Beneath Gray Skies (45 page)

“That’s two more,” reported Müller about ten seconds later. “One chute hasn’t opened yet—oh, there it goes.”

Eckener was already calling down the voice tube to the crew quarters.

“How many there?” asked Müller. “My count based on the crew roster is that there should be seventeen more.”

“Agreed,” said Eckener.

“Fifteen … sixteen … seventeen,” counted Müller, after a short while.

“Now it’s just us here in the control car,” said Eckener. “Go on, men.”

“After you, sir,” said Müller.

“Damn you, no! I’m the captain and I go last.”

“Aye, aye, sir.”

“Get that sergeant out with you. Tell him what’s the ripcord, and explain how he should wrap his arms round himself so they don’t get torn off.”

At that moment, a bright light shot past the windshield.

“What the devil was that?” said Eckener. He looked out of the windshield to where a smoke trail led, seemingly from the ground, to a hole in the hull covering, just beside the control car. “Someone’s shooting at us!” he exclaimed.

“That must be Brian, Captain,” said the Confederate sergeant. “I’ve just realized what he was doing on the ground.”

He watched as black specks fell from the control car, suddenly getting bigger, and exploding into white mushrooms that floated downwards.

B
rian cursed bitterly as he reloaded the rocket tube. He could still see the smoke trail left where the incendiary projectile had shot skyward stretching up to
Bismarck
. Through
Bismarck
, he corrected himself. It had been a good shot—he’d allowed for wind and for the motion of the dirigible, and the rocket had passed through the fabric skin, just to the starboard side of the control car—and out the top side. Brian could see the smoke trail arising from the top of
Bismarck
’s hull. Obviously in its passage through the airship, the warhead had failed to find anything hard enough inside the hull to set off the detonator.

-o-

A
few days previously, Vickers, Weisstal and he had worked out that Brian would shoot down the airship once the crew had safely evacuated. The weapon was to be a rocket-propelled incendiary device, fired from a shoulder-mounted tube. Deprived of an industrial base capable of producing and machining the high-quality steel to make gun barrels for heavy artillery, the Confederacy had developed rocket artillery as an alternative. Accordingly, the science of rocketry was somewhat more advanced there than in other nations, and there was a wide selection of such weapons available to the Confederates.

A number of different portable light rockets had been developed for infantry use, and by good fortune, the 3rd Alabama Regiment with which Brian had served had been equipped with some of these. Brian, on account of his height, and his maturity compared to the younger Confederate conscripts, had been selected for basic training with the rockets.

“I have to warn you,” Brian had said, that the ammunition I used in training was not always good quality. I seem to remember that about two out of three shells were duds.”

“The ones you have with you,” Vickers had replied, pointing at the bags at Brian’s feet, “are new ones which should work. They’re the latest design of incendiary shell. As far as you’re concerned, you use them in exactly the same way as the old ones.”

“Oh, God save us all from the latest designs,” had sighed Brian. “I’d been happier if you’d given me a tried and tested model that’s known to work properly.”

“As you pointed out just now, that cuts down the choice considerably,” Vickers had commented dryly. “These are meant to be a considerable improvement on the previous design. We can’t make any promises, though.”

Well, he had no complaints about the way that one had fired, but he wished there was a time fuse as well as an impact fuse. Bloody Confederates, he thought. Never do anything properly. As his hands worked in the automatic motions of reloading, he watched the parachutes slowly descending from the airship. That must be all the crew out of there safely, he thought to himself. The first of them must have landed by now, on the far side of the field. There was bright orange smoke pouring from the rear of the airship. He guessed that must be the treasure pod, but there was no time for him to wait for it to fall free.

He slipped the second projectile into the tube, and checked the contact mounting at the rear. When he pulled the trigger on the tube’s stock, a small electrical current would flow through these contacts into the projectile’s primer, which would then explode, firing the rocket propellant, and sending the projectile for at least 600 yards. In the hands of an experienced marksman, a surprising level of accuracy could be achieved.

He had lifted the launching tube to his shoulder and started to take aim, when he was interrupted by a shout from behind him. “You! What the hell do you think you’re doing? Put that thing down, put your hands in the air and turn round slowly!”

Never a good idea to argue with a gun in your back, thought Brian, as he complied with the orders. Facing him was a young Confederate private, who advanced menacingly towards him, carbine held at the hip, with the muzzle pointing at Brian. Bad idea, kid, thought Brian, as the soldier moved closer towards him and slipped the safety catch. He judged the range between him and the muzzle of the carbine, and waited.

“What’s that?” The carbine barrel jerked towards the rocket launcher at Brian’s feet.

“Why, ain’t y’all never seen one of them before?” asked Brian, in his Lewis Levoisin accent. “That there’s a mighty fine piece of Southern weaponry. The RP-IA425C. ‘RP’ standing for rocket propelled, you understand, ‘IA’ standing for infantry artillery, and 425 is the diameter in inches. That’s four and one quarter inches, or four point two five, if you prefer it in decimal. And the C is the model number. Though come to think of it, it might just be a D model if you look at the shoulder stock a bit more closely.”

During this speech, the soldier’s attention had been flickering between the weapon and Brian, who had slowly been moving closer. With his last words, Brian’s right leg shot out and knocked the muzzle of the carbine upwards. At the same time, his left arm reached up and grabbed the gun, pulling it and the Confederate towards him as his body slipped to one side. As the soldier’s body drew level, he reached out with his right arm and chopped viciously at the side of the boy’s neck with the edge of his hand.

