Ace Carroway and the Great War (The Adventures of Ace Carroway Book 1)

by Guy Worthey

  She about-faced and stalked out.

  Darko Dor sipped wine for a full minute before remarking to the empty room, “Minds change.”

  ♠♠♠

  No one questioned Ace when she took a chest-braced hand drill and a slender drill bit, and bored a hole in an engine block. The workers assumed that she was following orders. Sam added a requisition for two dozen more drill bits to replace those dulled by Ace’s clandestine industry, and that went unnoticed too. Tombstone squirreled away a duffel bag for electrical gear stolen from the workroom. He kept it buried under the dirt floor of the cell and added to it every day. Quack took a wire cutter and hid it in his coveralls, to cut through the chain-link fence when they escaped. Bert had enough to do just to keep from exploding in the direction of the abusive Uwe.

  Darko Dor’s official black car vanished.

  Some of the officers and guards began to feel ill.

  That evening, Tombstone had a sparkle in his eye. As the guards locked them in for the evening, Tombstone displayed a stolen battery and a pair of diodes. He set to work wiring components together.

  Ace watched over his shoulder. “You’re a radio engineer?”

  The lanky, cadaverous man replied, “Yes, ma’am. Went t’ school in electrical engineering at Austin. Didn’t finish, though. The war broke out.”

  “What’s your full name, Tombstone?”

  “Gregory Jamison. I was born outside El Paso. I guess that’s why I picked up the handle Tombstone when I joined the Expeditionary. They made me a sharpshooter. Shootin’ comes natural. I did a lot o’ shootin’ as a kid.”

  “How did you come to be captured?”

  “I was put in Gooper’s unit at Soissons. Somehow, I didn’t hear the retreat signal. I got surrounded an’ I jes’ put my hands up.”

  “Very sensible of you.”

  “You almost done with th’ sabotage, Ace?”

  “Almost. One more day. There are 32 new engines. I got to twenty of them so far.”

  “What’re you up to, ’xactly?”

  “I never said. There hasn’t been much opportunity for talk. I drill a hole where the fuel line runs by the engine. And then I backfill the hole with solder. I polish it up bright and bolt the fuel line back into place. The hole is all but invisible, even before the fuel line gets connected.”

  “So ya make a hole, then fill it back up again? Whaffer?”

  “The solder is soft compared with the engine block. As the engine runs, the heat will erode the solder plug away. Eventually, the solder will vaporize completely and a little flame jet will shoot out — right at the fuel line.”

  “Blimey!” Gooper said appreciatively.

  Ace mused, “I predict the Falke will soon gain a reputation for being a deathtrap to fly.”

  “Brava![9]” said Bert through a lip freshly split by Uwe.

  “Fire falcon. It’s a catchy phrase, but I wouldn’t want to pilot one,” Ace said.

  “Who taught you about machines, Lady Ace?” Sam asked. To him, all of this was magic.

  Ace hesitated, then smiled wistfully. “My father.”

  “Who is your father, Lady Ace? And your mother? And may I ask your name?”

  Ace laughed softly. “We’re prisoners. Such details are nonessential. I’m Cecilia Carroway, daughter of Grant Carroway and Amiti Rishi.”

  Gooper said, “Wot? The actress? I wrote a paper on ’er in school. Siren of the Silent Screen, I called it.”

  “Yes, but she died when I was very young. My father raised me. I had tutors besides regular schooling. I attended university early. When the war broke out, I signed up as a pilot. I was captured when a Falke shot a hole in the fuel line of my SPAD.”

  Quack emitted a long, low whistle. “Wait! I heard about you! You were on track to be the youngest M.D. in Harvard history! It only clicked just now.”

  “Let’s hope it qualifies me to doctor up this place’s Falke production,” Ace said, wiggling her eyebrows.

  Bert asked, “How old are you, Ace?”

  Ace fell silent.

  “Oh,” Bert said softly. “Can’t say, eh? Well. Moving on, then.”

  There was some uncomfortable squirming.

  Ace said testily, “If you gentlemen get any ideas of becoming overprotective or something, I’ll … well, you better not, that’s all!”

