The Death of the Lincoln

Schöneluft Log, 1900.07.05 (continued)
Ulrik Manfred Adler, acting Captain

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Tianjin is not far by sky. I wanted to inspect the broken railway and examine the enemy’s forces, but the storm was too dangerous. I took her above the clouds for speed, and arrived above the city with the hour. The situation in Pekin was worse than I had believed, but the violence and destruction there did not prepare me for Tianjin. Nor had my childish daydreams.

I had almost outrun the storm; it blew up behind me, trying to push us out to sea. The engines struggled against it. The city was shrouded in ragged clouds and the smoke of many fires. I hovered at the edge of the storm scanning the burning city. Where would she be? Where could I even begin to look for her?

I was distracted, not thinking clearly. That is the only defense I can offer. Chef had been pacing the great room behind me since Pekin. He stood beside me now, gaping out the window.

“Mon Dieu! C’est la Mongolie!”

I am such a fool. I raised my head. Above the tattered clouds the USS Lincoln listed aft, her tail on fire and sinking slowly. Engine room explosion. The pride of the United States Pacific fleet fell, swarmed by War Wings. Harsh war cries echoed between the silk cliffs of the envelopes as fierce archers glided spirals around the wounded American, pelting its struggling airmen with iron rain. Above us, the fighting platform of the Mongol raider ship crowded with howling men, shoving each other for the chance to soar.

I am a fool with the fool’s own luck. The Mongol was engaged. The death of the American airmen bought a few moments of life for us on the Schöneluft.

Even as the great ship fell in flames, sharpshooters fired on, belts clipped to the listing rail of the Lincoln’s fighting platform. Every shot sent a gliding warrior screaming to the ground, but the Americans were surrounded. For every glider that tumbled to earth, another dozen rained deadly iron-tipped arrows onto the sharpshooters’ platform. Dead men crumpled against the rail, still harnessed to their stations. Rifles slipped from lifeless fingers and fell end over end, flashing in the morning light like a signal code. Death, it said.

War Wings are gliders made of yak hide and wood. When the rider leaps from the airship he has no plans to return. He must fight his way onto the victim ship or spiral to the ground, riding thermals like a vulture. They saw us. I sounded the alarm. Klaxon blared and lights flashed.

A warrior swooped down from the Mongol ship towards the Schöneluft. He drew his bow and loosed an arrow at us. “Too soon,” I thought, “you’re not close enough.” Strange thing to think; stupid of me. There was something odd about the arrow’s flight; the arc was wrong. Then it exploded, sending fiery shrapnel screaming into the envelope. I screamed a string of curses and leapt for Mein Herr’s rifle. I must have put the butt of it through the windowpane, for next I knew I had fired. The War Wing glided towards us still, as though its rider was alive. Then a current of air struck it sideways and it spun out of control, falling to earth like a broken deck chair heaved overboard. And that was it; I had killed a man.

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Ulrik’s adventures began here, with “Meanwhile, back at the Airship”.