licking out astern of this last plane. Part of its rudder snapped off, and the plane began to yaw, barely in control, now less than a hundred yards off.
It was a remarkable moment; the huge plane just seemed to hang in the sky, and then it nosed up, four black cylinders detaching. With the release of the weight the plane surged up as it winged over, one engine trailing smoke, tracers stitching through it.
The guards closed in around him, pushing him down on the deck.
He felt two violent jolts in quick succession, and, cursing, stood back up, annoyed by their overzealous efforts.
Two massive columns of water were already cascading down, drenching the deck. One of the single-engine planes appeared to fly right through the spreading mushroom of water, and he watched in disbelief as it flew straight for the bridge. This time he ducked on his own as the plane slammed into the second turret and exploded, hot smoke washing up over him.
He slowly stood up a second time. Bits of burning wreckage were strewn across the top of the turret, burning fuel splashed out into some several of the gatling mounts, when warriors, on fire, writhed in agony. He caught a glimpse of the four-engine machine, trailing smoke, clumsily dodging and weaving to escape, none of his gunners firing for the moment, either stunned by the blasts or the suicidal crash of the fast plane.
Yasim looked around at the officers on the bridge, who were silent.
“They have the spirit of warriors. I hope we have not misjudged this thing.”
The moment the scout plane was in sight, Adam could contain himself no longer. Petronius, bent over a chart showing their position near the eastern end of the Minoan Shoals, gave him a curt nod and said nothing.
Adam stepped out onto the open bridge, joining the signals officer as the single-engine Falcon came spiraling in. A Morse lantern began to flash, the signals officer slowly reading off the message.
“Enemy fleet, seven battleships, fifteen miles south Constantine. While returning observed fires outside city, apparent air battle.”
Petronius, who had stood up from his chart, walked out to join the group and nodded his head.
“We go?” Adam asked excitedly.
“With intelligence, Mr. Rosovich, intelligence, I said.”
“The air corps, sir, the report.”
“That battle is most likely over by now, Rosovich. A battle they were not trained for, I might add.”
Petronius looked over at the sun, nodded his head, and went back to his chart.
Richard, one hand on the controls, reached over to Igor.
“Press it against your chest, damn you!” he cried, “Keep it pressed tight!”
Igor looked at him and actually smiled, frothy bubbles of blood on his lips. He weakly held the bundled up rag Richard was pressing to the hole in the side of his chest.
Igor, his flight overall, the deck, and the gunner’s position behind Richard, were all covered in blood. He had seen thousands die in his youth, but still it never ceased to amaze him just how much blood could pour out of a person before they died.
“Another five minutes, we’ll be down. Ten minutes, they’ll stop the bleeding.”
Igor still smiled. He tried to say something, but couldn’t.
“I need my other hand to fly this,” Richard cried. Letting go of the rag, he slapped his right hand back on the throttles, feeding in more fuel to the inboard engines. The pedals beneath his feet were useless, the cables snapped and the rudder half shot off in the last seconds of his approach.
“I should have just flown this damned crate straight in,” he said. Repeating yet again a litany he had been torturing himself with ever since the bombs had missed.
A few seconds more, just ten seconds, even five and he could have brought them straight into the bridge. He knew it was the emperor’s ship, knew he had seen him. The blast would have taken him, but it would have taken Yasim as well. And where there was Yasim, there was also Hazin.