  “Don’ get a burr under yer saddle, Ace!” Tombstone soothed. “You’re a cyclone an’ ain’t none of us Pecos Bill enough to lasso you!”

  ♠♠♠

  The last day dragged on endlessly for the five men, but Ace was busy. She burned through drill bits steadily. When the manager happened by, she had a lie ready. “Installing thermometers.” Since Ace was also keeping up with her regular assembly chores, the manager had no cause to fret. He went off to scold a worker that had taken a moment to wipe sweat from his brow.

  Bert caught a break. Uwe was feeling queasy. He was not feeling perky enough to properly torment Bert. The guards and officers were not in view very much. They were competing with the mechanics for access to the outhouses.

  At long last, the evening of escape arrived.

  So did Darko Dor, along with what appeared to be a bodyguard. A heavy brute built almost as massive as Gooper, and festooned with weaponry like ornaments on a Yule tree. Darko Dor had his usual riding crop and pistol.

  Supper was late, but eventually a pale green Uwe thrust bread and water at the prisoners. The newly-arrived bodyguard loomed behind him.

  And then came a sudden, unforeseen complication.

  Uwe stabbed a finger at Ace and said, “You. Woman. You come to the house.”

  Ace stirred to obey, but before she left the cell, she mumbled a string of apparent gibberish. Sam’s eyes widened.

  The bulky bodyguard escorted Ace off, one of his many guns prodding her between the shoulder blades.

  Chapter 9

  The tense men did not feel like eating, but wolfed down the bread anyway so that Uwe would go away. After an interminable time, he did. He sneered at them, locked the cell door, and crunched away over the gravel.

  “What do we do now?” groaned blond Quack.

  “What are they doing with Ace?” Bert wanted to know.

  “Gentlemen,” said Sam.

  “I say we bust up the whole place!” Gooper smacked a ham fist into a meaty palm.

  “Aww, keep your hat on. You’re not bulletproof, you knuckleheaded Limey,” said Tombstone.

  “Gentlemen,” said Sam.

  “Sam, you’re not helping. We’re trying to figure out what to do,” Quack said.

  Bert said, “We could bust out, even get past the fence. But that would leave Ace still caught here!”

  Suddenly, two fleshy slaps rang out. Gooper and Quack, who were nearest to Sam, rocked sideways, grunted in pain, then stared at Sam in amazement. Sam glared back, fists balled up. He had walloped them both on the jaw so fast they didn’t see the blows coming.

  “Sahibs. What I am trying to say to you is that Ace left instructions. And now, you need to be quiet and listen to me.”

  “Pardner, I ain’t never seen you more emphatic. Boys, let’s give Sam a listen,” Tombstone said, a distinct note of appreciation in his voice.

  “Thank you, Tombstone. Now, the country of my origin is Egypt. Ace knew this, and also she knows enough of the Egyptian language to have given me instructions as she was led away.”

  “Care to tell us what she said?” Quack mumbled, rubbing his aching jaw.

  “She told us that we should escape as soon as the coast is clear, and she will catch up to us.” Sam paused to rub his own knuckles. “The coast is clear. We should go.”

  Tombstone immediately started digging in the floor. That was where he had left his collection of stolen tools. He said, “Awlright, Sam, but … one more li’l thing. Do you think Ace would mind if the fuel depot kinda, uh, blew up?”

  “Good heavens, what a question!” Bert said. He also jumped into action, tearing off the bit of molding t
hat hid their saw marks. He used the heel of his hand to remove the planks as quietly as possible. If any guards had been near, they would have heard the splintering sounds. But they were not. They were in the outhouses.

  “I am sure she would not object, Tombstone,” Sam said.

  Quack grabbed his stolen wire cutters. He was the first one through the hole.

  “Blow up the fuel? How d’ye think you’re going ter manage that, you barmy stick?” Gooper said. “The fuel depot’s ’alfway across the field, an’ in the opposite direction we’re going in!”

