The Company of the Dead (28 page)

“Only two of them still out there,” Kennedy said. “The others turned back five minutes ago.”

“Those odds sound a little better,” Newcombe said.

“They’re as good as we’re going to get,” Kennedy replied.

As the
Shenandoah
’s crew entered the hangar and began making preparations for launch, Kennedy and the three Confederate pilots outlined a strategy. They would use three of the biplanes. Kennedy and Lightholler would go in the first scout, with Tucker as their pilot. Morgan and Hardas would take the second with Newcombe. Rose and Shine would bring up the rear. The
Shenandoah
’s captain would give the signal once he had both the remaining Mitsubishis on his starboard side inspecting the “damaged” engine. The entire operation would take place while they were suspended in cloud cover.

The plan called for a rapid launch sequence. No more than forty-five seconds between each scout’s departure. Then, close-formation flying, keeping the dirigible’s massive frame between them and the Japanese escorts, in an attempt to obstruct any radar. At five minutes out, the
Shenandoah
would release its starboard engine housing. That had been the captain’s idea. After that, they would be able to limp back to New York while still rendering the airship unusable by the Japanese for any length of time.

Dumping the engine would be the signal for all three scouts to descend to just above sea level. Any pursuit would assume that the scouts, by virtue of their specifications, were flying high. Keeping radio silence, and maintaining an altitude below radar detection, they’d make for Richmond, Virginia. Kennedy knew of a landing field where they could refuel without undue attention.

It sounded simple enough.

The low rumble of engines echoed through the hangar.

Lightholler was secured in the navigator’s seat, with Kennedy pressed tightly against him in the narrow confines of Scout One’s cockpit. He struggled to peer over Tucker’s hunched shoulders. Crouched in the pilot’s seat, Tucker sealed the ungainly bubble of the cockpit’s canopy overhead. Through it, Lightholler could see the figure of the
Shenandoah
’s crewman standing by the bay doors.

The air was thick with fumes.

Lightholler did a quick inventory. Radio transceiver. Intercom headphones. Ground proximity warning system. Compass. Altimeter. Tachometer. The canopy provided an almost three-sixty-degree view.

He picked up his pair of phones and placed a hand over the mike.

“You trust him?” he asked under his breath.

“He wants off this airship as much as we do,” Kennedy replied. “Besides, I don’t think we have much choice.”

“I wonder how far we’ll get in these rust-buckets?” Lightholler watched as the crewman secured himself to a fixture by the hangar door.

“Rose seems to think as far south as Charlotte. I reckon we’ll be lucky enough to make Charlottesville. From there, we make our own way across the border. I know a few bootleg routes.”

“I’m sure you do.” Lightholler had to smile. “But I thought we were making for New Orleans.”

“We were.” Kennedy’s face creased thoughtfully. “But that could change. We might have more options once we cross the border. It all depends.”

“On what?”

“On where we’re welcome. That might not be in too many places, North
or
South. But I know a spot where we can hole up till we’re ready to head for Nevada.”

“Nevada,” Lightholler probed. “So that’s our final destination?”

Kennedy smiled. “No, Nevada’s how we
get
to our final destination.”

“I’m sorry I asked.”

Three bursts of static rattled the intercom.

“Lights are out. That’s the signal,” Tucker growled over his shoulder.

Lightholler felt a sudden lurch. The biplane listed on the grooved runway as its retractable arrester hook slid from the hangar deck to snap against the scout’s undercarriage. He could feel the hangar’s descent in the pit of his stomach.

“Hold on,” Kennedy said.

The crewman disappeared from view. The bay doors slid apart fore and aft. Exhaust fumes swirled out, cotton-candy cloud swirled in. Thin beams of light, emanating from somewhere beneath the
Shenandoah,
converged on the grey-white flurry ahead.

The biplane edged forwards as the runway deployed on an ever steeper decline.

“We’re clear.” Tucker reached for the throttle. The whine of the plane’s engines rose to an ear-splitting roar.

“Tally-ho,” Lightholler said through gritted teeth. He was thrust back into his seat as the plane surged into the vast emptiness below.

Seated in Scout Two, Morgan watched as Tucker’s biplane cleared the runway ahead of them.

“Just lean back and shut your eyes.” Hardas reached across to tighten Morgan’s restraint.

“I’m fine,” Morgan murmured.

