The Time Pirate (22 page)

Nick had drilled this into his brain and now spoke each procedure aloud, the way his father had taught him when they'd practiced for just such an emergency.

Gunner, alone in the barn, his heart in his mouth, craned his head toward the wireless and listened intently to Nick's every word, the boy's voice on the speaker cracking and choked from the black smoke pouring back from his flaming engine.

“All emergency procedures complete?” Gunner said.

“Affirmative. Over.”

“Good lad. Listen carefully. You've got calm seas. That's good. Get her right down over the water, quickly now, just above stall speed. Just keep her nose up and set her down as gently as ever you can, like a wee butterfly on a pond. When you stall out, she'll settle right off. Then you get out of there fast, boy, I mean you move as fast as you ever moved in your life, and you swim away from that damn sewing basket any damn way you can.”

“Roger. Descending . . .”

“Don't forget to untie yer lap rope, lad. Slow you down gettin' out if you don't.”

Nick tore at the line around his waist and whipped it away. “Thanks, I would've forgotten, too, Gunner. Lots of smoke and fire now, can barely see. I've never felt this close to . . . to . . . you know.”

“All in the game. How close to the surface?”

“Twenty feet . . . fifteen . . . ten. Engine completely engulfed in flames . . . ammo bound to blow . . . I need to put her down right now, Gunner. . . . Over and out.”

“God love you, Nicky. And Godspeed, boy.”

The radio squawked once and went dead.

Gunner collapsed at the table and buried his face in his hands, unable to stop the hot tears running down his cheeks. There was nothing for it. It was in God's hands now. Nick was in grave, grave danger. Sopwith Camels didn't float. Or at least not for very long. All the weight in the Sopwith was up front, jammed into the first seven feet of the fuselage. Pilot,
fuel, guns, ammunition. And, in the nose, that massive monster of an engine.

As soon as she hit the sea, her tail would come straight up, her weighty nose would plow under the water, point downward, and take her straight to the bottom.

Gunner knew this from all too personal experience.

It had been a dark night, just like this one. A young pilot returning from a cross-channel training flight to Normandy and back. He'd let his mind wander. Strong headwinds. Thunderheads about, crackling with lightning. Suddenly, he was in a death spin. He fought the controls all the way down. Then he was upside down, underwater, disoriented in a pitch-black world, not knowing which way was up.

The well-nigh impossible fact that young Royal Flying Corps cadet Archibald “Gunner” Steele had gotten out of that cockpit and survived was a blooming miracle. Few survived a ditch in a Sopwith. Hundreds did not.

It had been his last flight. A military tribunal rightly blamed the loss of the aircraft on pilot error. It was a secret he'd take to the grave. To his eternal humiliation, he'd been drummed out of the Flying Corps. After a year of drowning his sorrows at the corner pub, he'd pulled himself together. If he couldn't fly, he could certainly float. He'd joined the bleeding Navy and spent his war looking through a gunsight at the endless blue of the sea. Many a U-boat had gone to the bottom thanks to his proficiency.

But his heart had always been in the sky.

· The English Channel ·

T
he sea was as black as the sky. Nick couldn't even make out a line of demarcation between them. He was trying to keep the Sopwith level with the horizon. Difficult without being able to
see
the horizon. Modern fighters like the Spitfire had an instrument that told you when you were flying level. But this wasn't a modern fighter. And the last thing he wanted was to accidentally catch a wingtip in the water and go spinning arse-over-teakettle across the dark sea.

He felt, more than saw, the sea rapidly coming up to meet him. Sound of a light chop, smell of seaweed and brine. He signed off with Gunner and concentrated determinedly on setting the old girl down as gently as possible. He wanted her upright at least long enough for him to scramble out of the cockpit and swim for shore. He'd flown only a half-mile from Guernsey. Should be an easy enough swim back to shore.

He ripped his flying helmet and goggles from his head and flung them overboard. He struggled out of his fleece-lined leather jacket and heaved that over, too. Then he peered over the side of the cockpit at the water. He was close! Maybe ten
feet. He let her stall, and then he set her down, like a butterfly landing on a still pond.

Things happened so quickly after that, he'd no time to reflect upon his perfect landing.

Almost instantly, behind him, he felt her tail coming up off the water and the plane rapidly pitching her nose down. There was a hiss as the nose quickly submerged, finally extinguishing the flaming engine. He knew then that with most of her weight forward, she would go down, and she would go down fast. He grabbed a deep breath, sucking as much air into his lungs as he possibly could.

