"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 it stood between them and Paris. Between them and Richelieu.
Jesse tapped his index finger on the throttle, thinking it over. The line of cumulus clouds ahead was just below them, just beginning to build. During his lifetime, he'd cruised over such ripples a thousand times, barely noticing them. But that had been back when he was flying jets, or turboprops, and had looked down from Olympian heights in pressurized comfort. Today, he was flying in a Gustav, a relatively primitive aircraft, flying with a jury-rigged automobile engine, carrying a heavy load. He knew from the tests that the aircraft could go much higher than their present altitude of eight thousand feet. He also knew that there was no telling how high those puffies out there would reach before he was past them. They might grow into behemoths topping twenty thousand feet or they might not grow any farther than ten thousand feet or so. The weather line wasn't even continuous; the cells were still separate, though that would change as they grew. Still, the smart thing to do, the prudent thing, would be to turn around and wait for tomorrow. Just turn around and go have a beer and a schnitzel with Sergeant Sauer and Henni.
Instead, Jesse pushed the throttle up and began to climb. Tomorrow might see the onset of normal weather patterns, with winds from the north and west and no chance to get to Paris. Behind him was—behind him. Ahead of him was Richelieu.
"Pilot, copilot," Emil sought his attention.
Jesse knew Emil was asking to be filled in, as was completely correct.
Keep him thinking about how, instead of why, Jesse thought.
"Emil, we're going to climb over that weather ahead of us," Jesse said in a matter-of-fact voice and switching to his instructor mode. "Can you tell me the difference between our best-rate-of-climb and our best-angle-of-climb?"
As his copilot recited the technical answer, Jesse trimmed up the aircraft at the best-climb-rate airspeed and watched the line of blossoming clouds now only a few miles ahead. It was too early to tell how fast the clouds were growing, but he could see the tops bulging, expanding, reaching higher and wider. Somewhere under those clouds, a heat source was pushing them up.
Jesse shook his head in disgust.
He aimed at a gap between two baby storms, just beginning to grow and merge. The altimeter passed ten thousand feet and he switched on the supercharger and retrimmed. They were still climbing steadily. As Emil finished his answer, Jesse asked another question.
"Okay, Emil, now tell me about hypoxia. At what altitude do we need to worry about it? Do you know your personal symptoms?" Jesse knew they had some thousands of feet to go before oxygen deprivation would be a problem, but it made sense to prepare.
Emil responded, "Yes, sir. Hypoxia is possible at altitudes above ten thousand feet and the effects depend upon the length of exposure to the thinner air. My personal symptoms include tingling fingertips, blurring of vision, flushed skin, and a burning sensation on my face. Other possible symptoms include ..."
Letting Emil drone on, Jesse looked left and right, trying to gauge the danger. Portions of the weather line, separate, stronger cells, were already topping their altitude on either side, swelling rapidly. The two storms directly ahead were growing faster now, though still lower than the rest. And getting closer. The aircraft's altitude was now passing thirteen thousand feet, but their rate of climb was slowing. Jesse raised the nose further and trimmed up to best angle-of-climb. Emil was silent now. No doubt he was staring outside. If he had any sense, Jesse thought, he'd be praying.
They were over the edge of the merging clouds, now, climbing up the front of a white mountain of vapor and passing 14,200 feet, hanging on the prop. Jesse's eyes flicked to the engine- and oil-temp gauges and he grimaced at the readings. If the engine quit now, Jesse and Emil were dead.
Climbing slower now, and the clouds ahead were just above them. They were above their tested service ceiling, but that didn't matter. They must be getting some push from the updraft. Silently, Jesse willed the plane to keep climbing.
Jesse idly noted that his breathing was too rapid. He'd been hyperventilating, but couldn't stop it. They were starting to bounce around, affected by the upper reaches of the storms closing around them. Emil was saying something, but Jesse couldn't understand the words because his ears were ringing. He rubbed his numb face and felt dizzy. Wisps of cloud were passing over them, topping them and he noticed the airspeed was dangerously close to stall, but he suddenly couldn't remember what that meant.
"Hans would know," he mused softly to himself. "Wish old Hans was here."
Jesse, lower the nose.
"What?" Jesse asked muzzily. "Hans? Is that you?"
Yes, Jesse, it's me, Hans. Lower the nose, Jesse.
"Hans!" Jesse yelled happily. "God, it's good to hear you, son! Where are you?"
