CrimsonSkies-Briefcase Blues10

Chapter 10   The Mother Russia

Usually a plane and a clear sky was all it took to let Jazz shake off all the troubles and worries of his life. This time the seconds passed in agony as the Shady Lady streaked through the clouds as fast as she possibly could. Not even the staggering 1.458 horsepower of the Tornado G450 engine droning behind him could ever be enough now. He had passed the twins shortly after take off, as their birds weren’t built for speed. After a few minutes he caught up with Scalpalot and Undertaker, their planes being only slightly slower as his Devastator.
The Firebirds flew in silence interrupted only by the frantic radio transmissions from Cheesehead. He had left the big Dutchman in charge of the Damocles while away, figuring the man had some easy time to fill with his inventions. Instead he had to listen to desperate calls for help and being unable to do anything about it. So far, all they knew was that they were under attack from hordes upon hordes of Russian fighters, all dark green with bright red trimmings, sporting their red star on their wings and fuselage. The Damocles didn’t stand a chance to outrun them and all they could do was to fend for themselves with the turrets as best they could until help finally arrived. Jason estimated it would still be another minute or two before they reached the zeppelin. He grimaced, a lot could happen in two minutes. Like downing a zep.
‘It’s no good! They’re everywhere! We’re trying to move to a higher altitude, but…’
Static crackled along the airwaves. Jason tried to refrain himself from pounding his radio panel, before Cheesehead came back on.
‘We sustained a direct hit to the number two gas bag. It’s gone. And we lost about five engines now, it’ll take ages to climb that high.’
‘Damnit, Marty, hang on! We won’t be long now. Can you see where they’re coming from?’ called Jazz back.
‘We think from – AAAAARGH! - Sorry about that, they just strafed the bridge and a torpedo missed us by a hair. We think they’re coming from the cover of a large – LOOK OUT!- a large cloud formation, south-west of our position.‘
‘Okay, just head straight the other way as fast as you can.’
‘I'm giving it all she's got, captain. If I push her any harder she's gonna blow!’
Before he could respond, they arrived. What Jazz saw nearly made him lose hope. Against a beautiful backdrop of cotton clouds and golden seas of corn, the Damocles, trailing thick black clouds of acrid smoke, was trying to climb without much success. Another one of her gas bags imploded in a enormous ball of fire, exposing her fragile inner structures and Jazz could see right through her frame. It was what combat pilots call a furball. Fiery streams and blooming explosions surrounded her as both friend and foe released every weapon they commanded at each other.
Jazz led his small wing to a position above the fray and adressed them shortly.
‘Listen up, we have to get the Damocles to safety. Russian tactics dictate that they don’t have any multirole craft. So go for the heavy’s, they‘re the only ones carrying aerial torpedoes. Forget the fighters. There’s too much of them to take on individually anyway. We stick together, standard wedge formation, cover eachothers butts and let the turrets deal with the fighters. Hold on long enough for the twins to join us, we’ll need their guns. We’ll wipe them out of the skies and then we can concentrate on finding out where they came from. Allright, ready? Let’s take these bastards out!’
They dived towards the battle with the sun in their backs. In the spare second they had before all hell broke loose, Jazz knew that despite his confident speech, they had as much chance as a cow trying to fly. As the vision of the Damocles swelled in his canopy, he could clearly see the dozens of combat plane circling her. They looked like American planes, but Jazz knew they were but cheap copies, hastily modelled after a proven concept to keep up with demand. Yet they all carried serious enough armament and fired volley after volley at the Damocles’ engines and turrets. As he watched, another engine blew apart in a cloud of fire and shrapnel.
And then they were in the middle of it. Bullets and rockets flying everywhere, explosions thundering around them, momentarily drowning out the rumbling engine noise. Pulling back to a shallow dive, they cut straight across the starboard side of the zeppelin. Lances of white-hot fire shot forward as they fired off their armor piercing rockets. They managed to pick off four planes on their first run, all lumbering Ilyushins looking exactly like the P2 Warhawk. Long before the MiG-1’s and Yakovlev-4’s, poor replica’s of Devastators and Furies, could get behind them, they swooped underneath the crippled zeppelin and wrestled their craft up into a battle turn. Out of his cramped cockpit, Jazz could see the crew of the heavily damaged zeppelin throwing out ballast. Anything heavy and not bolted down was chucked out to keep her airborne.
