the weed-choked shallows.
The weed-choked shallows…
“Arne, I want three, short, evenly pulsed revs from the starboard engines.”
“But Klaus-”
“Just do it.”
The roar to the right increased and died as quickly as it had risen. The plane tilted to the left again, but Klaus cheated the controls, kept both the tail and left wingtip from digging in-and the craft had altered its course by five degrees or so to the left, pushed in that direction by the lopsided engine thrust that also helped them maintain altitude and extend the time they were airborne.
Another momentary roar of the engines on the right. Then a third and longer pulse “Arne, bring it back!” Klaus shouted, as he struggled to keep the Monster’s nose up, its tail out of the water, and its wings level-more or less.
“Klaus, we’re almost into the weeds!”
Klaus nodded tightly. “Because that’s where we’re going. Depth here is about-what?”
“Less than three feet.”
Klaus started easing off the engines, started to let the nose down ever so slightly.
“Airspeed looks good,” Arne gulped out.
— Just as the remains of the skirt made contact with the water. A high-pitched burbling rose beneath them. Klaus gauged what resistance was left in the compromised plenum chamber, let the Monster travel forward another few seconds, and peripherally watched the passing weeds begin to slow in their rearward rush, enough so that he could start to make out individual fronds and stems.
“Two feet of water, no more,” Arne rasped.
Klaus sighed and let the Monster settle down on what was left of her air cushion landing gear, cutting the engines.
For a moment, the leather held-a last moment of increased pressure in the bag as the fuselage came closer to the water’s surface-and then it let go with a blast. A wash of sharp slaps and bumps announced its tattered chunks flying up against the fuselage.
Without power, the nose came down more quickly-but at just the same moment, the tail’s horizontal stabilizers slid slowly into the water, and the lower wing kissed down as well. Arne killed the blower motor a moment before its spinning blades snarled into contact with the weed-choked swells of their landing zone.
Klaus watched the weeds and rushes collect before his slowing craft like an impenetrable wall And then realized that the Monster had come to a stop. And was sinking.
Before stopping at a depth of fifteen inches.
Tom’s mouth was still open. “Did you see that?” he murmured at last.
As if I could have missed it? “Er…yes. This catastrophe makes our plans quite-”
“No, no-did you see that piloting? Man, whoever that guy is deserves a medal. Hell, if Mike or Ed or someone doesn’t give him a medal, I’ll make one especially for him. That was incredible. That plane should have crashed at least three times. Maybe four.”
Miro was perplexed. “But it did. Crash, that is.”
Tom turned. “That was not a crash. I mean, yeah, technically, I guess it was. But it was a crash landing, and a damned good one. A real crash is-well, you’d know it if you saw it. The pilot loses control, and the plane goes in. There’s a big blast from the impact alone, even if there’s no explosion. Pieces everywhere. Usually not many survivors. If any.”
Miro looked at the plane, sitting in the shallows, half-hidden by the weeds, which were already still again. “Very well. But unless I am much mistaken, that plane is not going to be useable any time soon.”
Tom nodded, then looked sideways at Miro. “Eh, Estuban, about that balloon of yours-”
Miro smiled. “I learned, while masquerading as a Christian plying the trade routes of the Mediterranean, that one should always have multiple contingency plans. I have now learned that the same is true when one is an intelligence officer overseeing a field operation.”
Tom smiled back, relieved. “So your balloon is already back in Jena?”
“Actually, I had it return to Grantville, where it is now being refitted and loaded. There were personnel there I thought we might have need of. As well as equipment. And now, I suspect, repair parts for the Jupiter.”
“How soon can it be back here?”
“That is always weather dependent, but on the average, not more than two weeks’ travel time.”
Tom nodded. “Now let’s hope something doesn’t break on your balloon.”
“Yes, indeed. Although, it must be said: there is far less to break on a dirigible than an airplane.”
“No lie,” breathed Tom with a nod, and another glance at the Monster’s vertical stabilizer, sticking up from the weeds like a large, dull-colored shark’s fin. “I also hear you can burn just about any fuel in your balloons. Including fish oil.”
“Yes, although I will not vouch for the downwind appeal of such a ride.”
Tom’s grin was very wide. “Might as well tell you, I’m pretty much sold on the whole balloon thing. Even given the fact that someone-well, everyone, probably-is going to use it to drop bombs. I thought about that a lot, but I still think airships are going to do more good than harm.”
“Often, that is all we can ask for in life.”
“Oh, we can ask for more; we just don’t get it, usually. So what do these balloons cost to build? About a hundred thousand USE dollars?”
“Yes, but if you’re proposing a partnership-”
“I am.”
“-then I would rather we do not use your money to build more of the hot-airships.”
“No?”
“No. In the next few years, I will make enough of those to meet the first wave of demand. Which will be brisk, but moderate; it takes people time to get used to new ideas.”
“And then what?”
“And then we will unveil the next generation of airship, the one which we will finance with your investment.” Miro smiled, looked into the sky, and imagined it filling with traffic and commerce in the decades to come. “Because that model will get its lift from hydrogen, not hot air. And that, Tom, that will truly change the world.”
“This changes everything.” Rombaldo de Gonzaga tapped his spotless fingernail upon the worn wooden tabletop like a slow, soft metronome.
Giulio, who was still out of breath from running to their rented house with the news, expelled words between his gasps: “How…so…Rombaldo?”
Rombaldo de Gonzaga suppressed a sigh. It was trying, working with amateurs, but the job in Venice was a large one, needing many hands and feet and eyes. Fortunately, his master back in Rome-a displaced Cypriot named Dakis-had no shortage of scudare and reales to pass around. “With the USE’s plane damaged, they cannot remove Urban anytime soon. Nor will the aircraft be a part of any plans to rescue Stone’s son in Rome. That gives us more time. That, in turn, makes our job easier. And Cesare, be sure this news is passed along to the dovecote for immediate relay. They will want this report in Rome as soon as possible.”
Cesare Linguanti, a small man who rarely spoke, rose and left, making the smallest of nods toward the largest man at the table.
That man, Valentino-who denied having any other name than that-took a small sip of his wine. Valentino always had a glass of wine in hand: the one glass that he nursed all day long. “The Americans, they will repair the flying machine, if they can. And if Giulio is right, it does not sound as though the failure was catastrophic.”
“Yes,” nodded Rombaldo. “We will need to mount a watch on the plane, as well as the embassy and the USE’s known agents. Indeed, we will need to hire many more men to watch and search. And others to wield weapons, when the target is located and the time comes.”
“They will need to be special men,” commented Valentino. “Not many Italians are ready to kill a pope.”
“There may not be many,” answered Rombaldo, “but when the pay is high enough, you’ll find men enough.” He leaned back with a satisfied smile. “More than enough.”
Sharon found Mazzare sitting quietly with Urban. They did that a lot, these days. They didn’t seem to say a lot. It was like watching dogs or cats who are new to the same house; as if they know their lives are now entwined,
