By the Blood of Heroes (18 page)

Chapter Twenty-two

STORMS’S HEART

M
ost ordinary German pilots wouldn’t have dared to follow HMS
Victorious
as she climbed into the bank of angry storm clouds to escape the German pursuit craft, but Manfred von Richthofen was anything but ordinary.

For the last few years, he hadn’t even been human.

As the rest of his squadron turned the noses of their planes away from the storm, Richthofen grinned into the face of it and sped after the British airship.

At first it wasn’t bad. The Fokker D.VII he was flying was a highly maneuverable aircraft, and it handled the increased winds without difficulty, chasing after the
Victorious
like a hound on the hunt. The sheer size of the vessel made it easy at first for him to keep it in sight, and he pushed his smaller craft for all it was worth, trying to close the gap between them.

But as the airship continued its steady drive deeper into the clouds, the impact of the storm grew worse. The winds buffeted Richthofen’s craft like the breath of an angry god, tossing the Fokker triplane across the sky with seeming abandon, and it took all his not inconsiderable strength to recover from the wind shear.

The winds weren’t the only problem. The rain gradually changed from a light sprinkle to a steady downpour, until it was heavy enough that water began to accumulate inside the cockpit and interfere with the action of his feet on the pedals. He was forced to periodically roll the aircraft to dump the water out. His clothes were soaked through, but his resurrected body no longer felt such human frailties and he was able to ignore both the wet and the cold.

What he couldn’t ignore was the growing difficulty he was having following the airship. As the storm worked to push them farther apart, the clouds began to obscure his view, hiding the larger craft in their embrace for longer periods of time. Soon he lost sight of the enemy altogether, the black thunderclouds swallowing the ship whole, like Jonah in the whale. Unable to see more than a few feet in front of him, Richthofen was reduced to flying by compass alone. He kept the nose of his plane pointed due east, the direction the airship had been going when he’d first encountered it, and he hoped the pilot of the larger craft did the same.

Lightning flashed, lighting up the clouds, and for a moment he thought he caught a glimpse of the airship ahead of him in the distance, like a behemoth rising from dark seas, there for a flash and then gone again beneath the waves. There wasn’t anything he could do about it though, for he had his hands full just trying to keep his plane under control.

Just when he thought it couldn’t get any worse, the rain turned to sleet and hail, pelting his aircraft with fist-sized chunks of ice, threatening its integrity by tearing through the cloth-covered wings in several places. Ice began to build up on the leading edges of his wings and at that point Richthofen knew he’d pushed things far enough. With his quarry lost from sight and the storm threatening to knock him out of the sky, he chose prudence over pursuit and concentrated on breaking free of the storm.

But the storm had other ideas.

Once it had his tiny aircraft in its grasp, it didn’t want to let go. It pushed and pulled him across the sky, preventing him from making any discernible headway toward finding the edge of the storm. Thinking the winds might be reduced at a lower altitude, he pointed the nose of the plane earthward and tried to find some gentler air below, but after descending several thousand feet, it only seemed as if things had gotten worse. Frustrated, Richthofen turned the nose of his craft skyward again. If he couldn’t get out from under the storm, he decided, he’d just have to climb above it.

By now even his controls were covered with a thin sheet of ice, and it took a sharp rap with his knuckles to break the coating on the face of the altimeter. He watched as the red needle spun around the dial in conjunction with his rapid climb.

Ten thousand feet.

Eleven thousand feet.

Twelve . . .

The Fokker D.VII he was flying had a maximum ceiling of just over nineteen thousand feet and he could feel the thinner air starting to have an impact on the thrust of his engines and the lift beneath the wings, but he kept going, refusing to let the storm beat him.

Thirteen.

Fourteen.

At just over fourteen thousand feet the clouds suddenly fell away beneath him and he found himself in clear blue skies. To his surprise the vast bulk of the British airship loomed only several hundred yards away, its silver skin gleaming in the light of the sun and the blue, white, and red insignia on the tail fin looking like a giant bull’s-eye.

