Sgt. Golem: Royal Mech Hussar - Stubs Soon!

Flight Lieutenant Mikhail Vasiliev adjusted his choke and the engine smoothed out. It was getting cold up in the mountains. He peered around between the puffy white clouds and peaks that surrounded him. Still no sign of the rest of his squadron. They had all taken off from Lviv together, but he'd lost track of them somewhere in the Carpathians.

Suddenly, he saw a shape between two clouds off in the distance. It looked too big to be one of their SPAD pursuit aircraft. He adjusted course immediately, aiming to intercept. He'd only caught a glimpse, but it looked to be heading south. A minute later, he caught another view, and his heart raced. It was definitely too big to be one of his squadron. Could it be their quarry?

He gave his craft a little more throttle and started a long climb. At this altitude, he didn't have a lot of power to spare, but he needed to get above the target.

The distant aircraft disappeared behind another cloud, but he had its course now. This was only his second combat mission, and his heart raced furiously. He took some steadying breaths and calmed himself, rubbing his leather-gloved hands together to try to warm them. It was so cold at this altitude above the mountains.

The wind between the peaks buffeted his little craft, and he constantly had to adjust course, hoping he still had the right bearing to get ahead and above his quarry. At last he cleared a cloud bank and there it was, pretty as a picture below him, a three-engine heavy bomber.

The stripes on the tail told him what he wanted to know. Polish colors and on a course south. This had to be their quarry.

He cursed under his breath, wishing the sun was in a more advantageous position for him to dive out of it. Hopefully, they hadn't spotted him. He waited impatiently for the perfect opportunity to push over in a dive and swoop down on his target.

Finally, the angle looked right. Vasiliev dove at his foe. He realized right away he had gone too early, not taking into account the speed of the other aircraft.

Vasiliev swore and pulled up slightly, shallowing his dive. Ahead of him, the bomber’s silhouette grew twin booms with three engines—a pusher in the center and two tractors on the wings.

For a moment, he panicked. Where should he try to hit? Should he aim for the center, or try to take out one of the engines?

He only hesitated for an instant, but in that moment, the tail of the fuselage flashed at him. They were shooting at him! Vasiliev slammed down the paddle on his stick. His machine gun roared to life. The bullets arced far short, and he adjusted his aim, pulling the gun up. He was almost directly behind the other aircraft now, having lost most of his altitude advantage.

The enemy’s gun flashed again. He felt his engine cough. Something slammed into his chest. He was hit! Was it a bullet or a piece of the engine? He wasn’t sure, but it didn’t seem to hurt too bad.

He had other things to worry about. His plane faltered as it lost power. Vasiliev pulled back to keep the nose up and squinted at the wavering shape of the enemy plane. Was he still in range? He tried to adjust his aim, but his plane responded sluggishly. He pulled his trigger again. The machine gun coughed and then jammed.

The enemy bomber weaved in front of him. He squinted. Why was everything so blurry? Had he gotten oil on his goggles? He scrubbed at them, but it didn't help, just smearing the lenses further.

He pulled the goggles up off his eyes. When he could see again, it took him a moment to find the bomber. It was off to his left now, and he was nearly alongside it.

He swore. Now he would have to circle around for another pass.

It seemed so cold. Why was he wet? His plane faltered again and started to nose downward. If he could just keep his altitude for a little longer...

It was the last thought he had.

Frank Lewis looked over as the Russian pursuit plane pulled up beside his bomber. Take evasive maneuvers? But the plane was already smoking. The helmeted head of its pilot disappeared below the cockpit even as he watched. A moment later, the plane pitched over on one wing and spiraled down, trailing a corkscrew of smoke into the clouds below.

Frank's co-pilot leaned over and yelled in his ear over the ship's slipstream and roaring engines, "I think our passenger got him!"

Frank shook his head. "No way!" he yelled back.

His co-pilot pointed to the nose gunner sitting just in front and slightly above them. The man was struggling with his apparently jammed machine gun.

Frank gritted his teeth. "Had to be a lucky shot!" he yelled.

The hauler pulled onto the airfield on the outskirts of Kosice. On the far side of a wide grassy field was a cluster of hangars and other buildings. We parked the hauler along the edge of trees, south of the landing strip. The men were out and pulling camo over the hauler almost before I climbed down the ladder.

I stood beside Sergeant Wozniak as he supervised, trying to scowl and look like I was about to toss out orders of my own. Several men had been sent out as pickets, and one came running back, waving a hand towards the sky. He was out of breath, but we were able to extract from him that he'd seen a possible enemy airplane off to the east. It hadn't been headed towards us, but it still worried me.

"What do you think?" Sergeant Wozniak asked me. He had been deferring to my judgment more and more often.

"I think we should get the scout car unloaded and set out machine guns.” I pointed to the sky. “With fields of fire up. And unlimber the autocannons." He nodded and scurried off, while I went to go talk to the mech pilots.

Angelica and Tamara were standing in front of the hauler, talking in low voices. Their mechs had been unloaded from the flatbed as soon as we stopped. Angelica looked up as I approached. "What is it, Sergeant?"

"We spotted some aircraft in the area. Not headed this way. It might have been small. A fighter craft."

"Fighter?" she asked, questioning. "You mean a pursuit airplane?"

"Yes sir."

