Anno Dracula 1918 - The Bloody Red Baron (41 page)

The building shook from nearby shell-bursts. Dust sieved down from the ceiling on to the table. Beauregard brushed his shoulders. Winthrop must be with Condor Squadron, in the thick of it.

'We're digging in and fighting back,' Haig announced. 'We'll see some of those blasted black blocks off the map in no time.'

The observation port spread out the landscape like an embroidered quilt. There were no clear lines any more, just waves of ants and flame. It seemed the offensive was a complete success. Wireless messages came in from all along the front. Enemy defences were overwhelmed, targets taken, fortifications breached. The armies of the Vaterland rolled on.

'We shall be in Paris by tomorrow's sunset,' Strasser opined to his commander-in-chief.

Dracula said nothing.

The
Attila
descended gently. As enemy gun positions were taken or destroyed, it became safer for the aerial warship to approach the ground. With each confirmation, Strasser authorised a downward shift. The view through the port enlarged, showing more detail. The crawling ants became men, identifiable as things that fought and suffered and died.

The smell of battle seeped into the gondola. Stalhein was affected. His nose flattened into a snout. Vampire teeth thrust from his gums. The beginnings of a pelt pricked under his tunic. As his ears flared into bat-points, he heard more acutely.

Strasser, a new-born, was plainly alarmed by Stalhein's tentative shape-shift. Stalhein knew the type. Like all dirigible men, Strasser deemed aeroplanes trespassers in the sky. He was discomforted further by the idea of men who grew their own wings. His dream, inherited from the likes of the Graf von Zeppelin and Engineer Robur, was mastery of the world attained by floating serenely in an unassailable gasbag, making doughnut holes in clouds, occasionally deigning to drop a bomb or two. Creatures who buzzed and tussled at lower altitudes were insect nuisances.

All this, Stalhein knew from meeting the kapitan's gaze for a moment. In his changed form, he acquired the ability to read the surface of a man's mind. He had to hold himself in, to prevent his spine swelling. If he were to transform completely, he would burst out of his uniform.

Through the side-ports, Stalhein saw his comrades of JG1. They fell into formation around the
Attila
, an honour guard of demon princes. Fear boiled up from the ground. To the Entente, the coming of the
Attila
and its attendants must be the Day of Judgement. Many would be converted to the cause of Dracula by the magnificence of the spectacle. And many more would become helplessly insane.

They were beyond the trenches now, sailing over territory that had been the enemy's less than an hour ago. The
Attila
kept level with the first wave of trundling tanks. Wherever the shadow of the dirigible fell was Germany's.

A young airman snapped a salute at his superiors and reported the sighting of hostile aircraft. Attention moved from the floor-port to the panoramic nose-window. A great bat-shape hung in front of the Attila. In his rightful place at the head of his formation, Baron von Richthofen held the air like a kite.

The night sky was warmed by ground fires. Stalhein saw the advancing specks that were enemy aircraft. Condor Squadron, the enemy's closest equivalent to JG1. Richthofen would appreciate the chance of a rematch with the men who had killed his brother.

'Now we shall see the invincibility of the airship,' said Engineer Robur, rubbing his hands. 'These English lords are fools to get into a fight with us. The pests will be swatted from the sky.'

Dracula nodded gravely.

'Take us down closer to the battle,' he ordered.

Winthrop's mouth was full of blood and pain. His teeth split his jaw. The vampire in him rose, reddening his field of vision. He tore off goggles and mask, eyes open against the wind. He drank smoky, icy air, swallowing the taste of war. His night vision was perfect. The Ball and Kate voices whispered in his brain, urging him on to the arena.

The
Attila
was monstrously large. Its presence over France was an insult, but Winthrop didn't care about the Zeppelin or its passenger. His sights were on the creature that flew ahead of the airship, the Bloody Red Baron. Tonight, Richthofen would be destroyed.

The battle passed swiftly beneath the observation port. Stalhein saw fire dots as guns were fired at the
Attila
. The picture enlarged so that individual skirmishes could be seen. A tank rumbling through a farmhouse, rising to get over the hump of smashed brickwork. Infantry creeping up on a gun position, stick grenades falling closer to the target.

