Oath Bound - Book V of The Order of the Air (18 page)

The watchman at the harbor entrance waved them through without question, and the cab threaded its way through the maze of buildings under Mitch’s direction. There was a single light on inside the seaplane hangar, and Alma held her breath as the night watchman came out to see who was there.  She saw him relax as he recognized Mitch, and she reached into her purse to pay the driver. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see that Lewis had one hand on von Rosen’s arm, an ambiguous gesture that could have been merely friendly.

The hangar itself was cold and empty, the Dornier Wal and the last pair of Italian S 55s snugged against their piers, hatches closed and locked and gangplanks stacked neatly on the docks. Only the Cat still had a gangplank in place, and as they approached, Tiny appeared in the darkened hatch. Alma saw his shoulders relax, but then he saw von Rosen, and took a step forward, bringing the heavy wrench in his right hand into view.

“It’s all right, Tiny,” she said quickly. “Or at least you won’t need that yet. The count’s coming with us.”

“I assure you, you won’t need it at all,” von Rosen said.

Alma ignored him. “Start the preflight checks, please. Count, you’ll come with me.”

Lewis reinforced the order with a shove, and Alma led the way up the gangplank, Lewis and Tiny following behind von Rosen. Tiny switched on the generator, flooding the engineer’s compartment with light, and Alma pointed to the passenger compartment.

“In there, please, Count. Lewis, find something to tie him with.”

“A pleasure.” Lewis began rummaging in the nearest toolbox.

Von Rosen narrowed his eyes. “Now, wait just a minute.”

“I don’t trust you loose on my plane,” Alma said. “And I don’t have anyone to spare to watch you. So, tied-up in the passenger compartment is your only option. Unless you’ve got a good reason I should trust you?”

Von Rosen hesitated, for the first time since she’d met him looking less than perfectly sure of himself. “I told you I absolutely have to get back to Africa —”

“Why?”

He drew a deep breath. “I told you, I’ve been working with the Red Cross in Ethiopia since the Italians invaded in October. I’d made arrangements to buy a larger, newer plane and take delivery here at the air show, but the bastard who sold it to me welshed on the deal. He said it was too much of a risk, and he wasn’t getting on the wrong side of the damned Italians. And then I heard — the Ethiopian Emperor launched an offensive of his own, at Christmas. I need to be there.”

“I hadn’t heard anything about a counterattack,” Lewis said.

“You wouldn’t,” von Rosen snapped.  “It’s not exactly being reported in Italy, not when they’re waving the flag for their magnificent victories — tanks against men with bows and spears, some of them.”

“You’re flying for Ethiopia?” Alma repeated.

“No, for the Red Cross.” Von Rosen shook his head. “They’ve got four or five old biplanes, and maybe enough pilots for them. I’ve been evacuating the wounded, which is why I was looking for a larger plane.”

That changed things. And maybe it shouldn’t, Alma thought, maybe she was being sentimental, but she’d been an ambulance driver in the World War, and she knew what a speedy evacuation could mean for a wounded man. And in Ethiopia, for Iskinder’s people — and surely this was connected with whatever Jerry needed from them. “Why?” she said again.

“Because Mussolini has no right,” von Rosen said. “This is a bare-faced land grab, no matter how much he tries to dress it up as a war of civilization against barbarism. But Italy wants an empire, and he thinks Ethiopia is too weak to resist.” He shook his head, looking abruptly exhausted in the harsh light. “They may be right. But we can’t just let them do it.”

“You should have said that first,” Alma said, after a moment. “I drove an ambulance on the Italian front, and the best man at my first wedding was an Ethiopian prince. We’ll take you to Alexandria.”

Von Rosen blinked, and then shook his head, smiling.  “And how was I to know that? If I had — but thank you, Mrs. Segura. If there’s anything I can do to help you, I’ll do it. I’m qualified on dual engine transports.”

“We’ll see how it goes,” Alma answered. She glanced at Lewis, who had already put the length of cord back in the tool box: answer enough as to what he thought. “In the meantime, gentlemen, let’s get this show on the road.”

