Featured Article » Fiction

Collateral Damage

Written by Mike Spehar

"A single event can awaken within us a stranger totally unknown to us. To live is to be slowly born."

—Antoine de Saint Exupery

"Just perfect," Jesse muttered in disgust.

"What was that, Herr Oberst?"

Jesse jammed his hands into the pockets of his flying jacket and looked at his copilot, Lieutenant Emil Castner, who was leaning against the wing, studying his map. The lieutenant had moved there to get away from the crowd of mechanics swarming around the nose of their aircraft. Jesse had likewise moved away, after earning a glare from Chief Matowski for repeatedly butting in on his work.

"Nothing, Emil," Jesse said. "Nothing at all."

The young German nodded uncertainly and turned back to his map. Approving of his copilot taking the chance to get better prepared for the flight, Jesse rubbed his neck and moved slightly toward the mechanics, then thought better of it. He always hated it when a supposedly ready aircraft broke down before takeoff. Standing around, waiting for the wrenchbenders to work their magic, never failed to grate on his nerves and this time was no exception. He strolled away and, for about the tenth time, patted the left sleeve pocket of his flight suit, where, in another world and another time, he had carried his cigarettes.

Damn, he thought. You'd think I'd have gotten past that habit. What's it been—two years, since I've last had a smoke?

Sometimes, such as when he was flying or waiting to fly, he could almost forget the circumstances that had brought him here. The cataclysmic Ring of Fire that had mysteriously transported the West Virginia town of Grantville into seventeenth-century Germany had created a psychological crisis for all of the Americans caught in the event. Their subsequent battles against the threats of hunger, disease, and hostile neighbors had quickly pulled the Americans together, though it had been a hard struggle. And still was.

The United States of Europe and their allies were still engaged in a desperate struggle against formidable enemies. Only the fall before, through the machinations of Cardinal Richelieu, the countries of Spain, England, and Denmark had joined the French in the so-called "Ostend Alliance," with the intent of capturing the Baltic, crushing the independent Netherlands, and, eventually, eliminating the growing power of the USE. Luckily, the Alliance's initial attacks had been thwarted at Luebeck and Wismar, in no small measure through the impact of American technology, hastily adapted for war. Now, in the early spring of 1634, the struggle continued on land and sea.

The Battle of Wismar had been particularly hard on one Colonel Jesse Wood, retired USAF tanker pilot and, by appointment of Prime Minister Stearns, chief of staff of the USE Air Force. For it was at Wismar that he had first taken his unprepared air force to war and had learned the price of combat. In the course of the action, Jesse had watched his protégé, Hans, turn the tide of battle by diving his aircraft into a Danish warship. Though helpless to prevent it, Jesse still blamed himself for Hans' death. Over the months since, his grief and guilt had gradually turned to a cold rage against their enemies and Jesse wanted nothing more than to get back into the war.

"Hey! Colonel Wood!"

Jesse mentally shook himself and looked back toward the aircraft. Harvey Matowski was waving a greasy rag at him, while his assistants replaced the engine cowling. Resisting an impulse to run, Jesse deliberately strolled back to the aircraft. Emil had already climbed back into the rear cockpit and was strapping in.

Walking up to Matowski, Jesse asked, "So okay, Harvey, what was it?"

"Just dirty plugs, sir. Maybe some water in the line, too. Can't tell till we crank her up. You still want to go?"

"Yes, of course, Chief. The war isn't waiting on us, you know."

"Yeah, I know, sir, but . . ."

"Spit it out, Chief," Jesse said grumpily. "Is the aircraft ready to fly or isn't it? They're waiting for us in Hessen."

"Well, yessir, it is." Harvey paused to spit. "But you know as well as I do how touchy that supercharger has been. I don't much like the idea of it cutting out on takeoff with this load you've got."

Jesse looked at his chief mechanic and considered his words. Glancing up at the clear blue sky, he noted that the day had already started to warm a bit. Still no clouds.

An unseasonably nice day, Jesse thought. Be a shame to waste it. And we better do this before Stearns changes his mind. Still . . . Damn it!

"Okay, Chief. Call those munitions troops back here. We'll take off all but the two inboard rockets. That way we'll still be able to take off, even if the blower quits. The real payload's underneath, anyway. Does that suit you?"