Their tether snapped loose and the plane began to taxi forwards. Morgan squinted through half-closed eyes, his earphones too tight, his head throbbing. There was the impression of the biplane’s wheels bouncing on the deck and then a horrible disconcerting drop. He clutched his armrest in a white-knuckled embrace as he felt the plane plummet.

He could see Tucker’s plane below them, skimming in and out of the clouds. The solar cells on its upper wing glinted in the moonlight as it completed its turn to port. He sensed their own wings gripping thin dark air.

Hardas was also looking at Tucker’s plane, shaking his head. “He’s turning too wide. Cargo must be heavier than he thought.”

“I see it,” Newcombe said. “Going to try and compensate.”

An abrupt twist and the view shifted, the night sky whirling in a kaleidoscope of bright stars. Tucker’s plane was five hundred feet ahead and to their right.

“Passive night vision enabled.” Newcombe flicked a couple of switches on the instrument panel. “Infrared. Optronics. RWR.
Shit
.”

“RWR?” Morgan stumbled over the letters.

Hardas, eyes straight ahead, spoke out of the corner of his mouth. “Radar warning receiver. They’ve seen us.”

Newcombe scanned the radar and threw a sidelong glance at his port reflector. “I’ve got a visual.” He toggled his radio transceiver. “Bandits, two o’clock. Tucker, Rose, you copy? Over.”

The only response was a harsh crackle.

“Hold on, boys, we’ve got trouble.”

The world spun counter-clockwise. Morgan caught a glimpse of one of the Fuck Yous. Then stars, sea, stars. The
Shenandoah
emerged from a cover of cloud, her running lights still down, a vast black shadow against the moonlight. Roiling billows of smoke poured from her starboard engines, obscuring any view of the hangar. Tucker’s plane was nowhere in sight.

“Where’s Scout Three?” Morgan asked.

Hardas checked the display. “I can’t see them. They’d have cleared the
Shenandoah
by now. They must be behind her.”

Morgan twisted in his seat, trying to orient himself, his head spinning.

Newcombe growled, “Keep still, you dumb fuck.”

Morgan kept still, tasting bile.

The Mitsubishis peeled away from the
Shenandoah
, making a beeline for Scout One.

“Tucker,” Newcombe said into the transceiver, “they’re coming in right behind you.”

Tucker’s reply was hoarse. “I know it.”

“Coming in
right
behind you.”

Morgan could see Tucker’s scout well ahead of them. Both of the Mitsubishis were on its tail, weaving across each other’s path.

Newcombe made a noise in his throat. “They’re toying with him.” He scoped the radar. “Where the fuck is Rose?”

“What are they waiting for?” Hardas said.

Tucker’s plane began to bank. A sharp, angled turn, trailing twin streams of vapour. The Fuck Yous made to follow, pursuing a wider curve. Still weaving, as if deciding who would take the kill.

“What’s he think he’s doing?” Newcome hissed. He swung their scout into a spin, bringing them up behind the Mitsubishis. He pushed forwards on the throttle.

Morgan, hand over his mouth, willed a thought to Newcombe.
The fuck you think you’re doing?

Beyond the Mitsubishis and well ahead of Tucker’s scout, the darkened outline of the
Shenandoah
swung back into view, backlit by a thousand stars.

“Turn around, damn it,” Newcombe hollered into his transceiver. “
Turn
.”

Morgan watched as Tucker’s biplane jagged left, then right, sweeping back towards the
Shenandoah
’s hangar. The first Mitsubishi opened fire. Orange-yellow tracer raked the scout’s wingtips, a torrent of flame spewed from its port engine. Tucker’s biplane skewed crazily.

“Shit.” Newcombe spat out the word.

The cabin filled with light. The
Shenandoah
loomed before them, all her lights suddenly ablaze. Newcombe jerked the control column forwards.

A dark shadow whipped overhead in a screaming rush.

“What the hell?” Newcombe threw his body to starboard, leaning hard on the stick.

The bright flash of an explosion seared Morgan’s vision. The scout was buffeted by a wave of turbulence, tossing him against his restraint. Before them, outlined in red flame, the fuselage of a plane spiralled downwards in a shower of fragments.

“Newcombe, you okay?” A voice crackled over the radio transceiver.

“Tucker, you
bastard
. I thought you’d bought the farm. What the hell happened?”