  They scrambled out through the hole in the barn wall and beelined for the perimeter fence. They nervously glanced over their shoulders. But the night was moonless, and the grounds were not lit with electric lights the way a prison would be. There was no sign any alarm had been raised.

  They piled up behind the chain-link fence. The top of the fence was looped with razor wire. They all preferred that Quack cut them a hole rather than getting lacerated climbing over the top. Past the fence lay fifty yards of sloping field, and beyond that the forested flank of a mountain.

  Tombstone belatedly answered Gooper, “Th’ detonator’s got a battery an’ a radio receiver. It’s triggered by a particular radio frequency resonance that—”

  Gooper cut him off. “Ow, shaddap! I don’t want ter build me own! You rigged a bomb. That’s wot I need ter know.”

  “I was worried I wouldn’t be able to place it, but all the sick guards today made it easy,” Tombstone said.

  Quack worked steadily, snipping away at the thick wires by sense of touch.

  Tombstone unslung his duffel bag. “Here, Gooper. Hold this bag. I’ll get the transmitter out now. It’s short-range. B’fore we get into the woods, I’d best fire it off.”

  “We are so very, very visible, sahibs,” Sam said in strained tones.

  Bert murmured, “We’ll be through the fence soon, Sam.”

  Every few seconds a click announced another link of chain fence defeated. Tombstone rummaged for his transmitter, then held it cupped in his hands. It looked like a battery with a rat’s nest of wires tied on. Tombstone twisted a pair of wires together. “It’s all ready. I just got t’ press this here key down.”

  Quack said, “I’m through! Tombstone, come on. You and your transmitter are next.”

  The lanky Texan squeezed through the rent in the fence. Sam was next.

  Gooper got stuck.

  “Ow, bloody ’ell!” The massive man tried to bull through. Then he tried to go back. The whole fence quivered with his efforts, but the flexible chain gave him little purchase for his powerful muscles.

  “Wait. What was that? Was that a shot fired just now?” Tombstone wondered, much quieter than the protesting Gooper.

  Bert, alone on the inside of the fence, was amused. “Quack, get back here and snip some more. You underestimated a bit.”

  “Mebbe a pistol shot,” Tombstone said.

  A quivery light fell upon them all. It was the dim light of a battery-powered torch, but it seemed as bright as the sun. A German-accented voice shouted, “Halt!” Footsteps pounded nearer.

  Bert turned to face the light, a wild, tight smile on his face. “Well, if it isn’t my old friend, Uwe.” Bert walked toward the light, then broke into a run.

  “Halten sie!” came Uwe’s voice. Then the torch dropped to the ground, casting a cone of light in a direction useless to everyone.

  A shot rang out.

  Bert gave a cry.

  “Bert’s been hit!” howled Gooper, still stuck in the fence.

  Chapter 1 0

  Ace walked with straight-backed dignity into the house. Darko Dor’s musclebound bodyguard jabbed his gun barrel between her shoulder blades. He smiled when Ace stumbled and emitted an involuntary gasp. He exuded a chilling aura of uncaring brutality.

  Darko Dor met them inside the house. No wine was in sight, this time, though he wore a pleased half-smile. “Ah, Miss Carroway. So good of you to join us.”

  “Look,” Ace said, her golden eyes glinting, “whatever it is, the answer’s going to be ‘no.’ Give up, Darko Dor.”

  “I would give up, my dear. Except that I don’t. I never give up. I knew you would be defiant, Miss Carroway. It is part of your charm. It is why I admire you so.” Darko Dor stroked his little goatee with smug contractions of his fingers.

  Ace stood encased in silent tension.

  The government minister lost his smile, irritated at the lack of response. “My work here is done. The Falke is on track for production. I am leaving. And you are coming with me.”

  “In a pig’s eye!”

  “Ha! Ha! Ha! So charming. So very fiery.” Darko Dor chuckled. He indicated the hulking bodyguard. “Miss Carroway, meet Cherenkov. He is most fearsome, yes? Let me be clear. You have no choice. You have no luggage, and ours is packed. We are leaving for Frankfurt now. Cherenkov cares not if you are awake or unconscious, healthy or bleeding. I have told him I want you alive, but I did not otherwise restrict him. Cherenkov likes his artistic freedom, you see.”