Still in perfect formation, they took out two more, letting the chaos of the furball work in their advantage. The Russians had trouble finding their attackers among the dozens of fellow planes, while Jazz and his gang had but to line up their sights to score a hit. There were less planes on the Damocles’ port side and the only heavy fighters were on a straight and level attack run coming towards them. This was a problem. The heavy’s outgunned them massively and a head on attack would be suicide. Jason counted twelve .60 caliber autocannons easily.
‘Go low guys,’ Jazz instructed, ‘Looks like they haven’t seen us yet. Get underneath and go for the soft spots.’
Pushing against the stick, Jazz. Undertaker and Scalpalot nosed down and picked up airspeed. 200 feet lower they pulled up again, their gunsights climbing towards the enemy planes. As if on cue, they fired their rockets simultaneously. The right wing of one of the Ilyushins disintegrated in a cloud of debris. For one second the plane rose up, then it rolled over its right and into an uncontrollable spin. Another plane, a Lavochkin-2 looking exactly like a William & Colt Peacemaker took a hit in its central engine nacelle and it broke apart in mid-air. Levelling out of his climb and into a turn, Jazz spotted the one plane that got away and his breath stopped cold in his throat. To his horror, he saw a grey plume of smoke; it trailed the aerial torpedo heading straight for the Damocles.
Even though she kept the armored hatches covering her broadside cannons closed, another direct hit would be fatal. He thumbed the radio to warn them, but already knew it would be too late. A shadow flitted across the noon sun as the shark-like rocket shot across the sky.
The explosion of the torpedo was so fierce, so bright, the glare of the light hurt his eyes. Then the screaming began.
A fraction of a second Jazz thought the shouts actually sounded happy. Arcing the Shady Lady around, he looked up hesitantly. From the changing perspective, he could now see the black cloud of the explosion drifting a good thirty feet off the starboard side of the zeppelin. Another grey contrail intersected it from above.
‘Yeehaw! Starting the party already without us?’ hollered a womans voice over the radio.
‘Those Ruski’s are in trouble now,’ came Undertaker, ‘We just got Wicked & Wild!’
‘You betcha!,’ answered Wild, throwing her menacing Kestrel in a turn, ‘And just in time too. Always knew you boys couldn’t handle it.’
‘Oh yeah? You want to keep scores, Wild?’ challenged Scalpalot, ‘I bet you we’ll shoot down more then you.’
‘You’re on, buddy!’ replied Wicked, ‘Now let’s get those Bolshevik bastards!’
With three agile fighters supplying cover and two heavy’s packing a phalanx of machineguns, cannons and rockets, things finally started to look up for the crippled Damocles. Against all odds, Marty had managed to raise her a good threehundred feet and she was still pushing away from where ever the Russians had come from. Firefighters put out the big fires in her exposed frame and emergency teams were already patching up the remaining gasbags.
Outside, the five Firebirds ploughed through the Russians. One after another, dark green planes tumbled down as burning clutter of twisted metal. Jazz knew a furball takes its tolls from both sides and when he heard the radio call he so dreaded to receive, he also knew it had been unavoidable.
‘I’m hit! I’m going down!’ radioed Wild in a panic.
Jazz checked her plane. The right fuselage was a right mess. Peppered with bullet holes and streaking flames out of the engine, it slowly started to turn over. Soon that gentle tumble would be a limb-ripping spin.
‘Get clear, Wild,’ he answered her, ‘You can't do any more good back there.’
‘Right, bailing out.’ Her voice was more dissapointed then distressed now. ‘Just get back at them for me, will ya?’
‘Don’t worry, little sis, they’ll pay,’ said Wicked, but Wild had already jumped her plane together with her gunner.
‘Okay, Firebirds,’ said Jazz to keep them focused on their goal, ‘Let’s mop up the stragglers and check if we’re still in a fighting state.’
An eerily familiar voice came across the static of the radio, heavy with a slavic accent.
