The Time Pirate (14 page)

“You want me to take pictures from the plane? While flying? Sorry, Commander, but it's all I can manage to keep it aloft with both hands on the stick.”

“No, no. When I said
modified
, I meant it. Rather a new idea I think, and I'm quite proud of it.”

Hobbes lifted it out of the box and placed it on the table. It certainly didn't look like any camera Nick had ever seen. Besides, it was very complicated looking, very large, and quite heavy looking. Nick suddenly began to feel overwhelmed by
the idea of flying an aeroplane in combat conditions. He loved adventure and a good challenge, but perhaps he'd gotten himself in over his head.

“With all due respect, sir, I don't think I could even lift that thing up over the sides of the cockpit, much less take a picture with it. I need my hands on the controls every second of flight.”

“You don't have to, Nick! You see this section here on the bottom of the device? That's the mounting bracket. The camera mounts on the underside of the aircraft. Just beneath the cockpit.”

“And how do I . . . shoot it, then?”

“See this silver button? Called a shutter release and attached to a very long wire. The wire will be fed through a hole in the bottom of the cockpit and attach to the camera. I will mount the shutter button within easy reach, right on your instrument panel. When you're over an area or object you want to shoot, say, a ship in Saint Peter Port on Guernsey, you simply press the button and take the picture. A bit ingenious, if I do say so myself.”

“Pictures of the port? What else?”

“I'll explain our needs in detail later, Nick. I fully intend to take you and Gunner into my confidence. But you must swear never to breathe a word. Churchill fought within the government to keep the troops in place on the Channel Islands and lost. But that doesn't mean he's given up on you. Once the Germans have invaded, he plans to make raids on these islands, with an eye toward driving the invaders out.”

“Good news to me ears, Commander,” Gunner said with some emotion. “And for me poor heart as well. I thought we'd all been thrown to the wolves.”

“Not so far as Prime Minister Churchill is concerned. He
knows the Germans plan to fortify the islands as part of their Atlantic Wall. Hitler's aim is to control the channel during any future Allied attack on the European mainland.”

“I'm happy to help, sir. Just tell me what you'd like me to do,” Nick said. He knew his work was important. This was no time for worry and queasy stomachs.

“Nick, I'm going to mount the camera on the Camel's underside now. Shouldn't take more than an hour. Would you mind suspending your practice bombing runs for the afternoon? If so, we could do a test of our photo recon system right away. Before the sun sets, at any rate. You might fly over to Guernsey, take some photos of Saint Peter Port. They've begun to evacuate school children and some parents who wish to leave with ships provided by His Majesty. Your pictures could be helpful there. I've brought a chart along to help with your navigation.”

“I'm a sailor, sir. Guernsey's due west, no matter how you get there.”

“Quite right, Nick,” Hobbes said with a laugh.

“Who are the pictures for, Commander?”

“Prime Minister Churchill, eventually. Right now the War Office at Whitehall wishes to keep track of all events here preparatory to any attempt to retake the islands from the Germans.”

“Commander,” Nick said, eyeing the man carefully, “if Guernsey is evacuating children, shouldn't we be as well?”

“It's a decision each family must make for itself. But I'm going from here out to the lighthouse to discuss exactly that matter with your father.”

“It's our home,” Nick said, his brow furrowed. “We're patriots. He won't leave it, and neither will I.”

“I certainly understand that feeling, Nick. But there are a
lot of things to consider. Every family will have to weigh the options of going or staying.”

“I suppose you're right, sir,” Nick said, not at all sure that he was.

“What's happening on the other islands, Commander?” Gunner asked.

“Each is different. In Jersey, the majority of islanders have chosen to stay, no matter what. That's their choice. Authorities on Alderney have recommended that all islanders evacuate, and nearly all plan to do so. The Dame of Sark has encouraged all of her 471 inhabitants to stay put on Sark, and no doubt they will bend to her iron will.”

“Let's get moving, then” Gunner said. “We haven't got all day. I'll install the lead shield in the floor of the cockpit, while you get that camera mounted, Commander.”

“And how can I help?” Nick asked Hobbes.

“That book on the table.
Dynamic Principles of Aerial Bombardment.
You could spend another hour with that. Based on the pattern of your first attempts, I'd recommend you pay special attention to Chapter Seventeen. It covers the principles of speed, elevation, and distance to the target. I'm especially proud of that.”

“Proud?”

“Notice the name of the author on the cover?”

“RAF Flight Lieutenant B. Hobbes? That's you?”

“Lieutenant Bertram Hobbes, at your service. Book's a bit outdated now. But a bestseller in her day! Garnered some first-rate reviews from Bomber Command, I will say.”

“Are you a betting man, Commander?” Gunner said, rubbing his grizzled chin.

“Indeed.”

“Give the lad an hour or two with that bombing book, and
I'll wager five quid this boy will put ten straight sacks of flour right in the throat of that barrel out there by sundown tomorrow.”

“Nick?” Hobbes said, smiling. “What do you think?”

“I wouldn't bet against me, sir.”

“Nor would I, lad, nor would I.”

· Guernsey Island ·

N
ick McIver's first mission as a civilian reconnaissance pilot may have commenced without a hitch. But before the day was over, he'd be a far, far more seasoned aviator. A battle-tested aviator.