If he’d been a religious man, he would have thought the gods were smiling on him.

He emerged from the cloud bank behind and below the airship, which meant for the next few moments he would effectively be hidden in their blind spot. From his position he had a good view of the engines that jutted from beneath the tail fin of the craft. While he’d never encountered this particular model before, he knew they all operated on the same general principles. Knocking out the main engines would effectively cripple the craft, leaving it unable to do anything more than maneuver against the wind. He’d then have all the time in the world to finish it off at his leisure.

Ever the careful combatant, Richthofen held back for a few minutes, observing the airship’s course and making sure that none of its escort craft had followed it into the storm. When he was certain it was on its own, he opened up the throttle and started his attack run.

The airship was moving at a leisurely pace, the captain obviously believing that the fox had outrun the hounds, and it was literally child’s play for Richthofen to line up the engines in the crosshairs of his guns and pull the trigger.

Tracers arced out across the sky as the twin Spandau guns spit bullets in the direction of the
Victorious
at a rate of four thousand rounds per minute, tearing into the engines and shredding their interior components into useless scrap. The airship visibly lurched as the thrust from the engines was cut off in midstream and great billowing clouds of black smoke began to spill forth.

Richthofen let up on the guns and shot past the twin gondolas hanging from the bottom of the airship, getting a good look inside each one as he did. The stern gondola was empty, but he was able to see the crew in the bow gondola quite clearly and smiled in response to the collective expression of fear he saw on their faces as he swept past. He knew they recognized his aircraft; after all, there was only one Fokker D.VII painted bloodred at a time in Jagdgeschwader I, never mind in the entire Imperial German Army Air Service. The psychological impact of that recognition was why he had ordered all the planes in the Flying Circus painted in such brilliant colors. He wanted the enemy to know that the ace of aces, the Red Baron himself, had them in his sights and it was only a matter of time before they would fall beneath his guns. Their fear would cause them to make mistakes, and he would use those mistakes to his advantage, hastening their demise.

Grinning wickedly in anticipation of what was to come, Richthofen arced away from the British airship, swinging around for another pass.

Chapter Twenty-three

HMS
VICTORIOUS

W
ithout warning, the airship rocked beneath their feet as if struck by a great blow. A couple of the men were thrown to the deck, and Burke would have followed suit if Charlie hadn’t shot out a hand to steady him.

The men were quiet as they climbed to their feet, their expressions strained. It was one thing to face the enemy in the mud and muck of the trenches, where you could see who was shooting at you and even fire back when the opportunity presented itself. Being trapped here, inside the belly of the beast, unable to see or hear what was going on outside the airship, brought its own kind of anxiety.

Unable to say anything to reassure his men, Burke simply gave orders for them to secure themselves. For the next several minutes they all held on tightly as the airship careened this way and that, clearly trying to evade some external enemy that they, locked in the heart of the vessel, couldn’t see. Their inability to know what was happening was maddening to Burke, so much so that he was beginning to wish he was back out on the firing platform as he’d been during the first assault. At least then he’d been able to see Death coming for him and not have to stare at the blank wardroom walls and wonder if he had only minutes left to live.

The ship was struck by another hammer blow, stronger this time, and the thunder of an accompanying explosion reached them from somewhere to the rear of their tiny compartment. Only Burke’s earlier command to secure themselves kept the men from being tossed about like confetti. Rather than righting itself, this time the
Victorious
stayed skewed off center keel and pointed at a downward angle.

Charlie looked over at Burke.

“That can’t be good!” he said.

Burke just nodded his agreement.

Seconds later a siren began to wail, filling the room with its banshee voice, letting anyone who hadn’t already guessed know that they were under attack.

Having been through this once before, the men in the squad knew there wasn’t anything they could do but lie there and hope for the best. As untrained and unfamiliar with the workings of the ship as they were, they knew they would just be in the way if they tried to help, and they accepted the fact that they should remain in the room out of the way.

