A/N: I concede the anachronism of quoting Downtown in a fic set in 1945, but I've loved the image of a crew flying away from the target singing ever since I saw Flight of the Intruder as an adolescent and it doesn't seem like such a "rock" song that it couldn't have been written earlier, for Ella Fitzgerald and the like. Call it another example of cool being placed over accuracy.
0010 Hours
T+10 Minutes and Counting
East of Marseilles, France
The light's so much brighter there
You can forget all your troubles
Forget all your cares and go Downtown!
Things'll be great when you're Downtown!
No finer place for sure, Downtown!
You're gonna be all right now…
Julius Rosemont was laughing as the three of them finished the song in a ragged chorus, gasping it out past chests that were still heaving as they tried to gulp oxygen faster than their masks would deliver it. Fujita was anchoring them with a heavy bass voice, incongruous from the tiny man he knew, and Walker was just gasping out what he could past what could have been weak chuckles or very carefully muffled sobs. The intercom dissolved as they finally all fell silent, dizzy with relief and the edge of hyperventilation. They'd done it. They'd bombed Marseilles. Done tonight's flying for Uncle Sam, and now all they had to do was fly for themselves. Rosemont released his oxygen masks and took two careful breaths of thin, cold air before he fastened it back and managed to speak.
"C-Course back to Vendetta, Fuji? If the Glee Club is done its recital, that is." That set off another round of strangled-sounding laughter from Walker, but Fujita managed a response.
"Call it…155 magnetic, Skipper. We'll probably have to do a box." In theory they knew where Reprisal would be just before dawn when they overlapped her track. In practice, if the carrier had actually managed to steer her precise, expected course all night- well, it would be the first time Rosemont had ever heard about it. They'd get as close as they could, and hope to either raise the ship on radio or find her with radar.
"Mother of God." Walker's voice was an obscenely reverent whisper, and Rosemont looked up to his rear-view mirror. He immediately wished he hadn't.
Walker had thrown back the flash shield from his canopy, giving him a view of the city behind them that showed up terribly well. A black-orange mushroom-shaped cloud loomed over the city like a dark, elemental thing- Rosemont thought of the Titans of Greek myth, or Jorgmunder the world serpent looming over an entire city as he opened his maw. The cloud was lit by fire, great licking sheets of it that swept across Marseilles itself like capering wind-spirits from the Arabian Nights, burning away everything they touched. There were no fires in the harbor, but only because there was nothing left there that would burn. The docks, the ships, the tenements and warehouses that had sprouted up around them and served them through the centuries- all that they could see of them was cleaned, blackened earth like a burnt-out campfire.
Singing. My God, we were singing after we- But even the horrible beauty of the firestorm couldn't entirely erase the relief he felt. Or his concern for the Draka radars that would be looking for them on the way back. "Walker." No response. "Walker, goddammit! It was a long moment before the gunner came back.
"Y-yessir."
"Keep your eyes open back there. There are still plenty of Snakes between here and the ship, and something tells me they're going to be just a little bit pissed off. You can stare at your stateroom wall all you like after we get back, got it?"
A pause that almost went on too long, then Walker came back with another "Yessir". This one sounded a little better, and Rosemont didn't think he should push his luck.
The Revenant droned on through the night, leaving the fires of Hell behind it.
0136 Hours
T+1 Hour, 36 Minutes and Counting
Seventh Draka Army Headquarters
"Strategos?"
Eric von Shrakenberg had always been a light sleeper. Any Draka boys who weren't by nature learned during boarding school, when the lights were out and gangs of older boys came roaming the halls looking for recruits and victims both. He hadn't always had the reflexes that half-rolled him out of bed at the first sound of a voice, grabbing for the sidearm that rested on the camp chair next to his bed and pointing it at the door. The figure there raised its hands.
"Tetrarch Smythe, Strategos. Merarch Norton's compliments, and yo' are required in the command center immediately." Eric swiped an arm across his face, blinking as he tried to bring his mind up to full consciousness.
"What's going on?"
