Many Words

Another pair of Kestrels launched. Joe’s Falcon swung gently as the deck crew moved it along the rails. Joe adjusted the shaving mirror clamped over his head until he could see Emma’s fighter, sliding onto the rails behind him. Two more Kestrels fell through the launch hatches, and the rail operators drove Joe’s Falcon to the forward hook.

Burr’s voice crackled in Joe’s headphones. “Command here. Do you read me, Joe? Over.”

“Five by five.”

“Swell. The British zep’s launching planes?—just fighters so far. Over.”

“Copy.” Joe switched his radio to the mission frequency. “Heads up, everybody. We got bandits in the air.”

In the mirror overhead, he saw Emma’s fighter rock as its arrester hook locked around the skyhook. On the deck in front of him, a crewman waved to get his attention. Joe flashed a thumbs-up. The crewman held up an open palm, then spread his fingers to count down from five. He reached zero, a closed fist, and the skyhook released Joe’s fighter. It plunged out the zep’s belly, and Joe felt himself falling until his plane hit the clear air under Inconstant. He pushed his throttle forward and pulled out of his steep dive. Behind him, Emma did likewise, coming up on his wing. Together, they climbed, regaining the altitude they’d lost in the combat launch, circling back toward the zep. It passed below Joe’s left wing, and ahead of him—behind Inconstant—he saw the British zep climbing toward them. He could just barely pick out airplanes circling above it. As he watched, three pairs broke off and climbed higher.

Shaking his head, Joe stowed his start-up checklist. Down on the deck, a young woman caught his eye. Tomlin, he thought, one of the latest batch. She kept out of the way as best she could, heading aft with a purposeful step. For a moment, Joe watched her weave around the deck crew, then he switched his microphone to the radio tuned to the mission frequency. “You know the game. The Tommies aren’t your common guns for hire. You beat them the same way, though: fly better, shoot straighter, stick with your wingman. Neither Albatross is flying today, so if they bring you down, you’re on your own. Get out of British territory before you send word. We’ll launch by pairs, fighters first. Good luck.”

That covered everything he hadn’t had the time for during the briefing. He patted his flying jacket and felt the reassuring packet of bank notes tucked into an inner pocket—a few hundred pounds, more than enough to get him somewhere safe if he ended up shot down.

Two Kestrels dropped from the forward and center skyhooks, while a third waited on the aft hook until the deck crew spotted his wingman to the center hook. Launching by pairs took a little longer, but it kept the air wing better organized. Joe wanted his wing pairs together as soon as they left the hangar. They were good, as pirates went, but not many of them could handle a British pair solo.

Joe stepped delicately from the ladder into the cockpit of his Falcon. Even so, it swung beneath his weight. Already, the other pilots were coaxing their machines to life, and the sputters as the engines turned over quickly built to a deep-throated roar.

Joe went through his own startup checklist, flipping fuel and magneto switches, then holding the starter. The propeller in front of him turned slowly, once and twice, then blurred to a uniform disc. He watched his gauges for a moment. They read normally, so he slid his canopy forward and locked it in place. He settled his leather flying helmet onto his head and plugged in his headset, and chatter instantly filled his ears.

“Keep the mission frequency clear,” he said into the mic. “Flight leaders, check in when you’re ready.”

The Falcon next to Joe’s swung on its hook. He looked over and waved at Emma as she strapped in. She gave him an insouciant salute, fumbled with her ponytail and her helmet, and spoke into her mic. “Looks like I’m on your wing today, eh?”

Joe checked his radio and spun a tuning dial. “Looks like. You missed the briefing.”

Emma shrugged and pulled her canopy closed. Smoke belched from her engine’s exhausts as her propeller spun into motion. “Shoot the Brits, stay on your wing? Anyway, it’s not hardly a fight without a shot of liquid courage, is it?”

Joe rolled his eyes. Emma must have seen the gesture from her cockpit, adding, “We’re pirates, Joe. That makes you the oddball.”