I'm here, Jesse. I'm here. Now, lower the nose, Jesse.
"But the clouds, Hans ..."
Don't worry about the clouds, Jesse. You're between the cells. Lower the nose now, Jesse. Not too much. Maybe five degrees. Do it, Jesse.
"Okay, Hans," Jesse said dreamily. He released a bit of back pressure. "How's that?"
That's good, Jesse. That's good. Now keep it there.
Jesse vaguely noticed that the aircraft was surrounded, completely immersed in cloud. The blue sky above had disappeared. Daylight faded into gray dimness. The bouncing and jostling got worse, but Jesse couldn't bring himself to care.
"Where ya been, Hans?" he asked. "I've missed you a lot."
I know, Jesse. Watch your ball. Wings level, now.
"Gotcha, Hans," Jesse said. "Jus' like ol' times, huh?"
Yes, just like old times, Jesse.
With surprising quickness, the aircraft burst from cloud into brilliant sunshine. Jesse squinted and turned his head away from the light.
You've got to descend now, Jesse.
"Yeah," Jesse replied and lowered the nose.
Pull off some power, Jesse.
"Okay, Hans. Where you been? I've missed you. Sharon will be so happy... ."
I know, Jesse. I've been around. How are you feeling?
"Pretty good, Hans," Jesse smiled. "Back hurts some, but otherwise, just fine. Damn, it's good to talk to you, again."
Same here, Jesse. But I have to go now. Do you understand?
"Oh, sure, Hans. Sure," Jesse said. He shook his head and took a deep, contented breath. Awareness burst into his head and he heard Emil over the intercom.
"... was magnificent, Herr Oberst!" Emil said excitedly. "I confess, I was a bit concerned for a few minutes. The other pilots told me about it—how calm you are when things become really difficult. But to hear you continue instructing while flying through those storms, as if we were merely practicing landings! Simply wonderful, sir!"
Jesse responded carefully. "Yes. Thank you, Emil." Slowly taking stock of their situation, he saw a large, distinct smudge in the distance. Smoke from a city rose high into the otherwise pristine sky and flattened into the typical anvil shape where it hit a temperature inversion. It was Paris.
Jesse waggled the rudders. "Take over for a minute, Emil. Level off at eight thousand."
Emil shook the stick in eager response. "Copilot's aircraft."
Jesse lowered his head and rubbed both palms against his wet eyes.
Goo-bye, Hans, he thought.
Within minutes, they were approaching the outskirts of Paris. Although it was a huge city for the period, Jesse nonetheless thought of it as shrunken from the city he had visited several times, many years ago up-time. Luckily, the route of the Seine hadn't changed and they followed it toward the city center.
Jesse heard Emil say something over the intercom, but couldn't understand him. Pinching his nostrils between his thumb and finger, he blew hard, in the classic valsalva move. Both ears popped, thunderously, and he could hear again.
"Say again, copilot?" he asked.
"Are you all right, sir?" Emil asked. "Do you want the controls?"
"Yes, yes, give me the aircraft," Jesse said, though he still felt a bit disoriented, a little woozy.
Emil pumped the rudder pedals and Jesse shook the stick. The air was a bit hazy from smoke, and Jesse had difficulty finding landmarks. He decided to descend to three thousand for a better look. From there, they could easily see faces, whole crowds of them, turned upward, many pointing, drawn by the sound of their engine and shiny wings. Jesse almost slid his canopy back to wave and thought better of it. He did waggle the wings, a bit, in the age old signal, "Hello," before remembering their purpose there.
Well, I always did enjoy being in an air show, he thought. Time to get to work.
The river turned to the northwest and he followed it, finally recognizing the big, sweeping hook in the city center. Suddenly, he had his orientation, spotting the huge edifice of Notre Dame on its island, with the royal palace, the Louvre, just beyond it. He circled again, much lower this time, looking for the Sorbonne and its supposedly distinctive church dome, but couldn't find it. There seemed to be a hundred church domes in the city.
A thought struck him. "Shit, is it the Left Bank from upstream or downstream?"
"Sir?"
Jesse realized he'd been squeezing the stick and the intercom button in a death grip and loosened his hand. "Nothing, copilot. Stand by for Pre-Attack Checklist."