The boy- he wasn't much more than one, OCS was turning them out pretty fast these days- took a deep breath and swallowed. "Sir, I- that is, you'd best see for yourself, Sir." Eric's features darkened, but then he took in how the young Draka was almost swaying on his feet, obviously holding himself in check only through an outstanding effort of will. Terrifying him further would serve no purpose. He consciously throttled his voice down and just said,
"All right, son. Yo' tell the Strategos I'll be there directly." When the door closed, Eric swung his feet onto the floor, feeling a rustling next to him in bed as Sophie hauled herself up to her feet. Even in the Citizen Force an aide sharing his bed was looked on as…unusual, but Eric was the supreme commander here and the rest of his staff had collectively decided to look the other way. Now, as he pulled on the boots he'd taken off last night before falling into bed with his clothes on, he felt her grab a uniform blouse and pull it over her head. By the time he'd stood up and headed for the door of their room, she was already a step behind him, fully dressed and cradling her Tolgren machine pistol. Eric grinned.
"Yo' do realize yo' don't have to follow me everywhere, Decurion? Even we Strategoi are fully capable of walkin' down a headquarters hallway and listening to reports without we get ambushed by a dozen angry bushmen."
His voice was light, but there was no humor in her reply as she yanked a pack of cigarettes out of her blouse pocket, clenching one in her teeth and lighting it. "Hell you say, Eric, Sir. I heard that kid's voice. Whatever's goin' down, I'd lay my next six months' stipend it's serious bad. Yo' not goin' anywhere without me, Centurion." She only called him that when she was playing the role of an RTO reining in a headstrong junior officer, the way she'd done in Village One. Eric knew there was no use in arguing with her when she was in that mood.
The command center was silent as Eric walked in. Thunorssen was the only ranking officer there, with an assorted scatter of radio operators, map plotters, and the Merarch who held the night duty. Eric walked up to the main map table and put his hands on his hips.
"Allright, y'all. I'm here. What's the commotion?" For a long moment, nobody spoke. Merarch Norton was standing at attention, his eyes seemingly focused off at nothing. Thunorssen looked up from the map and licked her lips.
"Ah, Strategos, that is-"
"Right." Eric put both his hands on the table and leaned forward. This was absurd- a junior officer fresh from the agoge was one thing, but these were supposed to be the men and women leading the Race across Europe. "People, I don' get much sleep these days. Last time I remember havin' a good night's rest was sometime in 1941. Now, if someone don't start explaining why I am here at zero-one-hundred, I'm goin' to start getting fuckin' angry. Anyone want that?"
"Suh." Unexpectedly, it was Merarch Norton who spoke. His eyes didn't move from the wall of the room, and his voice was flat as scoured earth. "Suh, beg to report."
"By all means, Merarch." Better than nothing.
"Suh. At approximately six minutes past midnight, we began losin' contact with bases around the Mediterranean. Fragmentary transmissions indicated they were under attack with atomic munitions, followed by a complete loss of communications. Currently we are out of contact with Constantinople, Alexandria, Nova Cyrinica, and Nova Cartago in the Police Zone, and Naples, Sofia, and Marseilles in the New Territories." Eric stared at him for a moment.
"What?"
"Suh, more." Norton's eyes shone, and Eric was shocked to see that the man was holding back tears. "We have also received an all-forces message from Castle Tarleton. Max emergency, highest priority. They reported the Southern Police Zone under attack as well. Cape Town, Virconium, Diskarapur, and Shahnapur have all been hit." Norton shut his eyes and finished. "The message repeated twice, Suh. In the middle of the third repetition it…abruptly terminated. We have been unable to reestablish contact with them or any station in Archona. Neither has anyone we can raise. It seems-" The man's voice cut off, and Eric waved his hand. Absently, behind the glass wall of shock, he knew that no training could prepare anyone for this. Better to spare the man shame.
"Thank yo', Merarch. You may go." The man saluted, fist to breast, and left the room. Eric collapsed into a field chair and stared at the map, taking it in. Except for Genoa and Palermo, every port that supplied his expeditionary force was marked with an ugly blot of red marker. He swept his eyes over Europe, thick with the remains of barely defeated armies and a people not broken to the Yoke. Looked at the southern edge of the map, and thought of a Police Zone stripped to the danger point to support the war, then with all the centralized places of order and authority wiped away in nuclear fire.
"Orders, Sir?" Thunorssen was looking down at him, and Sophie, and all the Draka and serf auxillaries in the room. "Sir, we need orders."
