Then a shot hit the rudder, another shattered the propeller of the already faltering starboard outboard engine, and he could feel the plane mushing into a yaw that would spin out of control. The only thing left was to yank back the stick and try to lob the bombs into the bow, and he had missed.
How he had got them out was still a mystery. There was little return fire on the way back out and he half wondered if the Kazan had fired off far too much ammunition and were ordered not to waste it on cripples that were obviously dying.
Well, this, cripple he planned to bring in. Swinging out wide to avoid most of the frigates, he had finally turned in toward shore. Only then had Igor slipped back down from the gunner’s position, looked at him, and without a word collapsed into the copilot’s chair. Richard instantly realized that the man had remained silent about his wound, not wanting to distract Richard from flying them out.
As for the rest of the crew, he knew Octavian was dead and there was not a word from the Cartha up forward ever since takeoff. Chances were the blast from the exploding Goliath had killed him.
The shore was directly ahead, less than half a mile; the city off to his right, the second airfield, the closer of the two, just a mile back from the beach.
The port outboard engine finally seized and quit, jerking to a stop with such violence that he could feel the shudder run through the entire ship.
That was it. The hydrogen bags had been shot apart, there was no lift left.
The plane began to slip, heading down the last few feet. Cursing, he pulled the stick back, trying to beg just a couple more seconds of flight to put them in on the beach.
The wheels hit the water, snagged, and the massive aerosteamer went in nose first, what was left of the forward windscreen shattering as the ocean swept in.
Unbuckling, he reached over to Igor, unsnapping his harness.
“Come on. You’ve got to help me!” Richard cried.
Holding on to Igor, he kicked his way up through the topside gunner’s hatch and out into the open, somehow managing to hang on to Igor. The airship wasn’t sinking and, for a moment, he was confused. He pulled Igor up and lowered him over the side, then dropped into the water, feet hitting the bottom. He lost Igor for a second then came back up, a wave knocking him over, the aerosteamer surging up and then ever so slowly flipping over onto its back, steam hissing as the water hit the hot engines.
Afraid of getting tangled in the rigging, he let the surf take him, going under, then coming back up again. He caught a glimpse of Igor, floating facedown and swam over to him, pulling his head up out of the water.
“It’s only a few feet more. Hang on!”
He stood up, dragging his companion, another wave knocked him down, but he held on to Igor, letting the surf rush them in to shore.
He felt hands around his waist and saw that half a dozen men were around them.
Their strength was a welcome relief, and he let them carry him the last few yards to safety.
They laid him down on the rocky beach, one of the men holding a bottle, which he gladly took, the rich Greek wine warm and soothing.
They were all talking at once, pointing to the ocean. Not a word they said understandable.
“Igor?” he asked.
They stepped back and saw his companion lying several feet away, arms wide. A Greek woman was kneeling beside the body, already closing the eyes, then making the sign of the cross.
Richard turned his gaze away, looking back out to the sea. The row of battleships were coming straight in. Already some of the frigates were but a mile off shore, opening fire on the city.
We’ve lost, he realized. Everyone dead, and they are here. Hazin is here. I tried to stop him, and it was all useless, bloody useless.
He closed his eyes and, tilting the wine sack up, he drained it.
The wind slashed the length of the deck, the flag of the Republic and the red launch flag standing straight out.
Adam tensed, watching as the last of the Falcons started its roll. The deck beneath them was surging up and down, one second pointing down at the ocean, seconds later pointing up at the late afternoon sky; the red sun almost directly ahead.
The Falcon lifted as the carrier rode up on the crest of a wave, then dropped out from under the aerosteamer.
The launch chief turned, faced Adam, and held his red flag overhead, then twirled it in a circle. Adam rewed up his engines. The chief pointed forward. Adam pushed the throttles the rest of the way. His Goliath, the first in line, started forward.
He carefully watched as the right wing passed within a couple of feet of the bridge. He saw Petronius standing on the open bridge. To his amazement the admiral offered a salute, Theodor by his side, waving.
Adam snapped a salute back, then focused all attention forward, watching the deck surge up and down, speed of his roll out slowing as it pitched up, accelerating as it went down.
His grip on the stick tightened. Even with the wind it was going to be tight. There was no copilot beside him, no top gunner, every pound of weight stripped out except for fuel and what was slung underneath.
Another roll up, then starting down. He tentatively tried backing the stick, hoping to lift as the deck dropped, but he didn’t have enough speed.
The deck continued to pitch down, his own speed picking up, and he rolled right off the end of the ship, heading down toward the foaming sea. Easing back on the stick he leveled out, ever so slowly climbing up to a hundred feet and then leveling off again, heading due west. Overhead the Falcons had formed up, circling around to come in above him. He looked back over his shoulder and caught a glimpse of the next Goliath, throttles full out, coming up to fall in on his left wing.
A half mile off was the second formation from Wilderness, and beyond them the flight from Perryville. Looking to starboard, he could see Malvern Hill, valiantly struggling to come up and join the three aerosteamer carriers, which had leapt ahead to gain position. Two more frigates had fallen in with the group during its dash southward to the edge of the Minoan Shoals, and they were now screening ahead of the main ships, yards bare, running on engines alone into the westerly wind.
Thirty miles to the Three Sisters, then a slow arcing turn out to the northwest, and then finally back in low, and out of the west toward Constantine. Two and a half hours of flying time, then an hour back to the carriers, which would run straight in toward Constantine for the pickup.
Fortunately, the lead pilot of the Falcons was a wizard at navigation. All Adam had to do was fly, and then go straight in on the emperor’s ship if he could find it.
“Hazin!”
A Shiv lookout, up on the forward deck, was pointing off to the North. They were far off, on the other side of the shoals, hardly visible in the mist kicked up by the waves driving into the rocks a mile away.
The dots bobbed and weaved, rising and falling in his vision, and he turned away, shaking.
Was it truly a foretelling? Or fantasy, a dream vision of the future that had taken him to this time and place long years ago? Or was it merely his imagination telling him it was so?
He saw O’Donald down on the deck, attention still focused on the other horizon. The first of the transports was just coming into view, the fifty ships holding the umens of the Shiv.
Hazin could see, too, see him as in the dream, and it fascinated him. Am I the master of my fate, he wondered. Or has fate cast me into this moment, this role that would change everything.
The gun in the number one turret began to lift up, steam hissing from the exhaust line. The massive thirty-foot-long barrel stopped, and Yasim half turned, covering his ears. There was a blinding flash of light, barrel recoiling, water going flat from the shock wave.