“
I
happened, you dumb fucks.”

Morgan looked up to see Rose’s scout burst through a cloud of smoke and debris. Its arrester cable swung wildly below it, shredded rope where the hook should have been.

Hardas said, “I don’t fucking believe it.”

Morgan gave him a confused look.

“Rose was in the hangar the whole damn time,” Hardas explained. “When the
Shenandoah
hit her lights, he could come out as slow as he liked. The japs couldn’t see him for glare.”

“Come out with what? He had no weapons.”

“He had an arrester hook.”

Morgan pictured the hook’s blade slicing through the enemy pilot’s cockpit. He wanted to throw up.

“Hate to break up the reunion, but my port engine’s gone,” Tucker’s voice announced. “I’m losing juice here by the gallon.”

“Copy that,” Newcombe replied. He manoeuvred the biplane so they were flying above and to the right of the injured aircraft. “I see it. I’ll give you some cover.”

“Where’s that other jap? My radar’s out.”

“Looks like he’s coming back for seconds,” Rose cut in.

“We got to climb, climb, climb. Can you do it, Tucker?”

“Negative. Losing power here.”

Newcombe swore. Morgan followed his gaze.

Rose’s plane had completed its turn and was dropping down to take up Tucker’s other flank. The
Shenandoah
was well behind them now and rising fast. Silhouetted in her light, the remaining Mitsubishi was closing in.

“Think it’s time we lightened our load.” Tucker’s voice, warped by static, almost sounded amused.

“Sounds good to me,” Newcombe replied.

Morgan glanced at Hardas who shrugged back at him.

The flames were out on Tucker’s scout but thick smoke still surged in its wake. All three biplanes were flying in loose formation.

“Wait for it.” The distortion barely hid Tucker’s desperation.

The Mitsubishi was slowly gaining on them. Strands of tracer filled the sky as it drew a bead on its prey.

“
Now
.” Tucker’s plane dipped and rose in a shower of white. Refuse spun and unravelled in its trail.

Newcombe hit the cargo release and Morgan felt the plane lurch as the cargo doors swung back and snapped away at their hinges. All three of the biplanes began a steady climb. The Mitsubishi was obscured by the expanding cloud of toilet paper that formed behind them.

“Guys, I’ve got about forty-five minutes usable left.” Tucker’s voice was strained. “I’m going to have to turn back or ditch.”

“Major Kennedy, do you copy? Over.” A fresh voice broke into the conversation.

There was a moment’s hesitation before Morgan heard the reply.

“
Shenandoah
, this is Scout One. We copy. Over.” Kennedy sounded edgy.

“That was one hell of a show, Major. Suggest you make your course northeast to Clark’s Harbour and hole up with the Canadians till the smoke clears. Over.”

“Sounds swell,
Shenandoah
,” Newcombe cut in, “but we still have a bandit on our tail. Over.”

For long moments there was no response. There was an explosion of feedback and the transmission resumed. “... those other four Mitsubishis returning, now north and east of your position at fifteen thou. Long range is picking up another flight just out of Paterson, heading due west. They’re moving a lot faster than those Fuck Yous. My co-pilot thinks they’re Mitsubishi FS-Zs, and I’m inclined to agree.”

“Interceptors,” Hardas said incredulously. “They’re sending interceptors.”

Newcombe toggled the instrument panel. “
Shenandoah
, this is Scout Two. Say again. I repeat, say again. Over.”

Static, and then: “... bunch of bogeys bearing three-ten degrees, distance twenty-five miles and closing at eight thousand feet. Eagles at ten. Just beyond visual from here. Should make things interesting. Good luck, boys. Over and out.”

“Jesus. Where the fuck did they come from?” Newcombe slammed a fist against the canopy. “Those interceptors aren’t for us. There’s a whole wing of German fighters heading our way. We hold formation and we’re caught between them. We break, and Tucker’s gone.”

Morgan felt faint. The back of Newcombe’s head swam in and out of focus. His stomach lurched throatwards as the plane swung a loop.

Tucker’s biplane was ahead of them now, its port engine sputtering like a roman candle. Lines of tracer fire hounded their new trajectory like shooting stars. Morgan squinted past them into the glittering night sky. He watched as the trailing Mitsubishi fired a final round and peeled away. Watched as more than a score of lights winked into hazy existence.