Matowski nodded and walked off. Jesse gave the cowling fasteners a couple of thumps and did another quick walk around. Everything on the exterior was as it should be, though it never hurt to check a second time. He paused a moment to admire the aircraft's paint job. He had to admit, the Gustav was a damned fine looking machine, the best that American technology and German craftsmanship could build. Compared to the Belle, it was big and low slung. The sun glinted through the now open sliding canopies. The wings and fuselage were painted blue-gray overall, so new that there were few blemishes anywhere. White star wing flashes gleamed, as did a large red numeral "1" on each side of the vertical stabilizer. His eyes drifted to the nose art and he unconsciously grinned. One of the young pilots had read about the American Volunteer Group and his excitement had fired the imagination of the aircraft riggers. The result was a leering shark's mouth painted on the nose and cowlings, complete with predator eyes.

If nothing else, maybe we can scare 'em to death, Jesse thought.

Twenty minutes later, the rockets had been removed. Jesse and Emil had run their checklists and the engine was purring as if nothing had ever been wrong with it. Tower confirmed there was no traffic inbound. Jesse pushed the throttle forward and flicked the supercharger switch with his little finger. Hearing the whine of the fan, feeling the engine surge, he noted the time and released brakes.

His mission was to put the fear of God into Grantville's primary enemy.

His target: Paris.

Takeoff was uneventful and Jesse felt the familiar rush that comes from leaving the earth behind. The anxiety and uncertainty that waiting always generated in him quickly faded as he began a cruise climb on a heading just south of due west. The small southerly wind, so unusual at this time of year, required only the slightest of drift correction. Switching off the supercharger, he set climb power, trimmed the aircraft, waggled the rudder pedals, and spoke over the intercom.

"Copilot's aircraft. Take her to eight thousand on this heading, Emil. Set altimeter at 29.92"

From the rear cockpit, "I have the aircraft, Herr Oberst. 29.92."

After Emil shook the stick, Jesse clicked twice and removed his hand. He wrote the takeoff time on his kneeboard and picked up his map, already folded for the route of flight. A carefully drawn line cut across Germany, over the mostly empty green of the Thuringenwald, past Fulda, towards a small village north of Frankfurt am Main and Weisbaden, to a temporary field where they were scheduled to refuel.

Ambach, Omberg, Ombach, he suddenly realized he'd forgotten the name of the place that hadn't warranted a name on his map. Doesn't matter. I've been there before and I can find it, no sweat. An hour or so on this heading should get us there. About forty minutes late.

Jesse stretched his back and shook his arms, trying to get comfortable. He'd been flying too much, he knew, and it was taking a toll on his body. He now had two pilots he could count on to instruct the others in the replacement Belle, but the workload had risen again when Hal Smith and his team had rolled out the first Gustav. Hal had poured every bit of his knowledge and talent into the sleek plane, assisted mightily by their experience with the Las Vegas Belle and her twins. The Gustav's improvements were enough to gladden Jesse's heart, considering he intended to send pilots to war in it. Sturdier and much faster than the Belle, the Gustav also boasted numerous improvements visible only in the cockpit, including G-meters, rotating compass repeaters directly in front of the pilots, a heater/deicer, and a speed brake. Most importantly, it could carry a really usable war payload on the multiple hard points under the wings and fuselage. Such as they carried now.

But the very high quality of the Gustav had urged Jesse to fly even more, so eager was he to get it into the fight. An abbreviated flight test program had shown the Gustav to be a nimble flyer, yet with a solid, steady feel. That encouraged Jesse to begin immediately experimenting with dive-bombing techniques on a hastily acquired field outside of Weimar, using sand-filled practice bombs. He packed as much training into each flight as he could, taking a different copilot on each sortie until they were all comfortable with the aircraft and could extend and retract the heavy speed brake with little trouble, though most were sweating when it came time to land.

Still, he had driven none of them harder than he drove himself and the effort had begun to tell. The repetitive four or five Gs experienced in each dive gradually wore at him, straining his back and arms terrifically. Kathy had taken to meeting him at the end of each day he flew, so frightened had she become about his health. But, despite the scolding of his wife, Jesse refused to stop. Only after she had appealed to Dr. Nichols, who pulled duty as senior flight surgeon, had Jesse relented and taken two days off. But only two. Then he'd gone back to a full schedule of flying, trying to will his young charges into the proficiency he knew they would need all too soon.

