Perhaps Amagi was the reason they’d stopped! After last night, they might think they had to have her and if that was the case, they might attempt major repairs! That could take a long, long time. There was no question the Grik threat would only grow during that period, but if Walker’s desperate torpedo attack hadn’t destroyed Amagi, it had certainly bought them some time. Time they desperately needed.
Ed relinquished his vantage point to the Lemurian waist gunner and made his way forward. After he relayed his observations and deductions to Ben, he returned to his post at the radio and began signaling Walker with the news. Ben flew on a while longer, taking in the scope of the enemy fleet, then banked the plane until it pointed in an almost due-northerly direction. Once the battle cruiser was safely behind them, he began a slow descent. At 7,000 feet, the Catalina’s most efficient cruising altitude, he leveled off and asked Ed for some coffee. They’d already secured the oxygen masks.
Ed poked his head up between the two seats on the flight deck. «Sure thing. I’ll have some too.» He looked at the sable-furred Lemurian. «How ’bout you?» Tikker just grimaced and shook his head.
«Just give it a chance,» urged Ben. «It’ll grow on you.» wi>
«Like a great, hideous tumor, I suspect,» retorted the ’Cat. They all laughed. Suddenly there was a sound like heavy gravel being thrown hard against the plane’s aft fuselage, followed by a high-pitched shriek.
«What the hell!»
«Plane! Plane! Behind us shooting!» came the panicked cry from one of the Lemurians in the waist.
«Shoot back at him!» Mallory bellowed as he instinctively shoved the oval wheel forward to the stop. With the nose pointed at the sea — too close — he slammed the throttles forward and began banking right. He had no idea what was on their tail except it must have come from Amagi. That meant it was an observation plane of some sort and had to be dragging floats. The thing was, the Japanese had seaplane versions of almost all their first-line fighters — including the notorious Zeke. If that was what was after them. All he could do was what he’d done. The dope coming out of China and the Philippines was that the Zeke couldn’t dive, and if it did it had a hard time turning right against the torque of its radial engine. «Ed,» he shouted over the roar of engines, the rattling moan of the stressed airframe and the screech of terrified Lemurians, «get an eyeball on that guy and see what we’re up against!»
Palmer dragged himself aft and upward. It seemed like forever before he reached the waist gunner’s compartment, but when he did, he was greeted by a dreadful sight. Daylight streamed through a dozen bullet holes in the ceiling of the compartment and he knew there were probably many more aft. The Plexiglas in the starboard observation blister was shattered and a hurricane of wind swirled around him. There were brains spattered all over the forward bulkhead and the deck, and blood seemed to have been smeared over every surface with a mop. The dead Lemurian was sprawled in the middle of the aisle, his partner curled in a fetal position on the port side of the bulkhead, rocking back and forth and emitting a keening moan. Ed barely controlled his reflex to retch and snatched the headset off the live Lemurian. «Snap out of it!» he yelled, somewhat shakily. He leaned into the intact blister. First he looked down — he couldn’t help it — at the rapidly approaching water. He was no pilot, but he damn sure would have been pulling up by now. He took a deep breath and faced aft. Nothing but sky. Their maneuver should have caused their pursuer to overshoot and dump some speed before trying to match their turn. He should have been able to see it.
More «gravel» slammed into the plane. Many of the impacts were quieter that the first and he felt them more than heard them. They must have been in the wings. A final burst sounded directly overhead and it ended with an explosion of sound up forward.
«Goddamn it! What the hell is he?» Mallory screamed.
Ed lunged to the shattered blister, his hat instantly disappearing in the slipstream. Through squinted and watering eyes, he caught a glimpse of a winged shape swerving from starboard to port. He leaped back across the dead Lemurian and finally caught a good view of their tormentor. «It’s a biplane,» he cried into his borrowed microphone, incredulously. «Radial engine and three floats. One big one under the fuselage and two smaller ones under the wings. I swear to God it looks like a Stearman with floats! Two crew — pilot and spotter. The spotter has a gun too.» Ed grabbed hold of the.50-caliber machine gun in its pintle mount and prepared to open fire. There were flashes of light from the Japanese spotter’s gun before the plane began to bank toward quietehim.
He berated himself. That’s exactly what he should have done from the start, if he’d known what was after them. The Japanese pilot must have used their leisurely exploration of the enemy fleet to work himself into what he thought was a one-chance attack. If Ben had thrown the throttles to the stops and slowly climbed, they would have had a forty-knot and ten-thousand-foot advantage. As it was, he, Lieutenant Benjamin Mallory, trained fighter pilot, had been bested in his first aerial combat by what was essentially an obsolete trainer with floats. It didn’t matter that he’d assumed the enemy was far more capable. He shouldn’t have assumed anything. Hindsight could hurt.
«Ed,» he called over the intercom.
«Thanks for remembering me,» came the sarcastic reply. «I see you have at least stopped our uncontrolled plummet to the sea and the smoke’s not quite as bad.»
«Sorry about that,» Ben replied in his best upper-crust British accent. «One of our engines developed a bit of a. stitch and we thought it best to let it rest a while. We only have one other one, you know.» His voice turned serious. «What’s our troublesome little friend been up to?»
«He’s been coming in on our flanks, trying to get an angle on our engines, I guess. His last few tries have been to port. I guess he knows the other one’s out.»
«How are things back there?»
«One of the gunners is dead. I’ve been alone back here most of the time. I finally got the other one to snap out of it and he’s doing okay. I think he got a piece of the bastard on his last attack. He’s on the port side. Starboard’s a little unpleasant.»
«Understood.»
«Other than that, things are about the same. We’re a long way from home and almost out of ammo.»
«Can the gunner back there handle things for now?»
«Well. I guess.»
«Good. Then I want you in the nose turret.»
«The nose turret! Ben, this guy hasn’t come anywhere near the nose since he started.»
«That’s about to change. Give all your bullets to the port gunner and tell him to hammer away the next time that Jap gets in range. He’s got all the bullets in the world, got it?»
«Sure, but.»
«That’s when I’m going to lower the wing floats.»
«What! Damn, Ben! That’ll just slow us down even further. We’ll be sitting ducks!»
«No, listen! If he thinks we’re about to set down, he’ll pull out all the stops. He has to shoot this plane down to destroy it. Once we’re down, he can shoot at it till he runs out of fuel or bullets — which he has to be getting low on — and not do any appreciable damage unless he gets another lucky hit on an engine. Besides, he’s bound to know our marksmanship would improve dramatically. Hitting a moving target from a stationary one is a lot easier than moving versus moving.»
«Are we going to land on the water?»
«Not unless we have to,» Ben confessed.
«Why not? It sounds like the perfect plan. We’d have all the advantages. If we don’t shoot him down, we just wait till he flies away.» Ben cleared hlf the time I don’t know how I do it with two. You keep forgetting — I’m not a seaplane pilot. I’m still making most of this up as I go.»