seaplane mystery he was unaware of. He eased back on the stick and knew they had enough thrust at last to keep the nose from trying to flip them. He’d actually foreseen that to a degree, and intended that the high-mounted engine should counteract just such a tendency. He hadn’t had any real formula to base his calculations on, but it seemed to be working… sort of. That might have been what kept them down so long too, though. Oh, well, that’s what test flights are for!
He wiped his goggles and realized he was soaked. There’d been enough spray to wet him down pretty good. He’d never gone blind, per se, but a larger windscreen was in order. He’d also have hated to get this wet anywhere but in the tropics. Cold still might be an issue, depending on the ceiling. Number six. He started climbing and banking slightly left, intending to ease back toward the city. Slowly, his tension began to ebb. He’d done it! He’d designed and helped build the first airplane ever constructed on this world! A euphoric feeling began to take hold. He’d done it, and he was flying! When the old PBY folded up and fell into the bay during the battle, he’d never dreamed he would survive, much less fly again! He let out a whoop.
He didn’t have an altimeter, but thought he was probably about two thousand feet up when he steadied the plane and aimed it at Baalkpan. With any luck, they’d have altimeters soon. There wasn’t that much to them, and right then, anything seemed possible. He glanced at his instrument panel. They’d salvaged a few instruments from the Catalina and put them on the prototype whether they had realistic expectations of re-creating them or not. They had to know what the plane could do. All the new planes would have a few easy instruments: a compass, an artificial horizon-or clinometer, as the Navy types liked to call it. An airspeed indicator was easy to do. Several temperature gauges would be supplied: one for the crankcase and others for each cylinder head. An oil-pressure gauge had already been successfully tested and was in production. The fuel gauge, at present, was the time- honored floating stick bobbing up and down through a hole in the gas cap. The fuel tank was in the wing above and behind him and he could keep an eye on the “gauge” with a little mirror. They’d need more eventually. They already had more than most pilots relied on in the Great War. Ben fiddled with the stick. A little tight, he decided, and he’d like some trim tabs, but overall, the only real problem was a tendency to pitch. CG, again. He already hated the propeller so close behind his head. Maybe they needed to turn the engine around. Make it a pusher…
He read the gauges instead of just staring proudly at them. Airspeed was better than he’d expected. About ninety. The temps looked good. A little warmer in the rear cylinders, but he’d expected that. Oil pressure was steady, maybe dropping a little, but that was normal as the oil heated up. He looked back at Tikker and caught a huge grin splitting the sable face. A few particles of the checklist still clung in his fur. Ben returned the thumbs-up offered by the only other “experienced” aviator in the Alliance. That thought hit him again. It had been stupid to bring Tikker on this flight. Granted, the ’Cat wasn’t really experienced, but he had guts and he had flown. He’d also done very well in the simulators they’d put together. Shouldn’t have done it, Ben decided, but the little guy deserved it.
Tikker caught his attention again, made a swooping gesture with his hand, and pointed down. Ben saw they were coming up on where Ajax was moored. Oh, no. Why did he have to do that? Had he known Ben’s pursuit instincts would kick in, like a dog seeing a rabbit take off? Can’t do it, Ben decided. Talk about stupid! No way should I do this! I really probably ought not to… With a wicked grin, he nodded exaggeratedly.
Pushing the stick forward, he pretended he had a gunsight in front of him and began a shallow dive toward the Imperial frigate. He knew Adar would get hot, and so would the captain when he found out, but what were they going to do? Ground him? The plane started gaining speed. One hundred, a hundred and ten, a hundred and twenty… The stick got even tighter, but he waggled his wings just a little and knew he had plenty of control. Closer they sped, and he could see figures running on the deck. He knew just seeing the airplane was probably giving them fits, but there’d been no way to fly it without them knowing, so no one had actually ordered him not to buzz the ship. Besides, they still had stuff to test. A hundred and thirty at this dive angle seemed about max, and Ben was really wishing for trim tabs now, but as the mast tops approached, he was pleased to note that when he pulled back on the stick, the strange little plane almost leaped back up into the sky.
Maybe just a little impulsively, he displayed a hopefully universal gesture and yanked the stick to the right, forcing the plane into a slightly tighter climbing barrel roll than he’d perhaps intended.