Dracula stood at the nose of the gondola, hands linked in the small of his back, surveying the scene, unsmiling as Camel fighters swarmed closer, spreading out to speckle the entire panorama of the sky.

The
kapitan
spoke urgently with Robur, who leaned on his sticks and impatiently shook his head. There was a disagreement between the airship men. Strasser, reluctant and concerned, relayed more orders to his crew.

Stalhein's constricting sleeves split at the seams as his forearms swelled with sinew.

The first of the Camels fired. Tiny flashes popped around propellers. They were well out of range but the English liked to get a man's attention before engaging in combat. Stalhein respected that, though he thought it foolish.

Fliers came up from the sides of the Zeppelin and joined Richthofen in the forward position.

There was a loud cracking rip. Airmen looked around. Stalhein's tunic had burst up the back. He shrugged out of the ruin and allowed himself a deep breath. His wings were forming, membranous folds blossoming in his armpits, running along the undersides of his arms.

The
Attila
was ahead of the German advance. The roads below were thronged with retreating British and American troops.

Strasser was briefly engaged in conversation with Reitberg, the master bombardier. Vital gun positions were to be destroyed. Such actions would transform the Entente's retreat into a rout. Reitberg tottered along a walkway to the bomb bay, muttering to himself.

A Camel, ahead of its pack as forlorn hope, swooped at the Zeppelin. Two fliers converged on it from above and below, firing Spandaus. The aeroplane's engine burst in a fireball that scorched Stalhein's eyes. Fliers flapped backwards away from the explosion and the burning machine spiralled towards the ground.

Strasser's men gave a hearty cheer which was frozen by Robur's glower. It did not do for an airshipman to hail the achievements of mere wing-jockeys. Strasser went to Robur again, grabbing his sleeve and insisting.

'We are too low,' Strasser said, 'too close to the ground.'

The engineer shook the kapitan off but could not rid himself of dawning doubts. Robur, another Zeppelin fanatic, knew the limitations of the vessel he had designed.

Dracula half-turned, motioned with his hand. Lower still. Strasser almost protested but it was unthinkable that an order from the Graf be questioned. He stood back, unable to think, so Robur issued instructions, effectively usurping command. Airmen snapped to, pulling levers and wires that released pockets of gas, allowing the Attila to settle nearer the ground. Strasser threw up his hands.

Stalhein stepped forwards, round the observation port. Though only a little taller than in his man-shape, he was transformed into a flying beast, a man-bat. He spread his wings to steady himself.

He stood beside Dracula, watching his comrades engage the Camels in a dog-fight. Several more fighters blew to pieces, raining fiery debris on to the countryside.

Robur settled into his chair by the organ, enjoying his authority. Airshipmen, awed by this legend of their calling, deferred to him. Strasser was cut entirely from the chain of command.

There was a rap at the window. A crack ran through the thick glass. A bullet-lump was lodged close to Dracula's head, tip sparkling silver. The Graf shrugged but Stalhein was close enough to notice the slight shiver of his shoulders. The commander-in-chief interlaced his fingers tighter behind him, quelling shaking hands.

Something was wrong. Dracula was not afraid. Dracula was fear.

Strasser was with them, awaiting the order to take the ship up. It was clearly time to withdraw to frozen heights and observe inevitable victory.

Dracula turned his face to the fire-blotched darkness.

'We go down more,' he said.

Winthrop had expected the
Attila
to begin ascent as soon as Condor Squadron hove into view. Allard had prepared them for an attack on the Zeppelin's belly, warning of the thinning air and gathering cold that would form a ceiling beyond which an airship was safe and an aeroplane was doomed.

Instead the
Attila
hugged close to the crowded ground, bombing retreating troops. It was insane. Something as dangerous as a million gallons of flammable gas should never be allowed this close to a firefight. Dracula, of course, was insane.

Winthrop's Camel climbed on the first pass, breaking formation. Allard's plan, to concentrate fire from below at the engine and fuel supplies, would have to be abandoned.

He passed over the gasbag, wheels almost brushing an acre of stiffened silk. One bomb could destroy the whole leviathan. But the Camel was not a bomber.