The Gustav was approaching the temporary field when Jesse realized all was not well. Fearing what a bad landing would do to their load, he had decided to do the honors. The two pilots had already performed the Before Land Checklist and, as a precaution, Jesse had planned a low flyby before landing. He was immensely glad he did.

He had feared their delay would result in his ground crew deciding they weren't coming today, as had happened before. He could see now he needn't have worried. Crossing the field boundary, he was shocked at the sight of at least three hundred people scattered across the landing zone. Apparently the locals were in on their little secret. Some were on horseback, but most were afoot, and many of them seemed to be picnicking with their children. On his airfield.

"God damn it!" Jesse yelled.

Emil wisely said nothing as Jesse flew the length of the field and pulled up left into a modified downwind. Jesse had pulled his canopy back and locked it open for landing. He now wasted his time frantically waving the crowd below off the field, only to see most of them gaily wave in return. He turned final and performed another flyby, much to the delight of the crowd, they being unable to hear his curses. Only the line of Swedish cavalry now chivying people off the field prevented Jesse from further profanity. By the time he pulled up to a normal downwind, he had regained his composure and even a bit of humor.

"You know, Emil," he chuckled. "I always did like being in an air show. Remind me to smile when we get to Paris." He looked into his mirror and caught the usually stolid German smothering a guffaw.

"Jawohl, Herr Adler, mein hero!" Emil said with a mock salute.

Jesse returned the salute in the mirror. "Okay, meine Schatzie, let's see if we can now land without hitting a cow or a goat."

The landing was uneventful and Jesse taxied over to the small shed where his two ground crewmen had spent the past four days. The crowd, still cheering madly, was surging behind the line of now-dismounted troopers. Jesse smiled and waved, until Sergeant Sauer climbed up to help him unstrap.

"Good morning, Sergeant," Jesse said through a frozen grin. "Let me guess—your relatives have arrived?"

"No, mein . . . No, sir!" the NCO said. "Henni there." He pointed to a young airman now scuttling towards the shed after setting the chocks. "He went into the village last night and had too much to drink. The dummkopf told everyone at the stammtisch he is the pilot, waiting for his flugzeuge. This morning, I see this." The sergeant waved his arm helplessly at the assembled multitude. "Most have never seen an aircraft before. They want to see him fly." His expression was so woebegone that Jesse's false smile slowly thawed into the real thing.

"Well, at least the French don't know we're coming," he said slowly. "Tell me, Sergeant, do we still have the fuel or did Henni use it for a bonfire last night? You know, just to impress the girls?"

"Oh, no, sir. I mean, yes, sir! We have the fuel ready for you."

"Well, zehr gut, Sergeant. Very good, indeed," Jesse raised his hand. "Now, how about helping me out of here?"

Thirty minutes later, they were ready to depart. Jesse had reluctantly found himself explaining to disappointed townsfolk that Airman Henni only flew on special occasions, which their current mission surely wasn't. His little chore in diplomacy wasn't helped by grinning Swedes, who knew better. He wound up promising that Henni, who was most assuredly one of their finest pilots, would give a flying demonstration tomorrow, after their return. Jesse didn't know who was more upset at the prospect—Henni, who saw the hole he was in getting deeper and deeper, or Emil, who was genuinely outraged at the airman's effrontery.

An additional fifteen minutes later, they were once again at eight thousand feet, headed slightly more south of west, into unknown territory. Into France.

The flight to Paris would be a long one, almost at the limit of the Gustav's range. However, through long practice Jesse was quite accustomed to dead reckoning and the challenges of navigating by map, clock, and compass. With Emil on the controls, cruising through a still cloudless sky, he had little to do but contemplate his mission, mulling their plan of attack over in his mind. The steady droning of the engine lulled him into a moody state of mind and he felt no desire for conversation.

I wish Hans was here, Jesse thought. Since Hans' death he'd tried to not get any closer to his young charges than necessary and sometimes he worried that he lacked a real feeling for their abilities. His criticisms had become harsher and light moments such as he and Emil had shared only an hour ago were increasingly rare. I may have to send 'em to die, but I won't, I can't, have my guts ripped out again.