“Seat belts!” he shouted, as he went inverted. “Number seven!”
There was no danger he and Tikker would fall out-they were sucked into their seats-but they were slammed against the left side of their respective cockpits. The tight roll and sharp climb forced Ben’s head back-where there was no rest-and he found himself staring right at the blurred propeller just inches away.
“Shit!”
Instinctively, Ben pushed the stick forward-maybe a little too much. The aft CG practically pitched the nose out from under them, causing a momentary-but terrifying-negative-G condition. This immediately levitated the fuel in the carburetor and closed the float, starving the engine-not to mention leaving Tikker to clutch the diagonal stringers in the fuselage for dear life. Recognizing that improvement number seven was of extreme importance, Ben somehow managed to ease back on the stick, finish the roll, and right the craft before he and Tikker were thrown from the plane.
Airspeed had kept the prop windmilling behind him, and within seconds, as the fuel in the carburetor remembered where to go, the engine coughed and sputtered back to life. Holding the stick in a vise-like grip, Ben looked around. Everything was back to normal and the Nancy seemed to have survived the stupid, stupid, stupid gyrations with no apparent damage. He sighed, loosening his grip a little, and took a deep, shaky breath. He almost gagged. Gas! There was gas everywhere! He looked at Tikker and saw that the ’Cat was soaked. He was shouting something and pointing up. Ben spun to stare at the little mirror and saw the fuel gauge stick was gone. Worse, so was the gas cap it floated in. What the hell?! The pressure of the gas or the air in the tank slapping against it must have blown the cap off, he deduced. Judging by the amount of fuel all over everything, they must have dumped a lot-since most of it wouldn’t have landed on them!
He looked down. They were over the city now, and he banked back toward the bay. I wonder how much fuel we have left? The engine coughed, gurgled, then roared back to life. Shit! Not much!
He turned back to Tikker and made a winding motion over his head. Get the floats down! Tikker was already spinning the crank. With a pounding heart, Ben Mallory concluded he was liable to have to attempt yet another stunt he’d absolutely never intended for this very first flight: a dead-stick landing on Baalkpan Bay.
Pointing the nose down to build some airspeed, he found he had to keep even more back pressure on the stick to keep the ship level as the engine burped and died completely. The sudden lack of any sound but the wind whooshing through the support struts and control cables was chilling.
“Slow down!” he heard Tikker shriek for the first time.
“Can’t!” he shouted back. “Rule number one-when you start training those idiots who volunteered for this- airspeed is life! In our case, we need enough speed to land the damn thing on the water! If we’re too slow when we flare out, we’ll stall and pancake in. Liable to break something!”
“I thought rule number one was ‘no stupid stunts that kill engine! ’”
“I…” Ben fumed, and concentrated on keeping a steady, gliding descent. Ahead, the bay opened before them again. Damn, they were getting low! ’Cats were scurrying around on the waterfront, dodging this way and that, apparently expecting them to drop right on top of them. He eased back just a bit on the stick-and then held it tight against its tendency to come too far back. Definitely going to have to change the CG, he decided. They were over the water now, and he looked for a clear spot to set down. There wasn’t much room. Many of the ships and fishing boats had gathered in this area to stay out of his way.
“A little speed help now?” Tikker demanded.
“Hell, yes. What…?” Tikker hosed the last of the fuel in the bug sprayer at the carburetor. With a “pop!” and an explosive backfire, the engine roared to life and gave him just enough acceleration to level off and make a powered touchdown on the choppy water. He risked a quick glance aft when he heard a shrill cry, and saw Tikker pitch the flaming bug sprayer over the side like an arcing meteor. The backfire must have lit the damn thing!
Whump! The plane practically gouged into the sea, but it had just enough remaining speed and lift to bounce up and skip across a few little waves before settling down for good. The engine gasped, hacked, and the prop spun raggedly to a stop, leaving them bobbing peacefully on the light swells about three hundred yards from shore. Ben finally took a long, deep breath and forcefully released the stick. Tikker said nothing and the two of them merely sat floating on the bay, while the launch approached from seaward.
“Holy shit!” Brister cried when he was close enough to hear. “What the hell were you doing? I thought this was supposed to be a test flight!”