Then, with no warning at all, the nose dropped sharply and the aircraft went from horizontal to vertical, tail standing straight up. The nose and cockpit were already completely submerged, and Nick knew that he was headed straight for the bottom. If he didn't act quickly, he'd be stuck in a death trap from which there'd be little hope of escape!

His first instinct was to grab the sides of the cockpit with both hands and try to lift his body straight up and out. But, even disoriented and with the water rushing past his face, he somehow knew he'd never make it out that way. His arms just weren't strong enough to fight the tremendous force of the water rushing past the fast-sinking aeroplane.

But his legs might be.

He instantly pulled his knees up to his chest and got his feet under him, boots planted on the seat of the wicker chair, crouched in position for an explosive spring outward. He hadn't a second to lose. He raised his hands above his head, holding them together, as if he was about to dive. He shoved off violently, using every ounce of power in his leg muscles.

It worked! He forcefully launched himself straight out of the cockpit. Now he was kicking desperately and clawing at
the water with his hands. Every instinct told him he had a second to get completely away from the plunging aeroplane. Despite his furious efforts, he was suddenly stunned by a sharp pain in his right shoulder. He'd caught the leading edge of the upper wing as it went by him at enormous speed.

He frantically clawed at the water, trying to orient himself. Which way was up? In the cold, inky blackness, he saw a swirling stream of bubbles rising past his face, no doubt coming from the doomed plane now streaking toward the bottom.

Follow the bubbles, Nick,
his brain said. Some deep part of some survival nodule in his brain was screaming. Go with the bubbles to the surface. Kick. Kick harder!

Up was air.

Down was death.

His lungs were afire and ready to burst when he finally broke through the surface, throwing his head back, taking huge gulps of air. He was amazed to be alive. Only moments ago, trapped in the plane, he'd despaired of his life, sure it was ending prematurely.

He hung in the water, composing himself, getting his breathing back to normal, and surveyeing the coastline. Behind him, a spreading pool of burning oil marked where the Camel had gone down. An easy marker for an enemy fighter or search plane. Ahead of him was a sandy white beach, some black shale, and then a hillock rising to meet the road, covered with trees. He saw no lights, no houses nearby, just an occasional automobile driving along the coast road.

He had to swim about a half-mile at most. Kicking toward shore, he began formulating a plan of what he'd do when he got there. He needed a safe place to hide and—what was that? A roaring sound, just to his right and growing louder. He saw their black silhouettes streaking toward him about twenty feet above the surface. Three Messerschmitts, probably making sure the English pilot had gone down with his plane. The pool of oil, still burning on the surface, had caught their attention, just as he'd feared.

Up was air. Down was death.

He took a deep breath and ducked beneath the surface. He heard the planes roar overhead. He had a few seconds to surface and take another breath. He popped his head up, and saw the three Nazi fighter planes banking hard left in a tight turn. They were coming right back! Had they seen him?

He inhaled and submerged once more.

A few seconds later, the fighters were back, streaking overhead at an unbelievable speed. He held his breath as long as he could, his lungs afire. The sound of the three warplanes gradually faded, and he knew it was safe now to swim for shore.

Safe? His confidence faded quickly. Surely the Germans would send out patrol boats to the site of the downed aircraft, looking for the pilot. They were probably already headed his way, so he swam very quickly. And they might even send foot soldiers to look for him along this bit of coast, since it was where a survivor would obviously be found.

He needed to get quickly across that beach, up the hill, and through the trees. Then he'd cross the road and begin the long climb up through the thick forest on the other side. At the top of that massive peak, called Saint George's, was a possible refuge. If he could climb quickly enough, he might reach it by dawn.

About twenty feet from shore, he stopped swimming and raised his head. Something caught his eye, a brief flash of light among the black trees in the woods? He paddled silently
in place, scanning the beach and the woods beyond. All seemed quiet. Still, there'd definitely been something. Some kind of light.

Now he saw it. Someone was coming toward him, moving slowly through the dark wood down toward the beach, right in his direction. It was the shadowy figure of a man, alone, he thought, with an electric torch in his hand. Still, he seemed to be speaking to someone. His tone was strange. Almost as if he was barking commands, not speaking to a companion.