Jesse figured it must be from upstream, but still couldn't find the Sorbonne. He did, however, spot a juicier target: the Bastille, only recently put in use as a prison by Cardinal Richelieu.
Screw the Sorbonne, that's our first target, he thought. Now that he had placed it, the prison's eighty-foot walls and moat stood out like a thumb. Best of all, a large street led straight from the Bastille to the Louvre. And Richelieu's palace was just across the street from the royal palace. He began to climb.
Cardinal Richelieu heard the shouting through the large windows of his private study. The windows faced the Louvre and overlooked a spacious garden where, a moment earlier, two dozen ladies and their escorts had been playing some silly game. It was their shouts that brought the clergyman to the large balcony above the garden, where he was shortly joined by one of his secretaries. Richelieu's eyes were turned skyward.
"Your Eminence ..." the monsignor began.
"Yes, I see it, Henri," the cardinal replied. "Rather pretty, isn't it?"
"Uh, yes, I suppose, Your Eminence, but what ... ?" Henri's voice trailed off.
Richelieu snorted impatiently. "I would have thought it was obvious, Henri. The Americans have come to visit."
He watched as the machine circled and then flew off to the east. It seemed to be climbing and Richelieu idly wondered what sort of weapons would be dropped. Some form of Greek fire or explosives, he assumed. His spies told him the Americans had both. Noting the numeral "1" on the tail, Richelieu likewise assumed the machine was being flown by Colonel Wood. "Der Adler." He was suddenly glad that the king and queen were at one of their country estates.
Turning to the monsignor, Richelieu inquired politely, "Henri, would you be so kind as to bring me a glass of wine?"
"Pre-Attack Checklist complete," Emil reported.
"Roger," Jesse replied. They'd drop on the Bastille and climb straight ahead for an attack on the Louvre. The wind didn't matter much with this bomb load. He pulled the nose up, slowing the aircraft, and gave the order.
"Speed brake out!"
Emil flipped the catch and cranked the deployed wheel furiously. Jesse felt the large metal device extend and Emil confirmed what he knew.
"Speed brake out!"
Stooping like an eagle, the Gustav dove. As they passed forty-five degrees of dive, the siren on the left gear flipped open and, as the airflow hit it, began an unearthly howl, dopplering higher as their speed increased. At something over sixty degrees of dive, Jesse caught his target and stabilized the aircraft. Through his sight, Jesse noticed something hard up against the front of the Bastille. Small wooden structures, people, horses, and cattle, many tendrils of smoke. Suddenly, it came to him.
"Christ, it's a market!" he said aloud. He saw the people beginning to scatter, probably due to primordial fear inspired by the siren. Horses bolted everywhere, running through the press, knocking over stalls and people. It was too late to change their target, since their fuel situation was getting fairly critical. He did what he could and tucked further under, centering the castle in his sight. The thought passed through his head. Collateral damage.
"Bomb away!" he ordered and Emil obeyed immediately.
"Bomb's away!"
Jesse began his recovery, pulling hard. The siren stopped its wail and, judging the moment, Jesse grunted, "Retract speed-brake!"
Emil released the lock and, aided by the airflow, quickly cranked the device closed and latched it in place. "Speed-brake retracted and locked."
Climbing straight ahead at full power, Jesse tried to look over his shoulder at the target, only to stop when his neck complained, giving a sharp warning pain. He stopped trying to look behind him, though he imagined he'd heard the screams of people as they roared past. He zoom climbed, already thinking of their second target.
Richelieu had clearly heard the siren and then spotted the attacker. Trees and buildings obscured his vision, but he thought he could see smoke rising from the direction of the Bastille.
Odd choice of target, he thought. Why kill common criminals?
Craning his head, he spotted the flyer high above, a glint of sunlight off the wings, and took a sip of wine. Where now, Colonel?
The siren began its hideous scream again and the cardinal calmly watched the machine dive. The silly women below began screaming in counterpoint and Richelieu wished they'd go away. He finally noted the direction of the descent and the thought came again. It's fortunate that the king and queen are not at home. They might have been affrighted. These Americans have poor intelligence; they should pay their spies more.
Henri was plucking at his arm. "Your Eminence, please come inside!"
"Shoo!" the cardinal said. "I must see this. We should be perfectly safe here." He looked at the Louvre and saw no one outside. "Unlike those poor devils over there, I should think. If they are wise, they are already in the cellars."