Eric von Shrakenberg opened his mouth, and found there was only one order to give. One that had never been given before, in the history of the State and Race.
"Retreat."
0325 Hours
T+ 3 Hours, 25 Minutes and Counting
Over the Western Mediterranean
"Got something, Skipper." Walker broke the silence over Spirit of Rio's intercom, silence that had lasted almost uninterrupted since they had dropped their bomb on Marseilles. "Airborne radar, nine o'clock and closing. I'd say whatever it is, 's got us ."
"What is it, Walker?" Rosemont started a turn off to the left, putting whatever-it-was into a stern chase position on them. Even if he couldn't avoid it, he could complicate its intercept and suck it into the firing cone of the tail guns…and it wasn't as though they were having any luck finding the ship anyway. If they still hadn't in another half hour or so, things were going to get really interesting.
"D-dunno, Sir." Walker was silent for a moment. "Could be a Draka Night Eyes set, but the frequency isn't quite- Son of a bitch!"
"What is it?"
"APS-6 set, Skip!" For just a minute, Walker's old energy was back in his voice. "A big, beautiful, U.S. Navy model APS-6 radar set. It's one of Reprisal's night fighters! They found us!"
0350 Hours
Over USS Reprisal
Rosemont was still a bit incredulous when he saw the ship's running lights, dimmed down for war cruising but otherwise looking just as they had when he'd taken off a lifetime ago. The Revenant passed over the deck, and Rosemont got a glimpse of planes packed forward on the deck. Walker whistled.
"Whew. They've got a bunch of Avengers, some Corsairs, and it looks like two of our birds up there as well. Something big has to be going on." Rosemont grunted absently, more concerned with flying a tight racetrack around Reprisal as he dumped speed. He slapped the flaps down as they went into the final turn, feeling the controls turn to mush in his hands. Then his eyes were straining ahead, picking up first the wake, then the outline of the ship, then the dimly lit paddles the ship's LSO held up. His hands twitched with long years of experience, ignoring the deck once his sink rate was established and concentrating on the paddles' cues. Left. Too low- power. Power. Just a bit right. Hold it- cut!
Rosemont's hands slapped the throttles off at the same instant as Spirit of Rio slammed down on the carrier deck, her arresting hook grabbing one of the wires strung across the deck and stopping her short of the parked planes forward. A deckhand ran up and popped the canopy, reaching a hand in.
"Welcome back, Sir!" Rosemont shook it, a little dazed and wearing what he suspected was a pretty dopey grin. "We're spotting for a dawn strike, so we have to get you below lickity-split. Need you all to stay aboard and start folding the wings." Mechanically, Rosemont brought the ground hydraulic pump online, watching numbly as the Revenant's wings retracted at his command. Home. They were home. Safe. Part of his mind knew that wasn't true, that even this apparent refuge would soon be under threat, but a larger part of him didn't care. What the hell, they'd made it this far- they'd nuked the Snakes down into their holes and lived to tell about it! He could feel the elation rushing back, bubbling out past his lips in a laugh.
He got another numbing shock when the elevator bearing Spirit of Rio reached Hangar Deck Two, though. There were two other Revenants there- one apparently undamaged, but the other with one engine nacelle opened and streaked with black soot. Counting the two planes up on deck and the Spirit, that made five.
VAH-1 had boasted a strength of ten AR-1 Revenants at eight o'clock the night before. Whatever they'd accomplished, it was clear their friends had paid a terrible price for it.
When he swung himself out of the cockpit and dropped down to the deck, Rosemont found Commander Flannery waiting for him. He shook hands with his squadron commander, and gratefully accepted the cup of scalding-hot Navy coffee Flannery handed him.
"Good to see you back, Rosie. We'd about given it up on you." Flannery clapped him on the back and started walking. Rosemont followed, unable to keep from asking,
"Good to see you too, Quint. This all that got back?" Flannery shrugged.
