fifteen feet off the water, he was preparing to cut power even further, when a massive waterspout erupted directly in his path and something tore through the nose of his plane, slashing him along the left forearm. Without thought, he pushed the throttle to the stop and leveled off. More splashes rose, seemingly at random throughout the area of the anchored carriers and their screen. An explosion suddenly rocked Cablaas-Rag-Lan’s USS Scott, and the new frigate coasted to a stop, her fo’c’sle bathed in flames.
“They’re bombs!” Tikker muttered wonderingly, looking at the sky as he pulled back on the stick. “Bombs!” he shouted. “They’re bombs, Risa!”
“Yes!” she shouted back. “Bigger than ours! But where are they coming from?”
“They can only be shells from a mighty ship, like Amagi herself or bombs dropped by aircraft!” He frantically continued searching the sky and the horizon. Nothing!
“What’s that?” Risa yelled.
Tikker turned and saw her pointing almost straight up. He followed her gaze. No! That’s impossible, his mind shrieked. High above, very high, higher than he’d ever flown, thirty or forty massive objects drifted lazily, seemingly effortlessly, eastward. They were long and fat and looked like the “scum weenies” that Laan-yeer, the cook, was always trying to make people eat. They were clearly flying but had no wings!
“Send… flying… scum weenies are attacking!” he shouted back at Risa.
“I… I’ll try!” Risa yelled back as Tikker put the plane in the steepest climb he thought it would handle. He was above the splashes now, and could actually see bombs hurtling down. At that moment, several things happened at once. A strangely formed engine, prop still slowly turning, dropped into the sea, followed by a woven wood contraption of some kind, filled with shrieking Grik. He had no time for the oddity of the sight to register before a bomb erupted directly in the path of another, lower plane, also trying to pull out. The “Nancy” staggered through the spume, but its left wing clipped a wave. Tikker watched in horror as the plane cartwheeled across the sea and literally disintegrated. In the next instant, before he had the slightest opportunity to recover from that awful sight, the horizon before him pulsed with light. A colossal, fiery pyramid of smoke and flame vomited upward and outward from Humfra-Dar, flinging debris, burning planes, unrecognizable fragments, and people through the air like smoldering motes.
“O Maker!” he cried. For an instant, he was too aghast to even remember what he’d been doing. How could one bomb… and then he realized. It hadn’t been just one bomb. The 5th, 6th, and 8th Bomb Squadrons of the 2nd Naval Air Wing had been next in the rotation. They’d been on the flight deck, loaded with bombs and fuel… “O Maker,” he whispered, “guide their path.” He tried to jam the throttle past its stop, then yanked back on the stick again, blinking furiously through the tears filling his eyes. He had to get up there, where the “flying weenies” were. What he’d do-if he did-he had no idea. The “Nancys” still had no weapons besides bombs, and Tikker was out of those. Risa had a musket… Behind him, Risa-Sab-At said nothing.
Baalkpan
Bernard Sandison was a happy man, and he whistled erratically as he walked briskly from his small office in Adar’s Great Hall down the damp, crowded street to the expanding complex past the “Navy Yard” that comprised his “division.” Occasionally, he paused and watched a group of “dames,” newly arrived from Maa-ni-la, being led on tours of the city. Quite a few had wound up working for him in the ammunition factories, and he was admittedly more than a little sweet on a couple. He restrained himself, however. No sense in committing himself so soon when new “drafts” arrived almost daily now. Besides, they all wanted to work and were so willing to please, he wanted to make sure he wasn’t taking advantage of them during this initial, vulnerable time. They’d been virtual slaves in the Empire, and the transition to free citizens with all the rights, benefits-and responsibilities-involved was difficult and confusing for most to adjust to. Not all the guys were so conscientious, and he owled. Dean Laney was probably the worst at “making the most” of the situation, and Bernie meant to have a word with Riggs about that yet again. Laney was such a jerk.