He followed the ... Aircraft, that's the word ... and saw it release something, while still at a great height. The aircraft immediately ceased its wail and he followed the thing it had dropped, eager to see the result. Halfway to its target, the object burst apart and Richelieu suddenly knew the type of munitions the Americans had chosen.
Diabolical, he thought. I wouldn't have credited them with such subtlety.
With desperation giving him strength, Monsignor Henri grabbed the cardinal and pulled him back into the study, away from the windows. Placing his own body between his master and danger, Father Henri ignored his superior's protestations.
"Maybe it's just as well," Jesse mused. In the long seconds he had spent staring at the Louvre through his sight, it had become clear to him that nobody was home. There was no crowd of guards, no carriages, nothing to suggest a busy court, but the Louvre had looked much as he remembered it, or thought he remembered it.
He continued their climb out and turned to the south. His neck hurt like blazes, likewise, his back. He didn't bother looking back at the target. As he climbed, he looked to his left and saw the graced curves of Notre Dame's flying buttresses. He remembered walking past them long ago with a young woman with whom he had been much in love. Suddenly, he was very tired. He wanted to go home, but he had two bombs, two rockets, and a most unambiguous target left. He'd snuck a peek after bomb release and was certain he'd caught a glimpse of a man in red on a balcony of his last intended target. Richelieu, at least, was home.
"Emil, we'll drop both of the remaining bombs on this pass," he said quietly. "Forget the Left Bank, wherever it is. We haven't enough fuel to screw around."
"Understood, sir," Emil said and suddenly added, "It's a beautiful city, isn't it, sir?"
Unaccountably, a vision of ruined Magdeburg flashed through Jesse's mind. Leveling off, he looked down at the roofs and streets of Paris.
"Yes, it is, Emil," he replied. He performed a turn back north, judged the moment and slowed, once again.
"Speed brake out!"
Cardinal Richelieu had endured enough foolishness.
"Henri, remove your hands and step aside," he commanded. "We are in God's hands, are we not?"
His secretary lowered his head and moved aside and the cardinal stepped back outside onto the balcony just in time to hear the siren begin its scream. He peered into the sky and shivered a bit, despite himself. The aircraft was pointed directly at him. At last, the silly people in his garden realized the immediate danger and began to scatter, though Richelieu barely noticed. He kept his eyes on the aircraft.
He realized the aircraft was still diving, long past the point of its other dives. Colonel Wood wants to be certain, this time.
The sound of the siren became impossibly loud and he wondered if his attackers meant to strike him with the machine itself. He knew he should run. Instead, he gripped the balustrade, murmured a prayer, and waited. He caught two objects falling free and the aircraft shifted aspect, flashing low over him with a roar. Richelieu flinched as, with a tremendous crash, the objects struck the ground before him and burst, showering the garden with paper. The cardinal exhaled slowly and noticed his hands were shaking. He'd seen paper scatter from the bomb over the royal palace and assumed those intended for him held the same, though he'd had his doubts at the end. He didn't know yet what was printed on them, but he could guess. Given the unexpected ingenuity the Americans were displaying in this raid, he suspected the leaflets contained excerpts from French revolutionary proclamations of the future. He idly wondered what sort of complications would arise from their message. In the meantime, it appeared God intended for him to remain alive, in service to his country.
Hearing aircraft sounds again grow louder, he looked up and saw the machine pass directly over him toward the Seine. It dipped a little and two flaming rockets soared off the wings and exploded in the river, making Richelieu blink. The aircraft climbed and headed eastward.
Yes, I got your message, Prime Minister Stearns, he thought with admiration. Very neatly done.
Despite his weariness and aching back, Jesse felt just fine. It was as if a weight had fallen from his shoulders with his ordnance. In the dive, he had fixated on the motionless red figure in his aiming sight and, for a split second, had considered following Hans' example. His finger had tickled the rocket firing switches and he'd suddenly jerked his hand away. Instead, in the end his delayed drop had failed to deliver the leaflets as intended and he'd wasted the rockets in the river.
Stearns was right, he thought. I'm not God or an avenging angel. I'm only a man, commanding other men. A victim of collateral damage. Which reminds me ... He clicked the intercom.
"So, Emil, you and Henni are going flying tomorrow. Why don't you tell me what kind of flight profile you have in mind."
He began a cruise climb into the afternoon sun and listened with a smile as the young man spoke with growing enthusiasm.