The Time Pirate (23 page)

Then Nick heard the furious sounds of a guard dog, as the animal began to howl. Growling viciously, the big dog was, and the man now emerged from the wood. He was shouting commands in German at the big Doberman straining at his leash. The dog was up on his rear legs, his forepaws clawing at the air. He'd caught the scent of something, Nick knew, or, more likely, someone, namely him. And his owner was a German soldier, searching this part of the coast.

“
Schatzi! Nein! Halt! Halt!”

Nick knew enough German to know the big man was ordering the dog to stop. He drew a deep breath and submerged. If the dog had his scent, and he very well seemed to, perhaps Nick could stay under long enough for them to move on. When his lungs were bursting and he could stand it not one second longer, he rose again to the surface.

The German and the Doberman were still there. And the dog instantly renewed his howling and struggling against his leash at Nick's scent.

“Was ist los, meine Schatzi? Was ist los?”
the Nazi soldier said, playing the light of his hand-held torch over the empty white beach. Then he raised the flashlight and began to swing the powerful white beam out over the black water, looking for
whatever had gotten Schatzi's unwavering attention. For clearly, there was something, someone, out there.

Nick barely got his head underwater before the light swept over him. He'd not had time to take a deep breath and knew he could not stay submerged for long. Two minutes at most.

He raised his head for a breath and a peek.

The dog instantly howled and surged toward him, ripping the leash from the German's fist. And the huge dog then bounded toward the beach and straight for Nick. The German staggered forward, and the torch flew from his hand. He was screaming at his dog to stop, stop, but the animal had been trained to attack, and attack he would.

Could he outswim the dog? Nick had no idea how fast such animals might be in the water. But he'd certainly no intention of finding out. He submerged once more and quickly swam underwater to his left and fast as he could, too, putting distance between himself and where the Doberman had last seen him. When he exhausted his air, he rose, allowing only his eyes above the surface.

He saw the dog racing across the sand, headed for the exact point where he'd last seen Nick. The German was shouting at him, but now seemed to be pleading with him. Why? Wasn't the dog just doing his job?

The explosion was sudden and deafening and blinding. An upthrust of flame and metal. The great Doberman pinscher was no longer. Vaporized in an instant. The dog had stepped on a German landmine.

So the entire sandy beach, the one Nick had intended to scramble across just a few minutes earlier, must have been mined by the invading Nazis! Schatzi had just saved Nick McIver's life.

The soldier, shoulders slumped, stood at the edge of the
woods and stared forlornly at the blackened crater in the sand containing the scattered remains of his dog. Then he cursed loudly, turned, and returned through the trees toward the road. Was he the only one? Or were there more of these guards with their dogs patrolling the coast road? At least Nick knew why he'd been screaming at his dog to halt. He knew the beach was mined. And he would blame the unknown British pilot for the death of his Schatzi.

Nick submerged again and began to swim along the coast underwater, pausing to lift his head only when he needed to take a breath. There was a jetty jutting out into the water just around the point of land to his left. Maybe ten minutes away. He'd go ashore over those rocks. And pray that German soldier had not seen the face of the young pilot bobbing in the sea, the one who'd gotten his dog killed. That was trouble, and Nick knew he already had more than enough of that to deal with.

Nick moved carefully across the jetty toward land. Waves were breaking over the massive black rocks. They were slippery, and he could easily break an arm or a leg if he slipped in the dark. At the landward end of the jetty was the treeline. No beaches full of landmines here at least. He safely reached the jetty's end and began climbing up through the narrow band of forest to the road, his keen eyes searching the darkness, looking for any flash of light.

He soon reached the shore road and crouched amongst some heavy bushes, wanting to make sure the way was clear before he dashed across it and began his long climb to the top of Saint George's Mount.

Two minutes later, he'd taken one step into the road when
the roar of a speeding truck could be heard around a sharp bend in the road to his left. He saw the truck's headlights beginning to sweep toward him and dove back into his hiding place seconds before he'd have been seen.

It was a German half-track, full of troops bristling with machine guns. He watched it speed by, praying it was on routine patrol and would just continue along the road into Saint Peter Port. But less than half a mile down the road to his right, the armored half-track braked to a screeching halt. He saw the silhouettted soldier who'd lost his dog on the beach rush up to the cab and leap onto the running board. He was shouting and pointing down at the spot on the beach where Schatzi had tripped a mine.

Nick knew he had to cross the road
now
or risk being seen as the soldiers came out of the truck. He dropped to his belly and snaked across the rough macadam road as fast as he could, watching the storm troopers and barking guard dogs come piling out of the truck and begin fanning out through the woods leading to the beach. At this distance, on his belly in the dark, he thought he'd be hard to spot.