His expression softened as his thoughts returned to other things. The news on all fronts was good-or at least not bad-and he felt that was largely due to his herculean efforts (and those of all the great people he had working for him in Ordnance). He was still mad at Silva for going AWOL, but the new “Allin-Silva” conversions were coming along nicely. A regiment’s worth of the “kits,” consisting of barreled actions with calibrated sights already installed, as well as cast conversion hammers, were now ready for shipment. The next batch would be ready in half the time, and he expected that to improve even more as production hit its stride. Once the “conversions” arrived at the front, troops in the field could simply install the new barrels and hammers themselves in a few minutes’ time, and then send their old barrels back for lining and alteration. It was an elegant solution that would cause no downtime at all. He’d have preferred the. 45-70 cartridge for ballistic reasons but settled on what was essentially a . 50-80. The extra powder would help make up for the larger diameter, and that diameter would mean the weapons would only be a little heavier than the. 60-caliber smoothbores. What extra weight there was would help tame the heavier recoil. He considered it an ingenious compromise, if he did say so himself. No more smoothbore small arms were being made in Baalkpan.
He’d finally solved the problem of making small cartridge cases too, which made him particularly happy. In this, he’d been assisted by a Lemurian bowl maker who applied his own methods to the task. Bernie had no idea how it “should” be done, but what they did was cast brass case heads at the base of a large, thin disc. The case heads, with primer pockets already formed, were clamped in new specialized lathes with a precision template and a long, thin “live” center in the tail stock. After that, they simply spun the lathe and formed the disc into an appropriately shaped tube. The cool thing was, they could make. 30-06 and. 45 ACP on the same machines since the heads were identical. They just cut the. 45s off shorter. Other machines made. 30-40 for the Krags, 6.5 for the Japanese rifles salvaged from Amagi, . 50 BMG, and some other calibers for the few civilian weapons found on the first visit to Santa Catalina, but most were dedicated to the new. 50-80 cartridge. They’d started out making a few hundred shells a day; however, as production expanded, machines were built, and workers trained, they’d be making tens of thousands a day very soon. Of course, then the shells had to be loaded.
The. 50-80s would always be fed black powder for pressure reasons, but Bernie’s team had finally created suitable nitrocellulose powders for the remaining “modern” firearms. The testing had destroyed a Krag and split a 1911 at the ejection port, but now they had the formulas and loads down to the point that the weapons functioned properly and trajectories matched the calibrated sights. New, fixed ammunition was coming out of Baalkpan Arsenal for the first time. Bernie wasn’t satisfied with that. He was still improving the explosive rounds for the four-inch- fifties and the salvaged Japanese guns, as well as the mortars and bombs. They were still stuck with muzzle- loading, smoothbore artillery for the foreseeable future, but he was making progress toward rifled guns, and ultimately, rifled breechloaders. He was even close to testing new torpedoes at long last. That would make Captain Reddy smile, he knew. He frowned. Captain Reddy may not smile when he finds out about some of the other “projects” Adar’s got me working on. But Adar’s Chairman of the Grand Alliance, and it makes sense to have the stuff, even if we never use it, Bernie supposed. And it’s not as though we can transmit to the Skipper-and even if we could, other folks would know…
He avoided a mud puddle and hurried on.
The other “divisions” hadn’t been idle, he confessed to himself. New ships were coming off the ways, some with bolt-on armor protecting their engineering spaces. They’d finally located and literally hoisted shattered Mahan from the waters of the bay, using two Homes to place her on one of the new floating dry docks. Now the debate raged as to whether they should rebuild her, or incorporate her machinery in new construction. The latter seemed to be the consensus regarding S-19. She was so badly damaged-and nobody but Laumer and a few others really wanted a sub. Riggs and Rodriguez had made electric arc searchlights to replace the one Walker lost and equip new ships with the simple, powerful lights. Based on the USAAF SCR-284 sets that came with the P-40s, Riggs was also on the brink of completing real-voice radios.
Yes, things were going well and Bernie was happy, but that happiness came with a measure of anxiety. It seemed every time they got an edge, the Grik came up with some way to negate or match it, and he couldn’t help wondering what they had come up with in the equally abundant time they’d had to plot and scheme. He snorted. Whatever it is, they’ll be hard-pressed to match us this time! Through the crowd, he caught sight of Riggs and Rodriguez making to cut him off. Speak of the devil, he thought. Despite the heat of the day, he felt a chill when he noticed their expressions.
“C’mon, Bernie!” Riggs said urgently. “We’re headed for the Great Hall.”
“I just came from there! I have work…”
Without a word, Riggs thrust a sweat-darkened message form into his hand.