‘I think not. It would be wise to surrender to Red Army, mister Grant.’
‘Dear lord, is that my buddy Oleg?’ replied Jazz, ‘They let you get back in a plane again?’
Banking the Shady Lady around, Jazz looked around and quickly spotted him. A bright red MiG-1, sporting the familiar red star outlined in black, was leading the remaining green planes around the Damocles. All in all, it couldn’t be more then half a dozen planes. Jazz checked his gauges. Not much fuel left, all rockets gone and about half of his munition spent. Looking outside he saw more then a few whisps of greasy smoke coming from several engines of his crew. I’ll take those odds anyday, he thought to himself, grinning from ear to ear despite of himself. Still, it had been close, the Damocles nearly hadn’t made it. Both groups circled around, steadily climbing, each waiting for the other to make the first move.
‘Very funny, mister Grant. Yet I believe I am, how you say… last one to laugh.’
‘Did anybody ever tell you it’s ‘Jazz’ whenever I’m up in the air?’
‘I am sorry, mister Grant, American callsigns are so… theatrical. Now surrender! If you cooperate, you might get away alive. Else you will be destroyed. Is that simple, yes?’
‘Yeah? You and what army? We pretty much wiped your buddies from the sky.’
‘This army, mister Grant, this army. The one behind me.’
Craning his neck inside the cramped little cockpit, Jazz tried to look beyond the Russians. His jaw dropped.
Set against a dark grey background, the Firebirds saw Olegs army approaching. Wave after wave of dark green planes filled the sky. Jazz counted Migs, Lavochkins, Ilyushins, Yakovlevs, even Tupolevs. Dozens of them, maybe close to a hundred. My God, he thought, it must be an entire wing, made up of at least four whole squadrons.
‘Where the hell did they come from?!’ exclaimed Wicked, ‘We scouted the area. There’s no way we could have missed an airbase large enough for that!’
‘Looks like they came from that small mountain,’ said Scalpalot.
‘That’s no mountain,’ said Jazz, ‘it’s an airship!’
‘It’s too big to be an airship,’ said Undertaker.
The clouds parted as a gargantuan hulk floated forward through them. It wasn’t just big, it was impossibly big, it was monstrously big. It actually looked like an upside down mountain hovering in the air. It was a zeppelin unlike they had ever seen before. It consisted of two main hulls lashed together, each bigger then any other zeppelin that was ever built. Underneath hung an intricate metal construction the shape and size of an inverted castle. Countless engines pushed it along with great effort. Scores of turrets cluttered its sides. A double row of broadside hatches was built into its sides. On each of its bows was a red star as big as a house.
‘Sweet Mary Mother of God,’ said Jazz, weakly.
‘God has nothing to do with it, mister Grant’ said Oleg ecstatically, ‘This is Mat’ Rossiya and now, now you will feel the power of Red Army!’
The Mother Russia, thought Jazz; and then: We cannot win this. It’s impossible. Out loud, he said:
‘Okay, Oleg, you win. You can have the damn briefcase. Just let the Firebirds go.’
‘Of course, mister Grant. I admire your wise decision. Now tell your people on board to stand down and have briefcase ready. We shall board and take back to its rightful place. And do not try anything funny. You will not live long enough to regret.’
Jazz instructed Marty to do it, ignoring his protests. They had no other choice. Still circling, now well above the Damocles as if she was some sort of neutral grounds, both parties watched as a small bomber, a Tupolev, detached itself from the swarm of Russian aircraft and docked swiftly with the Damocles. From the corner of his eyes, Jazz could see the boarding party climbing up the ladder. There were about a dozen of them, all that could fit in the bomber.
It seemed like an eternity, but in the end, they all climbed back down.
‘I have just received call that briefcase is in order,’ came Oleg on the radio again, ‘Well done, mister Grant. I always think you were businessman after all. Now say goodbye to your friends.’
‘What?! You bastard! You said we’d get away alive!’
‘Actually, I said you might get away alive. Perhaps if you turned and ran when you could, you might have lived. But that zeppelin you call Damocles is still Soviet zeppelin Vostok. We cannot allow it to remain in the hands of common thieves. That will just not do!’