Knowing the terrible strain that would be put upon his upper plane, Winthrop angled the Camel nose down and pressed his thumbs on the firing buttons. His Lewis guns strafed the top of the
Attila
, ripping parallel lines of tiny holes in the gasbag. It was about as effective as sticking hatpins into Moby-Dick. Incendiary bullets must strike something solid to explode. The tiny charges spent uselessly in the empty bloat.

Winthrop overshot the
Attila
and ceased fire. He wheeled in the air for another assault. A batwinged thing had been on his tail. Now he faced it. Guns fired. He flew into a swarm of bullets.

Stalhein saw the faces of the Entente soldiers who fired up as bombs burst among them. The gondola rattled with direct hits.

Rifle fire would do little harm. The gondola was armoured and the gasbag big enough to sustain a million fleabite wounds before it was seriously ruptured.

But one explosive shell. One mortar bomb ...

Reitberg, staggering back along the bucking walkway, tripped and fell, clinging to rigging. Blood burst from his collar. A stray bullet had sunk in his neck. The bombardier pitched off the walkway on to the observation port. The glass jarred in its frame but did not break. Trickles of blood ran across the circle, spreading over the scene below.

'We must climb,' Strasser shouted, looking urgently at Dracula, torn apart. The
kapitan
could not question an order, only wait for it to be rescinded. Dracula watched the dog-fight, rigid as a statue. Strasser looked to Robur. The engineer was too delighted to have control of his creation to heed his subordinate's qualms.

Miraculously, Winthrop's engine was not hit. There were whistling holes in his fuselage, but he had come through. The shape-shifter he faced was not the Red Baron, but some smaller Prey-

Winthrop turned the Camel on its side and fired. He sliced past the flier, ripping into his wings with an accurate burst. The creature tumbled in the air, shoulders dislocated as wind caught his wings wrong. Winthrop did not see him recover, so he assumed the German fell.

He flew fast, darting around the huge shape of the
Attila
, and kept losing sight of the battle. For a moment, as he replaced his ammunition drums, he thought he was alone in the air with the Zeppelin. Then he rounded the bulk of the gasbag, and saw Condor Squadron mixing with JG1 in a scramble of flame and wings. Aeroplanes exploded like comets.

A huge flapping fire-shape fell out of the path of a Camel. From the size, Stalhein knew it was Emmelmann. Flames spread across the vast lump of his body and scattered across the canopies of his wings. Strasser gasped as Emmelman loomed close. If he were to plunge into the gasbag, the balloon would be burst.

A Camel zoomed down on Emmelman, who changed course, diving towards ground. The pilot pursuing the flier had unknowingly saved the
Attila
.

'Madness, madness,' Strasser screamed, tottering towards the wall of levers. 'We must climb.'

Dracula looked sideways, eyes flaming.

Hardt, the Graf's man, levelled a pistol and shot the
kapitan
in the leg. Strasser screamed and stumbled, falling forwards, hands outreached.

'We shall keep to our course,' Hardt said. 'We are all brave men, are we not?'

Robur, mind gone, ordered his crew to hold the course. He turned to the keyboard and wrung chords from the pipes.

Strasser curled into a ball. Airmen closed around the kapitan, and helped him up. He was fainting on his feet.

Emmelman hit the ground and exploded.

Something big burst in the trees below. Winthrop climbed, looking around. Just now, he was a monster. But it would take a monster to destroy the Bloody Red Baron.

Though outnumbered, the shape-shifters knocked down more Camels than they sustained casualties.

Brandberg passed. A bat-thing had claws sunk into the tail of his Camel and ripped towards the pilot with tin-opener jaws. The Camel went into a spin, taking the shape-shifter down. Another fire-burst on the ground. One for one.

There was no Archie. The offensive had swept past the lines. They were deep into what had been home ground. Winthrop could not think of the big picture. He had prey to find and kill.

'Gentlemen,' Hardt said, 'you have done your Kaiser a service which will never be forgotten.'

Dracula was turned away. Robur's mad music filled the gondola.

'Our lives will have brought victory.'

A scatter of bullets smashed across the windows. Glass burst inwards with a rush of wind. Stalhein's wings shrugged involuntarily. He was ready to take to the air. Hardt saluted the company.

Winthrop sought Richthofen, slipping through the dog-fight in the shadow of the
Attila
. He swooped upwards and looked down on the battle.