His adversary slumped to the ground, and Brian attempted to pull the carbine free of his grasp. The other’s finger caught in the trigger guard, and the carbine discharged. Brian swore aloud. Although the crowd’s attention would surely be on the dirigible and the parachutes falling from it, the noise was bound to attract attention, since it came from the source of the smoke trail from the first rocket.

Brian slung the carbine over his shoulder, snatched up the loaded rocket launcher and the remaining duffel, and ran around behind the enormous shed, where he could still see
Bismarck
looming overhead. Parachutes were still falling from her, he noted. He guessed that meant that he might have killed some of the crew if the first missile had exploded, and he thanked Providence that the rocket had passed straight through
Bismarck
’s hull. He watched as black specks fell from the control car, suddenly getting bigger, and exploding into white mushrooms that floated downwards.

He checked the load, put the rocket launcher back on his shoulder in firing position and observed the dirigible carefully for a few seconds. The whole crew now seemed to have abandoned ship—at any rate, there were no more bodies emerging from the control car. He took careful aim, towards the center of the dirigible this time, and squeezed the trigger. With a whooshing sound, the missile sped skywards on its column of smoke.

Bismarck
’s skeleton showed clearly, silhouetted against the inferno within the hull.

D
avid was terrified. He’d never thought he’d be frightened of heights, but then no-one had ever asked him before to step out of a door several hundred feet above the ground. He and Captain Eckener were now the only ones remaining in the control car. With the engines stopped, the airship was practically silent, except for the creaking of the skeleton as the hull flexed slightly in the wind. Over the creaking, David could hear cries from the aft passenger compartment, as the Nazis and Confederates realized their situation.

Although they could not have seen the engineers and off-watch crew members escaping, they must have been watching the parachutes and the crew jumping from the control car, and quite probably they’d seen Brian’s rocket, thought David. In addition to the babble of confused voices, he could also hear what sounded like footsteps making their way to the control car along the gangway overhead.

“For God’s sake, young man, jump!” urged Captain Eckener.

He seemed like a decent enough guy, thought David, and he wanted to get out, but there was no way he could go through with it. “No, sir,” he replied. “You go out. I’ll take my chances.”

“You damned fool,” growled Eckener. “My orders from the ground were to save you, and I would remind you, Sergeant, that it’s my right, as Captain, to go down with the ship, if anyone does.” There were tears in his eyes, David noticed with surprise. Eckener reminded David once again how to jump. “Just cross your arms in front of you like this, holding the ripcord handle in your right hand, step out of the door, count to three and pull the cord. Bend your knees and roll over when you land.”

“Yes, sir, I understand, but I just can’t do it,” wailed David.

“Oh, grow up, man,” snapped Eckener. “Where’s that famous Southern courage?” he taunted.

Stung, David moved towards the open doorway. “Good man,” encouraged the Captain. Just then, from aft came a “whoof.” Eckener glanced aft.

“My God!” he exclaimed. David’s eyes followed his pointing finger. About midway along the airship’s hull, flames had started to lick out of a hole in the side.

“I am sorry about this, Sergeant,” said Eckener. “I hope you will find the courage to follow me. If you don’t, please remember in your last moments that I tried to save your life. You now probably have less than a minute, if that, to make up your mind.” He stepped forward, saluted David formally, and crossed his arms in front of him in the way he’d demonstrated earlier. Then he was gone.

At that precise moment, Hermann Goering clattered down the ladder from the keel catwalk. He was followed, David was surprised to see, by President Davis.

“What the devil are you doing here?” asked Goering. Without waiting for an answer, he moved to the helmsman’s position in the control car.

“We must get down, Mr. Goering,” called Davis plaintively. “Do something!” Goering started spinning the elevator wheel, and the dirigible, with almost no way on her, responded sluggishly. The bow pointed downward a few more degrees. Davis looked at David and noticed his parachute. “Where did you get that?” he snapped.

“Captain Eckener gave it to me, sir,” replied David.

“Then give it to me,” said Davis. “As your President, I order you.” David saw the angry face moving towards him, and was repelled by the hate in it. He was suddenly reminded of something by Davis’s red-rimmed greedy little eyes, and he started to laugh hysterically.

“What’s so goddamn funny?” growled Davis, taking a step closer. Behind him, Goering yanked at a lever on the control panel, and
Bismarck
lurched. David, already moving back from the approaching Davis, put out a hand to steady himself and missed.

-o-

S
uddenly he was in mid-air, falling away from
Bismarck
. The air caught at his arms as he struggled to assume the position that Eckener had demonstrated and catch hold of the ripcord handle. Onetwothree, he counted quickly to himself, and pulled the handle. He slowed, and then seemed to stop in mid-air as the parachute opened with a jerk. He looked down. The ground seemed very close, but at least he wasn’t rushing at high speed towards it.

Another “whoof” from above made him look up to the burning dirigible. Another two sections had ignited on either side of the original fire.
Bismarck
’s skeleton showed clearly, silhouetted against the inferno within the hull. Flames were shooting upwards to an incredible height, and were nearing the passenger car. Incredibly, David thought he could hear high-pitched screaming from the trapped Nazis and Confederates. He listened harder, and realized it was the wind whistling through his parachute shrouds.