As he began his bumpy roll down the grassy airstrip, keenly anticipating that great thrill when the wheels separated from the earth, he'd caught sight of the top of a familiar tree off to his right. It was the one where he and Kate had found the dead German spy just weeks ago.

The Germans were sending reconnaissance flights over the islands on an almost weekly basis now. What if he came upon one of those German planes? Would he be fired upon? Did those kinds of aircraft even have weapons? But the real question in his mind was whether or not he should try to use the twin Vickers machine guns to defend himself.

They were loaded, but Gunner had not yet trained him in their use.

If he did encounter a German aeroplane flying at low altitude, at least he could take a picture of it. And what if a U-boat should happen to surface? He could certainly dive
down and get pictures of that! Surely that's the kind of thing Hobbes and Lord Hawke would be looking for. Any kind of German military activity at all.

He took off to the north, soaring out over Hawke Castle, then banked hard right, flying right along the south coast of Greybeard Island. He could see the fearsome Gravestone Rock thrusting from the sea and, not far away, his home, the Greybeard Light, standing high above the sea at the northwestern tip of the island.

His first recon picture would not be for the military analysts at Whitehall in London, it would be for his mother. He intended to take a picture of their home from the air, have it framed, and present it to his mum on Mother's Day. Most of the tower was enwreathed in roses now, and it would make a splendid picture, he thought.

He circled the lighthouse a few times looking for the best altitude and angle. It was a sunny day, with puffy white clouds, and he knew the picture should be lovely. Flying about fifty feet above and beyond the lighthouse, he reached for the silver shutter release button and pressed it three times. One of them at least would be perfect, he thought.

The first part of his mission complete, he turned the plane right, coming to a heading of 270 degrees, due west. He climbed to two thousand feet, exhilarated by the mere notion of what he was doing. Aerial espionage in the service of his country. Sure, the soldiers had all gone and most of the island people would probably evacuate.

But Nick McIver planned to stay and fight.

His next stop was Saint Peter Port on the nearby island of Guernsey. The great rocky cliffs and green rolling meadows
of this large neighboring island were already visible across the blue channel waters. Saint Peter Port hove into view. It was built on the slope of a hill, with tier upon tier of tall red-roofed houses clustering down to the water's edge. The houses were a mixture of French Provincial and English Georgian, with gardens high-walled against the constant winds.

On the southern side, the town was protected by a great green height on which Fort George was situated. It was the largest of the four Victorian naval forts built in the 1850s. This was a period when HM Government had been much worried about its relations with France, just six miles across the water.

Descending to one thousand feet, he made his first pass over the town's harbor. It was filled with ships of every description. Troop ships, merchantmen, even cinnamon-sailed fishing vessels, silhouetted against the irregular houses which lined the quay. The shutter release, right next to his altimeter, seemed to be working perfectly as he clicked off a dozen or so shots of the crowded harbor from different angles.

Along the quay, a massive queue of people stretched all the way back along the High Street and into the main square at the center of town. Carts and farm trucks stacked high with luggage; countless children and their parents waiting patiently in line to board the waiting vessels that would ferry them back to England.

He dropped down to a hundred feet and buzzed the crowds along the quay. Many of the children looked up and pointed at the funny-looking biplane, delighted by the sight of the old relic from another war. Surely, Nick thought, none of them had ever seen such a craft outside of their history books.

He waggled his wings as he flew over their heads, and he
saw many of the adults look up and smile at him, many of them even cheering and clapping their hands at the sight of a British warplane, even one as ancient as the Sopwith Camel, roaring just above their heads.

Nick leaned over the edge of his cockpit and smiled down at them, flashing Churchill's Victory
V
with his right hand. Then he put the Camel into a steep climb and, not without regret, turned eastward for home. He hadn't encountered any U-boats or German spy planes, not yet anyway, and he thought he'd gotten more than enough shots of the harbor to satisfy Commander Hobbes's requirements.

Did he really have to end this adventure so quickly? He took a quick look at his watch. He'd been gone only an hour. He had plenty of time to do a little exploring on his way home. He decided to go south along the Guernsey coastline, see what it looked like from the air. Who knows, he thought, maybe he'd even spy something interesting to photograph along the way?

He was content to simply fly along the coast, experimenting with his rudder and ailerons, using every second to get a better feel for flying the pugnacious little plane. But his mind was much clouded with worry. If all those children were leaving Guernsey, what about his own family? Especially his mum and his sister Kate. He had no doubt he and his father could manage living under German authority, but weren't all the women and children living on Greybeard Island at greater risk?

If, as Hobbes had mentioned, England determined to later retake the islands by force, why, that would mean all-out war then, wouldn't it? There were sure to be civilian casualties, and he was certain the Germans would show the islanders no mercy. What if they bombed the lighthouse? Or threw them all in prison? What if—

He looked down expecting to see the rocky shoreline and saw nothing but open water. By not concentrating on what he was doing, he'd veered far off course. He was now flying a heading of almost due south, far out over the Gulf of Saint Malo! Clouds had drifted in from the west, big white puffy ones that looked to have rain in them.