“Thank you so much,” Jeffrey said.
No chance of outrunning it. He looked down; they were over the tail end of the Chosen fleet, the last straggle of commandeered trawlers rigged for minesweeping or laying, and a screen of four-stacker destroyers. Ahead he could just make out a line of dirigibles, keeping watch up the Gut. Another thirty miles or so and he’d be in sight of the Isle of Trois, the big island that filled most of the eastern end of the narrow sea.
“How long do you think it’ll take—”
“For the pilot to twig that we aren’t Land Air Service?” John said. “About three minutes.”
Land pilots were all Chosen, trained to use their initiative. Not much doubt about what this one would chose to do.
“You tell Henri,” Jeffrey said. “We’d better be quick about this.”
He pushed the stick forward, putting the big plane on a downward slope. Its weight made it faster thus, and reducing the dimensions the nimble enemy fighter could use also improved the situation. The higher buzz of the von Nelsing’s engine grew stronger. He could almost hear the chick-chack sound as the pilot armed the twin machine guns in the nose.
The water came closer, until he could see the thick white lines along the tops of the waves, running west to east as they almost always did in the Gut this time of year. The wind was more variable here, gusting and falling away. His hands were busy on stick and rudder pedals, keeping the big aircraft level. In the rearview mirror the machine-gun position was empty, with the guns pointing backward as if locked in their rest positions.
John came back. “He’s ready,” he said. Reaching down the side of the cockpit, he came up with a pump-action shotgun and held it across his lap. “Whenever you signal.”
Jeffrey wished he could spit to clear the gummy texture out of his mouth. This was like trying to fight while stuck neck-deep down a whale’s blowhole. The fighter crept up from behind them, a hundred feet or so above. He could see the goggled face craning and bending to get a glimpse of them, and waved cheerfully up at him. Or her. Who knew, that might even be Gerta Hosten. . . .
probability 3%, ±1, Center said.
Shut up.
The aircraft grew closer. The Chosen pilot waggled his wings and pointed backward with an exaggerated gesture; he was getting impatient. So—
“Now!”
He banked the plane sideways, towards the enemy. The Chosen pilot acted the way pilots did, on instinct, pulling up sharply for height. Henri erupted out of the open gun mount, slamming the guns up to their maximum ninety degrees. For a moment the bigger biplane seemed joined to the fighter above it by twin bars of tracer, then the von Nelsing staggered in the air and peeled away trailing smoke. John stood in the open cockpit, shielding his eyes with one hand and grabbing at the edge of the cowling to brace the blocky strength of his upper torso against the savage pull of the slipstream.
“Pilot’s dead or unconscious,” he said aloud as he dropped back. Seconds later the fighter plowed into the surface of the water at full diving speed and a seventy-degree angle. It disintegrated, the engine continuing its plunge towards the shallow bottom of the Gut and the fuselage and wings scattering in fragments of wood, some burning.
Henri shouted in triumph, and the passengers cheered. John continued to crane his head backward and around. “Hope nobody saw that,” he said.
Jeffrey nodded. “By the way, brother of mine, where the hell are we headed?”
“I’ve got a couple of trawlers spotted up the Gut with fuel under the hatches,” John said. “All just in case. If they’re not there, there’s an inflatable dinghy in the baggage compartment.”
“And if that doesn’t work, we’ll swim,” Jeffrey said, flying one-handed while he felt in the pockets of his tunic for his cigarettes.
“No, actually, I’ve got a motor launch hidden in a cove on the east coast of Trois,” John said seriously.
Jeffrey laughed. “And a slingshot in your underwear,” he said. More soberly: “I hate like hell being cut off like this. What’s going on, and who’s doing what?”