They took turns getting out of their party clothes in the passenger compartment, changing into the flying clothes they’d brought along. Once the preflight checks were finished, she took her place in the pilot’s seat, leaving Tiny to handle the radio and keep an eye on von Rosen just in case. She settled her headset, and glanced at Mitch, ready in the co-pilot’s seat.

“Ready?”

“As I’m going to be.”

Alma cocked her head. “You think I’m making a mistake?”

“About von Rosen? No.” Mitch shrugged. “I’d bet money you’re right, whatever Iskinder’s doing, it has something to do with the invasion. It was just something Stasi said. Jerry wouldn’t have cabled us if it was something simple.”

Alma nodded. “But we knew that when we started.”

“I suppose we did.” Mitch grinned. “Never a dull moment, huh?”

“You’d hate being bored,” Alma said, and reached for the intercom, tying her headset into the plane’s systems. “All right. We’re ready to start the engines.”

The big Coronadoes coughed to life, Lewis babying the fuel mix until they were running steadily, the noise seeming a hundred times louder than normal in the nearly empty hangar. Tiny reported that he’d released the gangway and cut the last mooring line — wasteful but unavoidable, with no dock crew to help — and that the hatch was closed and dogged fast. Alma switched on her searchlight, letting it play over the dark water at the hangar entrance, and eased the throttles forward. The Catalina moved slowly away from the dock, heading for the harbor and the takeoff lane.  If anyone called from the watchman’s station, there was no way to hear or see.

The tower was long closed, and the harbor seemed empty, the ferry terminal dark and the lights lowered along the waterfront:  New Year’s Eve, she thought, and nearly midnight. They’d been counting on there being little or no traffic, and it looked as though they’d been right.

She found the first buoy and kicked the rudder hard, steering the Cat left until she found the second buoy, then straightened out in the marked lane.  In the beam of the searchlight, the water was black and empty, the tops of the waves glinting in the brightness.

“Everyone ready?” she asked, and ticked off the chorus of yeses.  “Give me full throttle, Lewis. We’re starting our takeoff.”

The Cat roared smoothly into the night, the chop smoothing out as she picked up speed.  Alma glanced at her instruments, reading airspeed and temperatures. The searchlight didn’t quite reach the end of the lane, but it gave her a decent view of the water ahead, the next set of buoys flashing past as the Cat grew lighter under her hands.

“Al!”

She saw it in the same instant, a fishing boat wallowing across the takeoff lane, her searchlight just reaching them. They weren’t going to clear it, not before she was on top of them — of course they’d never expected anyone to be flying at this hour.  It was too late to cut power, too late to do anything but hope she’d get it right, and she glanced at the airspeed again, waiting to feel the Cat start to lift. The boat had seen them; she could see the sudden thrash of white at the stern as the pilot went to full speed himself.  They were a thousand yards away, and closing fast, but the Cat was almost airborne, almost…

She felt it even before she saw the airspeed needle hit its mark, and hauled back on the yoke.  The Cat lifted, slower than usual, heavier, but the engines roared on, and they rose, trailing a veil of water as the hull broke free of the surface. The fishing boat flashed beneath them, its stubby mast maybe ten feet below the Cat’s keel, and she allowed herself one deep breath of relief before she began trimming the controls.

“Nice flying,” Mitch said, and she spared him one quick glance.

“Thanks. Let’s not do that again.”

“Let’s not.”

There was a flash of light out her window, gold, then red and green, falling away beneath her the way she’d imagined flak must have done.  The fireworks, she realized in the next instant, she was seeing the fireworks at Boccadifalco, and she let out another sigh of relief.

“Happy New Year, everyone.”

“Happy New Year,” Lewis answered, and the others echoed him, even von Rosen.