A powerful spotlight on top of the truck was suddenly illuminated. It swept in great stark white arcs back and forth along the treeline. Now the light was headed this way. They were looking for him, all right. They knew the pilot, whoever he was, had not gone down with his ship. The dog caught his scent.

He scrambled from the road and dove into the brush, heart pounding. After catching his breath, he chanced a peek down the road at the Germans. None of them were coming back this way along the road, thank goodness. They were all searching the woods along the sandy beach. The only thing in his favor was that he'd swum to the jetty. No tracks in the
sand. But he couldn't kid himself. Sooner or later they'd come searching this side of the road, up this very hillside, and he wanted to be as far away from those nosy Dobermans and their handlers as possible.

The grade was by turns steep and slight and would then flatten out for a bit as he passed through a meadow before entering another forest. He was tired, he suddenly realized, but the dogs and the adrenaline pumping through his veins kept him moving ever upward. Suddenly he came upon an opening and a narrow granite cliff that jutted out over the forest with a clear view to the sea beyond. He carefully stepped out along its edge. One misstep and he'd plummet a thousand feet to his death. His heart leaped to his throat when he looked below.

The Germans had crossed the road. All of them. He could see their torchlights flashing through the trees below. They were fanned out, coming up Saint George's Mount through the woods, dogs howling, beams of light streaking upward, flashing everywhere through the black trunks and stark limbs of trees. The dogs had obviously caught his scent. He had a good head start on them, thank heavens. But now he would have to run the rest of the way to the top of Saint George's Mount. And he was exhausted.

He took another breath. He'd have to will himself to summon energy he knew he didn't have. He'd have to find a place inside himself he wasn't even sure existed.

If he didn't, he knew with absolute certainty that his life would end by his being torn apart by vicious dogs. Not a good way to go. And even at the top, he was not sure he'd find safety.

The Germans had of course seen his engine catch fire and watched the old Sopwith Camel go down in flames. That's why that first guard was searching the beach with his dog. Near where Nicky had ditched his beloved Sopwith. The Germans wouldn't be happy until they had found the downed pilot who had destroyed so much of their aerodrome and fighter squadrons. He'd done them enormous harm. And it wouldn't matter much if he was caught dead or alive.

· Greybeard Island ·

K
ate McIver burst into her brother's room first thing that morning, swinging her favorite doll by its thinning red hair. Fresh salty air wafted through the opened windows; the little whitewashed room near the top of the lighthouse was filled with brilliant sunshine. All of Nicky's wooden battleships and destroyers were scattered around the floor, just where he'd left them when one of his endless sea battles had ended.

The big black dog, Jip, was sound asleep at the foot of Nick's bed, nestled in a pool of warm sunlight. But no Nicky.

She eyed his bed carefully. The pillow was scrunched up, yes. But the bedcovers had not been touched. It was fairly obvious to her—and she was no great scientific detective like Lord Hawke or Commander Hobbes—but it was apparent that Nick had not slept in his bed last night. Which meant he hadn't come home at all. The whole night! Which meant he was in big, big trouble.

A little half-smile formed on her face.
Should she tell?

Kate didn't necessarily like to
cause
trouble. But she was always happy to see it come along, especially if her older
brother was the one in trouble and not she herself. Staying out all night was definitely going to cause a major hurricane, and she turned on a heel and left the room, practically skipping down the long spiral staircase that led to the kitchen.

Something was cooking down there, and the fragrance of a fresh-baked strawberry pie filled the staircase. Her favorite thing in all the world was a strawberry pie, made by her mother, with berries fresh from the lighthouse strawberry patch. It was funny. A few months ago, her mother had said they might find Nazis hiding in the strawberry patch. Now they were dangling from trees!

She arrived in the kitchen with mischief on her mind.

Her parents were seated at the banquette in the bay window that overlooked the gardens and blue sea beyond. Mum was having her shredded wheat, blueberries, and Prince of Wales tea, and Father his steaming Irish oatmeal. Both had their noses buried deep in the newspapers, reading about the creepy old Nazis and the invasion and bombing of their islands.

She slid into her seat at the table, thinking she had a little bomb of her own to drop this sunny morning.

“Morning, Father,” she said, cheerfully. “Good morning, Mummy.”

“Morning, dear,” they both said, not looking up from their newspapers. She waited as long as ever she could, and then she spoke.

“Nick not down for breakfast yet?” she asked, the very picture of innocence.

Both nodded their heads no.

“Hmm,” she said, “that's interesting.”

No comment.

“Are you done with that first section, darling?” her mother asked her father.

“Here you are, darling,” he said, handing the paper across the table to her. They called each other that word so much, she'd begun to think of them as “The Darlings.”