But for Burke, who had been involved in the last dogfight and hadn’t had to get used to lying on a bunk and praying for the best, the inactivity was intolerable.

“I can’t take this anymore!” he exclaimed. He headed across the room to the control panel beneath the talk box. He was sitting in the operator’s chair, fiddling with the dials and switches.

“What are you doing?” Charlie asked, joining him.

Burke didn’t look up from the control board. “Trying to contact the bridge to find out what the hell is going on out there.” His voice was full of confidence, but the truth was he didn’t have a clue what he was doing. He was just throwing switches with his good hand and hoping to get lucky.

Charlie wasn’t fooled. “Not like that,” he said. “You’re doing it all wrong. Here, get out of the way.”

Burke got up out of the chair and Charlie slipped in behind him, running deft hands over the control panel. Within seconds they could hear everything that was going on inside the forward gondola thanks to the open channel.

It was like listening to a radio show, but one Burke hoped never to hear again.

Men were shouting, some issuing orders, others screaming in pain. Cries of “Doctor! Doctor!” were mixed up with warnings that “He’s coming about again!” whoever “he” might be, and these were interspersed with the blaring of the siren that signaled they were under attack.

For a moment Burke could hear the captain shouting orders to take evasive action, and then everything was drowned beneath a cacophony of machine-gun fire and breaking glass.

In the aftermath of the gunfire, the only sounds that could be heard were the moaning of the wind and the hiss of static over the open line.

Charlie called out over the open mike several times, trying to reach anyone who might still be alive, to no avail.

“Now what?” Williams asked into the silence.

As if in reply, the door to the wardroom flew open, revealing Chief Wilson’s compact form standing in the entrance. He didn’t waste any time with pleasantries.

“We’re going down,” he told them. “I’ve been ordered to get you off this ship before we crash. Grab whatever equipment you can and come with me. Quickly!”

The squad didn’t need to be told twice. Fighting against the tilt of the ship and the downward slope of the floor, they scrambled to grab their gear and follow Burke out the door.

Having expected Wilson to lead them forward toward the main gondola, Burke was surprised when the chief turned aft instead, requiring them to fight against gravity as they headed toward the engine room. Because of the incline they were forced to grab on to the guide ropes and literally pull themselves hand over hand up the treacherously canted walkway. One slip was all it would take to send a man tumbling into the steel structure of the airship’s frame, and getting him out again would be an absolute bitch, so Burke kept a watchful eye on the men as they climbed ahead of him.

Chief Wilson led them up the central catwalk, past the various storage rooms they’d noted on their arrival, and into the cargo bay through which they’d entered the ship earlier that morning. Inside they found several of the ship’s mechanics using crowbars to lever open a group of wooden crates, each one marked with the Military Intelligence Division’s seal.

Burke had no idea what was in the crates, but Graves apparently did. When he saw what they were doing, the professor began to protest furiously.

“No! No! No!” he cried, rushing forward and waving his hands in front of him to emphasize his point. “Those shouldn’t be here! I demand you stop what you are doing right this instant!”

The professor’s energetic appearance caused the workers to pause, but when they caught Wilson’s stern look over the other man’s shoulder, they went right back to unpacking whatever it was that the crates contained.

“What are you doing?” Graves cried, rounding on the chief machinist. “Those are experimental devices that require extensive training to operate. I can’t allow them to be used in a situation like this!”

Wilson didn’t budge. “You don’t have a choice,” he said bluntly. “We’re going down, and we’re going down
quickly.
If you don’t use those gizmos to get off this ship, you might not get off it at all. Is that clear enough for you?”

As his words sank in, the professor’s expression went from outrage to abject horror.

The chief machinist steamrollered on as if he hadn’t noticed. “My orders are to get you off this ship, and that’s what I plan to do. We can do it the easy way or we can do it the hard way. I don’t bloody care which. But you will be going, one way or another.”

