Jake Morrison's Arc

Chapter 47 of 54

Dawn broke gray over the water. Jake ran the line one last time. Forty pilots stood by their machines, hands on the throttles. He climbed into his own skiff. The copper coils warmed against his back. Marisol dropped into the gunner pit and locked the belt. "They're close," she said. "I can hear the engines." Jake gripped the stick. "Then we go now. Four formations, ten each. Hold your wingman." The machines lifted together off the wet ground. Their props tore the fog apart. Jake led the first ten north over open sea. The others rose behind him in tight blocks. Below, the enemy boats came into view. They were lashed together, hull to hull, bristling with guns and packed with wretches. Men crawled the decks. Among them stood taller creatures that moved with purpose, not hunger. These were the smart ones the tyrant had bred. A gun on the lead boat swung up and fired. Tracer rounds streaked past Jake's wing. This was the moment he feared. One panicked pilot could break the block and drop the rest into chaos. He keyed the horn. "Hold! Turn on me!" His formation turned as one. Nobody scattered. The training held. "Now," Jake called back. Marisol swung the fifty caliber and hammered the deck below. The recoil kicked the frame sideways. Jake flew through it, level. Down the line the other gunners opened up. Forty guns raked the boats at once. Wretches fell. Men dove for cover behind rusted plating. A smart creature hurled something at the second formation. A pilot flinched hard and dipped. His wingman shouted over the props and pulled him back into line. They held. Jake saw it and knew his people had become soldiers. "Bombs," Jake ordered. He dove low. Marisol pulled the release under the frame. The bomb dropped clean and burst against the biggest hull. Fire climbed the deck. One by one the machines followed. Bombs fell in a steady rain. The lashed boats had nowhere to run. Explosions ripped through the flotilla. Chains snapped. Burning wretches tumbled into the sea. The last boat rolled and sank. Smoke covered the water. Jake circled once and counted his machines. Forty. Every one still flew. "Home," he said. The formations turned south together and did not break. They landed inside the enclave walls. Pilots dropped from their pits and gripped each other's shoulders. Jake helped Marisol down. Her hands shook, but she smiled. Darrell crossed the yard, grease on his jeans, and looked at the row of intact machines. "You won," he said. "We won," Jake answered. Darrell's face stayed hard. "You bought time. That's all. The tyrant has more men and more boats up north. He'll build again." He wiped his hands. "So we build too. A weapon big enough to break his base before he sails a second fleet." Jake looked at his tired pilots, then at the smoking sea. The battle was over. The war was not.