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“Speed?” asked the Captain

“Reading now sir. I have it fairly low and slow. About 3500 meters, maybe 80KPH.”

That did not sound good, thought Putchkin. It was much too slow for a plane, and what would a plane be doing out there in any case. No. It was another airship, and any sighting of that sort could mean only one thing, trouble. “Very well, Elevatorman, up bubble 15 degrees and take us to 4000 meters immediately. We have unexpected company. The ship will come to action stations.” He leaned to a voice pipe up to the main body officer’s station. “Mister Suslov, to the bridge. Action stations!”

Then the captain walked through an open hatch to his radio room. “Signal Kansk. We have an unidentified contact to our north at 80 kilometers. Use a chart. Ask if we have any traffic up there I might not know of.” He strode away, unhappy. Cruiser Captains were always the last to know anything—Topaz Men—that was what they were called in the fleet. The dreadnoughts all had that fancy new radar set, the Oko system. What a wonder that was. It could see an airship out to 200 kilometers, smaller planes at 150, and it could track them unerringly, up to 40 separate contacts. A Topaz set could detect, but it would not track accurately. But that reminded him.

“Radioman, also put in a signal to Kansk. Tell them they had better get Sevastopol off the tower and up to 4000 meters.”

It looked like breakfast was over back there, and they had better get the girls down the tower ladder and be quick about it. Trouble at 3500 meters means you get your ass to 4000 meters. They climb, and you clime right with them, always to maintain that minimum 500 meter edge. Stretch it to a thousand for good measure, but he’d wait until they climbed through this leg, and then see what the contact did in response.

Damn, he thought. Haven’t we kicked Volkov hard enough out here? What’s he doing here now, testing our readiness with a single airship out making a probe? What kind of airship? How big would this one be? We kicked his ass roundly the last time we fought. That Karpov is one lethal son-of-a-bitch when he gets to war, and that’s no brag. He’s well west now, some 800 kilometers west at Novosibirsk on the Ob Rover line position. That has to be it—the Ob River line battle. Volkov has been pushing there again, building up men and equipment for the last month. He’s going to mount another offensive there, sure as rain, and so that’s where Karpov is with the dreadnoughts. So in that light, this traffic up north makes sense now, doesn’t it? Somebody is edging in for a look around.

He strode back onto the main bridge, ringing up the radar post in the nose of the ship. “Radar—anything more?”

“Contact still at 3500 meters, range about 70 kilometers now.”

“Very well, keep me informed.”

Five minutes, 10 kilometers off the range. We’re closing on one another at 160KPH combined speed. So that means we might get a visual on this one in under half an hour. Has he seen us? Does Volkov have radar sets too? If he has, he’s not moved a muscle to climb. Cheeky bastard, this one. I’d better get forward to the observation section. Telescope time soon enough, and then after that, the rifles. But I hope to God this isn’t anything big. We’ve got elevation now, but that could change, and Angara isn’t a high climber. Yes, that could change very quickly.

Putchkin sweated out the next 20 minutes, getting that feeling of adrenalin anxiety in his gut. He paced in the observation section, called up to radar every ten minutes, then settled in behind a telescope, waiting. Visibility was good, with just a scattering of white fluffy clouds. Then he saw it, a glint in the sky, right where he expected it beneath a cottony cloud, dead ahead.

That’s an airship alright, and it looks to be a big one. But I’ll lose the damn thing in that cloud if he climbs. “Signalman,” he shouted over his shoulder to the radio room behind him. “Put out a challenge in the clear. Hail that bastard and demand identification.”

“Aye sir.”

He heard the man’s voice reading out the hail, the tension building with each moment. He didn’t expect anything would come back, but was shocked when he heard the crackle of another voice on the radio, inclining his head, one eye on the distant contact.

“Siberian airship, heave too and surrender. Prepare to be boarded. This is Deutschland Luftshiff Fafnir, and you are hereby taken as a prize of war.”

“What? To hell with that!” said Putchkin aloud. “Prize of war? Surrender, is it?” He slapped the telescope hard, stomped back through the radio room to the main gondola bridge, and looked for his first officer, Suslov. The man was leaning down to get a look at the contact from the bottom windows, but he saluted when the Captain came in.

“What in god’s name is this doych land loof shit? Where in god’s name is Fafnir?” Airships were always named for cities. Everybody knew that, but he had never heard of that place. Suslov just scratched his head.

“It looks big, Captain. Perhaps we ought to climb.”

“We’ve got damn near 700 meters elevation on them now, to my eye, and they’re turning, about 9 klicks out. No need to worry yet.” The Captain had a very good eye. His Radarman could not yet give him an accurate range, particularly this close, but his Mark One Eyeball was well experienced. They had turned, so he would turn as well, and maintain this cautious safe gap interval. Even a good 105mm recoilless rifle could only range out seven klicks on a good day like this. If I keep this interval, they can’t lay a finger on me—nor I them.

“Radioman. Tell them this is the airship Angara, Siberian Aerocorps. And then tell them to go to hell. They are violating Free Siberian airspace, and if they do not immediately withdraw, they will be fired upon.”

“Look at that thing,” said Suslov in a low voice. “My God, Captain, It’s a real monster. Big as Tunguska—bigger!”

Putchkin had his field glasses up watching the contact skirt the edge of that cloud. If he climbs in there, then up we go, another 200 meters. We’ve got the ballast to drop, and Angara is very nimble. Yes, they can out climb us in the long run with those big fat airbags under that nice pretty canopy, but in the short run, we’re faster in a climb, and more maneuverable. I can dance up to the top of that cloud, sit there, and when they stick that big snout of theirs through the top, I’ll blast them to hell.

It was a good plan, but he would not get the chance to carry it out. He heard a sharp crack in the distance, and then seconds late the sky near his ship erupted with a dark black rose of an exploding shell. It was just close enough to flay the main gondola with shrapnel, and he instinctively grabbed his balls. Fire from below had a way of making a man very uncomfortable, but the round was perhaps 500 meters short.

Yet it shouldn’t have been that close at all, he thought with some alarm. What’s he got out there, some new 105 with better range? “Five points to starboard,” he said. “That was a little too close. Elevator man, ten degrees up and all ahead full. Take us up through 4500 meters.”

He looked at Suslov now, astounded. “Well don’t just stand there gawking, Mister Suslov, “answer that goddamned round!”

“But sir, we won’t hit them at this range, not even close.”

“Answer it, by god. Use the 105 in the nose!”