The Russian planes, now filling the sky all around them, swung around to form an attack formation. One single run would be enough for them to finish them off. Even if they’d manage to stave them off, there were enough torpedo carrying planes to blast the Damocles to bits. There was no escape.
Suddenly the radio crackled and an authoritive voice came through.
‘This is commander Dahl, hailing the Russian invaders. We have you surrounded with four strike zeppelins. Surrender yourselves!’
The Russians hesitated. Jazz craned his neck looking for the unexpected newcomer, but he couldn't see anything. The sky was cloudy, there was no way to see if this strange commander was telling the truth or not. Yet the Russians promptly moved as one and headed back to their bizarre aerial airbase. Olegs’s red MiG made a last pass across Jazz’ flight path.
‘You have no idea how lucky you are, mister Grant. If your friends had not come to rescue, you would be my personal kill. We have what we came for. There is a larger plan that must prevail over my preferences. But we will meet again, yes? You have not seen last of us, but we will be last you ever see.’
The MiG banked a hard right to follow his comrades. It was unsettling to see how fast they docked on dozens of arrestor hooks and were hoisted aboard, all the while rising higher and higher. As slow as the titanic airship was in level flight, as swift as she was when climbing.
Soon the battered Firebirds found themselves alone again in the sky. They too docked with their homebase. The Damocles barely managed to stay aloft with the added weight. Inside the launch bay it was pandemonium. Smoke hung everywhere. Soot streaked emergency crews ran to and fro in an organized chaos, putting out fires, patching up the remaining gasbags and trying to keep the engines they had left in working order. Battle-weary, Jason climbed out of the Shady Lady, the last to be hoisted in, and leaned against her with his eyes closed for a moment. That was too close, he thought, Way too close.
The others still stood by their planes, near to exhaustion. Only Nora looked agitated and she zoomed in on him.
‘What are we going to do about Margaret?’ she demanded to know.
‘Relax, she’ll be fine,’ said Jason, ‘Although she’ll have to wait a while. Actually, she’s in less trouble then we are. We have to get the Damocles back into something like working order first and get the hell out of here. She’s got a radio, we’ll pick her up later.’
Nora did not seem to be satisfied by this answer at all, but before she could object she was rudely pushed aside by a panting Marty. The big man looked like he’d gone through hell. His coverall was torn and scorched in places. A cut ran across his forehead and it bled into his right eye. He didn’t even seem to notice. He looked genuinely scared.
‘They took Alicia!’ was all he could say through gasps of breath.
‘What?!’
‘The Russians…when they boarded us…took the briefcase…suddenly pulled machineguns on us…started firing at everything…trying to start a fire…Alicia was there…tried hiding behind some crates…they took her…said something about safe passage…’
‘Damnit!’ shouted Jason and he threw his flying goggles to the floor in an outburst of anger. Maddened with frustration, he pounded a girder with his fist.
‘We got another problem,’ said Patrick flatly from behind them.
‘Another? How could we possibly have more problems?!’ spewed Jason, striding towards the view port where his crew mate stood.
‘Look,’ was all the other man said and pointed outside.
Two black zeppelins, bristling with guns, hung in the air on their port side. A run to the other side of the launch bay revealed two more on their starboard side. A swarm of pitchblack fighters buzzed around them. The intercom system came to live, announcing a message from the newcomers.
‘This is commander Dahl, hailing the pirate zeppelin Damocles. We have you surrounded with four strike zeppelins. Surrender yourselves!’
‘A bit repetitive in their conversation, aren’t they?’ said Jason with a wan smile. Sometimes he hated to be the guy in charge. He turned to press the microphone button on nearby intercom station and told the radio room to patch him through to commander Dahl.
‘This is Jason Grant, leader of the Firebirds and commander of the Damocles,’ he said, ‘We surrender.’
He hung up and looked the rest of his crew in the eye. They stood assembled before him with leaden expressions. He knew each and every one of them as well as he ever would know another man or woman. He was supposed to be their leader and he just surrendered for the second time in one day. He had lost both Margaret and Alicia. He had failed them.
‘I’m sorry guys,’ he said, ‘We have no choice.’

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