It was clear from the professor’s expression that he wasn’t used to taking orders, never mind taking them from someone outside his chain of command, but he clearly wasn’t about to argue with the burly chief either. The man outweighed him by a good fifty pounds, and Wilson’s manner said he wasn’t about to take any crap from a scarecrow like Graves.

But Burke couldn’t let it go that easily.

Get off the ship? How the hell were they supposed to do that? And what was in those crates?

“Now hold on a minute, Chief,” he said, stepping between the two men in an effort to get things to calm down a bit. “I appreciate that you have your orders, but I have mine as well and I haven’t heard anything about where or when we’re supposed to land.”

“That’s because we’re not. Landing, that is.”

Burke took a step back in confusion. “Then how do you expect us to get off the ship?”

“With those,” Wilson said grimly, pointing at the device two of his men were just now lifting out of one of the crates.

From what Burke could see, it had started life as a regulation greatcoat but it had evolved into something else entirely from there. For one thing, the metal frame of what he took to be a haversack had been sewn into the lining of the coat, with a variety of straps and buckles hanging from both lapels and a complicated structure of pipes and wires rising over each shoulder. Squares of what looked to be darkened glass, each one about three inches across, now covered the outside of the coat’s sleeves. The squares caught the light of the cargo bay and reflected it back in scintillating colors.

As if that wasn’t strange enough, there were the long rectangular planks of some reddish-black colored metal that were connected to the pipes jutting out of the back of the jacket. Each plank overlapped the one beside it, fanning out from the center in ever-increasing lengths like the feathers on the tail of a hawk.

“What the hell is
that
?” Burke asked.

Wilson opened his mouth, but Graves beat him to it.

“It’s a man-portable person gliding device, or MPPGD for short.”

“Uh-huh,” Burke replied. “And that means what, exactly?”

“Think of it as your own personal flying device,” Graves answered, with no small amount of pride, as he walked over and slipped his arms through the sleeves of the coat. He braced himself against its weight as the two men holding the device settled it on his shoulders. Graves began buckling the straps across his chest with the ease of long practice. “It is designed to use air currents in order to carry a man from a higher altitude to a lower one.”

“Sounds like falling to me,” one of the airmen quipped.

Burke thought so, too.

“It’s not falling,” Graves said, scowling in the airman’s direction, “so much as a controlled descent. When fully extended, the wings will catch the air beneath them and provide lift, allowing the user to glide for an extended period, much like a flying squirrel does when jumping from tree to tree.”

A flying squirrel?
Burke thought.
Are you kidding me?

He grabbed Graves by the arm and pulled him to one side, out of hearing of the rest of the men in the squad.

“Cut the crap, Professor. Do these things work—yes or no?”

“Yes. But . . .”

“But what?”

“But I’ve only tested them at an altitude of a few hundred feet. The air is much colder up here and that could significantly affect flight characteristics and overall lift.”

“So you’re saying they won’t work?”

“No,” the professor replied, clearly growing more anxious as the conversation continued. “I’m saying I have no data one way or the other on which to make an intelligent decision. They might work just fine, perhaps even better than anticipated. Then again, they could fail miserably and end up splattering us all over the landscape as a result. I just don’t know.”

Another shudder ran through the vessel around them, and Burke knew he was running out of time. He needed an answer and he needed it quickly.

“You built these things, right?” he asked.

At Graves’s answering nod he said, “Then you know their capabilities better than anyone else. What’s your best guess? Will they work? Yes or no?”

“If I had more time to test them . . .”

“You don’t. We’re falling out of the sky as we speak, Professor. Yes or no?
Will they work?
”

Burke didn’t know if it was his insistence on an answer or the way the
Victorious
suddenly heeled over another ten degrees before rolling back up a little, but either way, Graves finally made his decision.

“Yes,” he said. Then with a bit more confidence, “Yes. They’ll work.”

“Good man,” Burke told him, praying as he did so that the other man was right.

At least we won’t feel it for very long if he’s not.