She looked thoughtful. "I was worried about this. That code they sent our orders in would have been in code books all over the arsenal at Rzeszow. I'd be surprised if it wasn't intercepted.”

“Yes, sir. We're getting the autocannons prepped now."

A couple minutes later, the two ladies mount their mechs and moved off. They headed in opposite directions through the edge of the trees lining the airfield.

The scout car was pulled around, and I made sure it was kept with a gunner and a driver ready for quick action.

Frank eased the Caproni heavy bomber out of the clouds 1,500 feet above the ground. he spotted the airfield in the distance and adjusted course slightly, angling to the west so he could line up downwind for the approach.

He was starting to feel a sense of relief when the gunner shouted and spun his weapon around to the port side. A moment later, the machine guns roared to life The muzzle flash was close enough to make him flinch. Frank could hear the other set of machine guns firing from the rear gunner's position. Apparently, the envoy might not be completely useless.

Frank crossed himself.

"Lord protect fools and flyers." It was more of a mantra than a prayer. Something he had picked up the very first time he had taken to the air. It had become his pre combat ritual.

Even as the gunner started firing, Frank spotted another airplane up ahead, coming in from the opposite direction. He swore and banked the big bomber towards it, trying to up the closure rate and force it to overshoot. The plane's machine guns winked at them, and bullets whistled past Frank's ears. The gunner cried out and sagged in his harness, his machine guns falling silent and swinging wildly to the sky.

The pursuit plane roared past slightly below them, off the left wing. Frank swung their nose back towards the airfield and gunned the throttle. The port engine coughed and started running rough but didn’t quit. The airfield was so close. It might still be too far.

The field itself was a wide, grassy strip, and Frank turned towards it now to get there just a little bit faster. He could always land diagonally instead of straight down the field. A bit of crosswind was much less dangerous than Russian bullets.

The port motor coughed and cut out completely. He advanced the throttles of the other two to compensate. Their rear machine gun was still firing. A pursuit plane roared right over his head, then pulled up and banked hard to come around for another pass. Bullets ripped through their fuselage from the side and slammed into the tank directly behind Frank. The front walls of the two big fuel tanks literally made up the backrest of the pilot and co-pilot seats and he could feel bullets striking home somewhere in the metal tank.

The starboard engine coughed, and Frank repeated his prayer. The wheels were skimming over treetops now, the field just ahead. Their rear machine gun was still firing wildly. The trees below them vanished, and they were over the field. He yanked back on the throttles and turned slightly to line up down the strip of grass.

He needn't have bothered because, at that moment, the starboard engine cut out as well. They still had the rear centerline engine, and they didn't even need that anymore. They just needed a bit of luck and providence.

More bullets whined past, riddling the engines and fuel tanks. His co-pilot cried out in pain. The airplane lurched as the man slumped against the controls. Frank hauled back with all his might to keep the man's body weight from nose-diving them into the deck. The plane hit hard, and one wheel broke, pitching them to the left. The wing hit the ground and threw them into a ground loop. Frank gripped the controls for dear life, though he was only a passenger now.

A plane roared past, and Frank distantly realized that another gun had opened up—the dull boom, boom, boom of an anti-aircraft cannon. He hoped whoever was firing it was friendly because now they were sitting ducks. The plane skidded to a halt, creaking precariously, and he smelled smoke and gasoline. It was time to get out fast. With his body weight against the harness, it took some fumbling to get it off. Then he turned and tried to help his co-pilot.

The man was slumped against his own harness, and it was even more difficult to remove. The front of his leathers was sodden with blood.

On the back of Frank’s neck he felt heat and flame. He was keenly aware of the massive bullet-holed gas tanks just beside him. He got his co-pilot's harnesses off. Even as he struggled to lift him, massive hands appeared and grabbed the man's leather jacket. He was plucked out from in front of Frank as if by the hand of God.

Frank was surprised for a moment, but the burning heat radiating through the back of his leather helmet spurred him to action, and he struggled to climb over the edge of the cockpit. A shadow moved in front of him. Hands grabbed him. Someone immensely strong lifted him bodily out of the cockpit and almost tossed him to the ground. He stumbled, fell to his knees, and then others were there, yelling at him in Polish and grabbing at him, pulling him up, dragging him away from the wreck.

A crowd of soldiers surrounded them. He saw his co-pilot being carried away. He tried to protest that they needed to help the gunner, but when he turned his head, he saw the massive back and shoulders of a golem at the cockpit, already lifting the wounded man from the nose of the aircraft. The heat was intense now, and the entire crowd rushed away from the burning wreck. Distantly, he could still hear guns and the roar of engines.

An engine roared low overhead. There was a massive explosion as a pursuit plane crashed less than 50 yards away. The crumpled heap of cloth and metal roared into a fireball immediately.

At the edge of the field along the tree line, Frank was lowered to the ground. A few feet away, Polish soldiers were administering aid to his wounded co-pilot. A hulking golem approached with his gunner slung over its shoulder. It lowered the man gently to the ground with surprising gentleness, care.

Frank suddenly felt a stab of panic. Their passenger! Where was the envoy? He looked wildly around.

Frank’s mouth dropped open. The envoy leaning against a military car, drinking from a canteen. His leather jacket was open and underneath his suit and tie were immaculate.

How the hell? Frank thought, and then he passed out.