Alma settled herself in her seat, the adrenaline easing, and turned her attention to the controls.  She checked her heading and banked slowly south and west, settling on the line that should take them south of the building weather and into Alexandria. The Cat was still climbing, rising steadily toward 7000 feet, the lights of Palermo falling away behind them. Ahead was the empty Mediterranean, the African coast invisible to the south. Jerry and Iskinder were waiting for them in Alexandria, along with whatever trouble they had found.

January 1, 1936

I
t was a long flight through the dark, the roar of the engines filling the cockpit. The quarter moon had been low on the western horizon when they left Palermo; it had set an hour ago, sinking into a low haze and then beneath the sea, and the stars blazed cold above the cockpit’s canopy. There was little to say beyond the routine, just the easy movement of the controls under her hands to center her in the moment. After a while, Tiny came forward to take her place at the controls, and she went back to use the lavatory and eat some of the supplies Stasi had packed for them. Finished, she stepped back into to the galley to pour herself some coffee.  Lewis smiled down at her from the flight engineer’s seat tucked into the Cabane Strut, and she poured him a cup as well.

“Do you want Tiny to take over for a bit?” she asked, raising her voice to be heard over the engines, and wasn’t surprised when he shook his head.

“Maybe when we get a little closer.”

“Just sing out.”

“I will.”

Alma nodded and made her way back to the cockpit. She took her seat again, and Tiny took Mitch’s place, his touch indefinably different on the controls. She was aware of his sidelong glance, and wasn’t surprised when he cleared his throat.

“Are you sure that count guy is ok, ma’am?”

“If he’s been flying for the Red Cross, he’s all right in my book,” she answered, and, because she owed him more of the truth, she added, “and anyway, all we’re doing is taking him to Alexandria.  After that, he’s on his own.”

Tiny nodded. “I was wondering — do you think there might be time to see the Pyramids? I’ve always wanted to see them. And a mummy.”

“The Pyramids are outside Cairo,” Alma said. “I don’t know if we’ll have time to get there. But I expect you’ll get a chance to see a mummy.” Surely Jerry could arrange that — it seemed the least he could do.

“That’d be really swell.”

Mitch reappeared, carrying his own mug of coffee, and he and Tiny changed places again. Alma glanced at her watch, calculating. “You could have taken a little longer — taken a nap if you wanted.”

“I’m fine,” Mitch said, and Alma nodded.

“Ok — and thanks, Tiny.  Check with Lewis in about an hour, see if he wants a break.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he answered, and ducked out of the cockpit.

“How about you?” Mitch asked.

It had been a long day and a long flight already, and Alma could feel it in her back and shoulders.  “I’ll be glad to get in and get some sleep, but I’m good for the trip.”

“Ok.”

That was one of the many things she liked about Mitch, the way he always took what she said at face value. No second-guessing, no needless chivalry — and no undue respect, either; if he thought she was screwing up, he’d say something. She couldn’t have asked for a better partner. Except perhaps for Gil, but that had been different — she had been different then, and if he’d lived, she wouldn’t be the woman she was now.

That speculation was pointless.  The past was past, not regretted for an instant, but beyond her reach. She was Magister now, as well as half of Gilchrist Aviation, and she was ready to meet those responsibilities. Whatever Jerry and Iskinder had gotten themselves into. Even if it was another war.

It was a little past five in the morning when she saw distant lights off the port wing: the tip of Crete, possibly, or perhaps a passing liner.  They were doing well on fuel, the big tanks both showing about a third used; to port the stars were hidden in cloud, the tail of the front passing well north of them, but ahead and to the south the sky was vivid with stars. She adjusted her heading, feeling the first pressure of a faint crosswind, and settled into the flight again. Ahead of them and off the port wing, the sky was beginning to lighten, the stars vanishing into haze and then into a whitening sky.  To starboard, the sky was clear, the line of the African coast just visible on the horizon. Alma watched it slowly swell, taking on color as well as shape, pale gold against the sea. She could see the ocean clearly now, a few whitecaps tipping the waves, and she checked her watch again. About two hours to go, she thought, and spoke into the intercom.

“Tiny. See if you can raise Alexandria tower.”

“Yes, ma’am.”