"We're not sure yet. We got word that Blackie and his crew got down as planned in Gibraltar after they hit Nova Cartago. Only ones to hit the target and get back to the ship are Saint-Laurence in 07, me, and now you. Ritter and his crew in 06 radioed that they were under attack before they hit Genoa, and we haven't heard anything about a detonation there. Figure they didn't make it. Applebaum in 08 caught an engine fire after takeoff and 09 blew its radar when they tried to launch it as a backup, so they sent 10 after Naples instead. Intel says there was an explosion there about an hour ago, no word from the crew yet. The rest- well." Rosemont nodded. The rest of the squadron's bombers would have run out of fuel by now. If they hadn't made it back to Reprisal, they wouldn't be coming.
"What about that action up on deck?" Rosemont sipped his coffee and tried to keep his mind working. If he stopped and thought about everything that had happened since the sun set on this impossibly long night- well. The only one he'd see do that even a bit was Walker, and Walker didn't seem to be doing so hot with it.
Flannery shrugged. "They're going to try to hit the Snake base at Palermo before dawn. They figure they'll be lined up for a visual search at first light, so we might put a monkey wrench in it if we can hit them early enough. The Corsairs are dropping flares, then the bombers go in. Basic visual run, so I'm sending 07 and 09." Rosemont raised his eyebrows.
"If we stop their search, can we keep them from finding us?" Flannery snorted, then chuckled.
"Not a chance. You didn't think we had a night fighter up just to look for you, didja? They've been playing hide and seek with Snake radar planes all night. The wizards over in Traverse City say they didn't paint us, but it doesn't matter. They know where we were at sundown, they know how fast we can go, and even if they lost their rulers and copies of Janes they can just plot where they've been losing search planes all night. Nope, once it gets light out they'll send up anything with two wings and a radio, and that'll be that. We can't shoot them all down. We hit Palermo, might buy us a couple hours after daybreak before they can organize a strike. Worth a try. After that…well, that'll be your worry."
Rosemont's eyebrows went up. "Sir?"
Flannery turned, his almost-colorless eyes focusing on Rosemont. "Rosie, we missed Genoa. All these targets have got to be hit, so I'm taking my crew in 04 to try for it again and land in Switzerland." Rosemont curled his hands into fists, still wide-eyed with shock.
"Quint, it'll be daylight by the time you get up there, and if the Snakes didn't know what an AR-1 was last night they sure as hell know now! You'll never make it!"
Flannery shrugged. "Maybe not. Hell, probably not. But somebody's got to try it."
"The hell you say! Quint, Sir- look. We can only go at night. Daylight's suicide!"
Flannery's voice went flat. "In case it's escaped your attention, Mister Rosemont, there is a very significant chance that this ship will either be sunk or incapable of launching a strike before tomorrow night." Hearing it put in bald terms like that chilled Rosemont to the bone. "It's got to be tried, right now, before the Snakes get a chance to cripple Reprisal. My plane has the least damage of any, so it's going to be me. Blackie's the squadron XO, and he's in Gibraltar. Ritter was the Ops officer, and he's dead. That means you're in charge after I go." Dully, Rosemont noticed the skipper had said that instead of until I get back. Well, the man had never been one to hold illusions.
"Now. Applebaum did get his bomb back aboard, so after I take off you'll have one left. Your priorities will be delivering that last weapon somewhere useful, and if possible getting some of the squadron's planes to Gibraltar. Roll with the punches, get in a good lick, and then save what you can. Got it?" Rosemont nodded, and Flannery reached forward to clasp his arm.
"I knew I could count on you, Rosie. You know I never bought into any of that DrakSymp crap they tried to tag you with. It was good flying with you again."
Rosemont felt his old, familiar shame well up again, with a sudden warmth for this man. They'd never been friends, but they'd been part of each other's world- the lazy Navy between the wars and the Pacific fighting, the same carrier ready rooms and training fields. All gone, now. "Quint, listen, I-"
"Don't start that now." Flannery smiled, an expression that looked almost foreign on his ghost-white face. "You'll get me goin' too, and then we'll have the whole ship think we're a couple sorry has-beens. Just wish me luck, and I'll send you a postcard while I'm in a hot tub at one of those Swiss ski resorts." Rosemont laughed, then laughed harder, until he had an excuse to wipe a hand across his eyes.
"Good luck, then."
"Thanks, Rosie. Oh, there's a bottle of scotch in my lower right-hand desk drawer. Help yourself." They shook hands one more time.
"Thanks, Quint."
"Make sure the job gets done, Rosie. Then we'll call it even.