His choice of Lieutenant Castner for this flight was, in a way, typical of his new temperament. Emil was nothing like Hans Richter, who had taken a joyous pleasure in flying. Where Hans had done things with flair, Emil was methodical, almost mechanical. And where Hans had liked to talk, Castner rarely spoke, except when directly addressed. As a result, the normally garrulous Jesse knew next to nothing about the lieutenant, except that he did his job reliably.

And that should be enough, Jesse thought sternly. He's a weapon of war, as much as this aircraft. And no more. The last thing I want on this mission is someone questioning my decisions.

Jesse recalled the last conversation he'd had with Prime Minister Mike Stearns about the mission. Stearns had voiced his reservations, though he didn't go so far as to actually forbid the flight.

"Are you completely sure about this, Jesse?" Stearns had asked. "From what you've told me it's an awfully long way, in a new aircraft. And I'm still not convinced we'll get the results we want, even if you succeed. Far too much can go wrong."

Jesse had stifled his annoyance, an increasingly frequent emotion he felt when dealing with Stearns. Ever since Wismar, he'd become more and more irritated at any expression of caution, no matter the source. He knew the prime minister had more sources of information than he had. He knew Stearns had other considerations, other than striking the enemy whenever and wherever, no matter how deadly they knew that enemy was. Jesse knew those things, intellectually, but didn't—couldn't—agree with them emotionally. Not since Wismar. So his answer had been much less guarded than he might have wished.

"Sir! Mr. Pres—ah, I mean Prime Minister, if I could load three Gustavs with these new incendiaries, I swear, with only two days of good weather, we could burn most of Paris to the ground. Okay, so I can't do that—yet. So the good people of Paris get a pass, while the people of Amsterdam starve and die of plague, while armies chop each other to pieces, and our own people die needlessly!" Jesse caught himself. "Prime Minister, I've got one ready aircraft and I can make a good start. At the very least, removing Richelieu . . ."

"Jess, Jess," Stearns had interrupted. "I said you can go, even if I have reservations. As far as Richelieu goes, you know my doubts. Come on, Jesse." Stearns had spoken softly and reached over to grip Colonel Wood's shoulder for emphasis. "You can go with the limited objectives we've agreed upon. Understood?"

"Yes, sir," Jesse had replied stiffly, fighting an urge to shake the hand off his shoulder, to reject the familiarity. It was another thing that had begun bothering him recently. He had not been close to Mike Stearns before the Ring of Fire and really hadn't grown all that much closer since. He couldn't help it, he'd always disliked the sense of being manipulated he felt around politicians and he knew Stearns had become a politician of the first order. He couldn't tell if Stearns' friendship was sincere and that bothered him more than anything else. Since Wismar, he'd felt closed off, with no one to share his most private doubts and fears. Stearns' old crony, General Frank Jackson, was no help and Admiral Simpson, who was at least a military professional, was out of touch. Not even Kathy . . . he'd choked off that line of thought and fallen back on a lifetime of military correctness. "I will inform you when the weather is right for the mission. If I may be excused, Prime Minister" He'd left at Stearns' nod.

"Fuck it!" Jesse shook himself back to the present.

"What was that, sir?" Emil asked from behind him.

I must have yelled that.

"Nothing, Emil. Nothing."

Jesse spent the next several minutes checking their progress, grateful for the relatively simple task. Nevertheless, another part of his mind had kept processing his previous line of thought. First, they'd hit the attention-getting targets and then go for the main prize. They had good intelligence and a known location for Richelieu. There would be no opposition, of course, not even ground fire. Fifteen minutes over the city and they'd be headed home. In his gut, Jesse knew it would work. A sudden burst of fury came unbidden to him. Richelieu, I'm coming to get you, you son of a bitch!

Jesse had been on the controls for only about fifteen minutes when he first noticed it. Ahead of them, stretching out of sight from side to side was a small weather front. There was no reason for it to be there, but there it was, just the same. It wasn't much to be concerned about, if one was on the ground. Some bending, some slight fold of conflicting wind currents, had created a weak low-pressure system, against which warm air from the south had pushed. Strictly a local phenomenon, it would not have been noticed in either London or Amsterdam, or anywhere else within reporting distance of Grantville. An hour earlier, or perhaps two hours later and it would have been of no consequence to them. But it and they were here now, and ...