Chita burst out of the cloud deck which Aristides had used to cover their approach. The British cruiser was ready for them, having spotted them at range when they’d first observed each other, and then again en route as they’d dipped down to get their bearings.
Tracers leapt up at them from several gun platforms, some of them appearing to come close, others starting wide off the mark, and then closing in on them, even passing away again. Explosions along the flank of the ship, and blinkering from one of the more distant escorting destroyers, resolved themselves into black bursts of flak – anti-aircraft shells of heavier caliber, like they’d first encountered over Gibraltar.
Chita rocked, as if beset by momentary turbulence, and then powered through the puffs of smoke toward their target.
One of the streams of tracers focused on the Portuguese bomber – the bright flashes practically near enough to feel their incandescent heat, Ari thought – and Chita shuddered under the impact.
“Damage?” Paulo called out.
From the back, gunner Afonso Esteves’ voice came across the intercom. “Captain, there is some damage visible in the starboard wing. And some damage to the aileron. But it doesn’t look that bad. I can’t see the front of the wing.”
Paulo peeked through his window, stretching to get a view. “I think we’re fine,” he said. “How’s it handling?”
Ari, still concentrating on his determined approach toward the warship, rolled his yoke one way, then the other, the plane maneuvering slightly in response. “Seems fine.” They dove onward. “How’s the approach, Manny?”
“Good,” their bombardier said. “A little low. You’re keeping control, right? This guy’s big enough I’ll just let go when it’s time.”
“Roger,” Ari confirmed. He pulled the yoke back, slightly, to lessen their dive.
Their target was large. He was used to facing destroyers, which were much smaller, or cargo ships or tankers, which were large, but which were nowhere near so menacing. His stomach constricted in dread. More shells crashed nearby, shaking their craft, and another machine-gun burst hit them, damaging nothing of great importance.
As they began to pass overhead of the target, Manoel called out, “Away!” and the plane lightened, jumped upward. Immediately, Ari threw it into a sharp bank to evade anti-aircraft fire. To the right, this time – he had criticized himself for always pulling predictably to the left. Surely, the gunners didn’t share notes on his evasion tactics, but somehow it seemed he should vary his tactics slightly.
A sharp crack, followed by a second, drew his attention to a new stream of light that now invaded the cockpit. Two holes in the metal above his head and to the right. He shared a startled glance with Paulo, who was just as glad to have not been hit.
“Sound off!” the copilot ordered. Voices began to report over the intercom in rough order. They sped away from the cruiser, and safety.
“A hit, Captain!” one of their rear gunners, Pascoal, shouted. “Very near, anyway! Water shooting all over their decks. I saw some debris.”
“Excellent work, guys!” Ari evaded in another direction, just to keep it interesting. They were getting further away. He was climbing, slightly, to get into the clouds again, but not climbing enough to greatly reduce their speed – speed was life, as the saying went. He banked hard enough to change their direction a little. In fact, he continued the turn enough that he could crane his neck to see back toward their target. It had changed direction, slightly, and… maybe had slowed? Was there a slight cant to the deck? Not enough to sink it, surely, but evidence of damage. “Definitely a hit!” he shouted for the benefit of all to hear. The announcement was followed by hoots and shouts of victory.
Ari was a warrior, of a sort, but he was not a soldier, or a sailor, like those Tommies on the cruiser. He was a flyer. And he was not even a professional fighter – not a career man. He still felt, sometimes, like he was a mere substitute for the professional warrior who should be occupying this seat.
How did he get into this again???
Well… His country was at war. And besides, if he had to be at war, this was at least an exciting way to fight. And… Yes, he could admit it. He was having fun.
…so long as he didn’t get killed. In fact, the exhilaration of not getting killed heightened his enjoyment.
“Great job, Manoel!” Ari spoke into the intercom. Their bombardier was probably the best in Portuguese service, he was convinced, having struck dozens of merchant ships from so many countries. Dutch, British, French… Several Turkish vessels, since the Turkish declaration of war. And even a week ago they’d sunk a Norwegian tanker bringing a shipment of oil from Iranian fields to one of the last Norwegian holdouts in the mountains along their coast. The ship had burst into a sea of flame.
May had been particularly profitable. Nine ships sunk, so far this month. With no critical land battles underway, they’d been able to spend their time at home, basing from their home airfield, in their own quarters, and launching after merchant traffic passing through the Straits of Gibraltar – that one place where all Allied cargo from Asia or the Mediterranean must travel.
“Manoel?” Paulo asked. Then, more urgently, “Manny?!”
Ari glanced over, and saw concern in his co-pilot’s thoughtful eyes, his fingers pressing the intercom contacts to his throat. Manoel was always hollering after his bombs hit their targets, and yet… he was quiet.
From behind them, a wide-eyed and excited Aaran unbuckled himself from his seat, in a burst of action, and jumped toward the hatch to go check on their friend in the compartment below.
Ari wasn’t having fun anymore.