  Cherenkov ran the barrel of his large-bore pistol over the back of Ace’s neck. A cold, sickly caress. Ace shuddered.

  “I see that you understand your situation, Miss Carroway. Let us go. Now!”

  Ace went with the men into the inky night. At the fading edge of the porch light’s circle of illumination sat Darko’s official car. Long, black, and gleaming, it was built to impress. Broad running boards, four doors with tinted glass windows, and an imposing front grill added to the effect.

  Darko Dor went to the driver’s side. “Put her in the back seat and watch her!” The Ottoman Minister started to get in. Cherenkov opened the back door of the sedan and gestured for Ace to get in too.

  She did not obey.

  Instead of ducking to get into the car, she crouched into a Wing Chun stance. The next instant, she leapt and delivered a high kick to the base of Cherenkov’s skull. The bodyguard’s eyes glazed and crossed. He weaved on his feet. Ace doubled him over with a stomach punch, then helped in his downward trajectory with a two-handed smash to the back of the neck. His face impacted the solid fender, and his head bounced off. By the time Cherenkov’s boneless form reached the ground, he was unconscious. Breathing hard, Ace looked for Darko Dor.

  She found him, standing behind a steady Luger pistol. His dark eyes glittered.

  “You try my patience!” His snarling voice quivered. “Get in the driver’s seat. You will drive me.”

  “No,” Ace panted.

  Darko Dor lowered his gun, but not to give up. In an act of callous, indifferent cruelty he pointed the Luger at Cherenkov’s head and pulled the trigger. The gun emitted a crisp pop sound and a flash of muzzle fire.

  Ace emitted a soft cry of protest, jarred, but slow to fully comprehend the barren inhumanity of the casual murder.

  Darko Dor’s teeth gleamed in the gloom. “Interesting. I have understood your weakness now, Ace Carroway. If you do not get in, I will have your fellow prisoners shot, one by one. And you will watch them die, one by one. Move.”

  Dislocated from reality and nerveless, Ace trembled as she slipped behind the wheel. Mechanically, she turned the key and trimmed the choke.

  Darko Dor stepped over what was once Cherenkov and into the back seat. “Never doubt, my dear, this gun is aimed at your heart.” His voice slithered intimately behind her right ear.

  From outside came a crack sound, a distant gun shot. It was so like an echo that Ace at first thought it was her own imagination. But the shot brought her back to her right self, and she knew where she was and what she was doing.

  A memory flitted by.

  “In improvisation, Cecilia, there are infinitely many paths to take, and you are the master of them all,” said Chathaway Monahan, her piano tutor. An established concert pianist, posters often featured his image. Cecilia was 11.

  “But don’t I have to follow the chord progression and end on the tonic?” Cecilia looked over and up at the da
shing figure. Sometimes, she asked questions just to see his reactions. More often, she begged him to play so that she could be transported to musical landscapes only he could conjure.

  “Of course. You still have to get around the changes and navigate the cadence to the end of the form. But I’m still right. You know I’m right, don’t you, you scamp?”

  “Yes, Mister Monahan. Mathematically, but also for mood.”

  “Scamp. What do you know of mood at your age? But you are right. Your end goal can be achieved, in style. In your own style.”

  Her eyes grew metallic. She put the car in gear and accelerated.

  Darko Dor loomed behind her, an unseen yet vivid compulsion. Ace was keenly aware that he had a pistol pointed at her heart. She drove toward the exit gate, trying to think. She recited a Wing Chun mantra, calming her breath, clarifying her mind.

  Darko Dor purred, “There. See? You can be reasonable, my dear. Now, it is only a mile to the highway.”

  Suddenly, the sky behind them turned bright orange. Ace saw an expanding ball of flame in her rearview mirror. It dimmed and curled and rose into a mushroom shape.

  “Was zur Hőlle?”[10] blurted Darko Dor. He commanded, “Turn around! Turn around!”

  Ace was already turning. Tires spit dirt and gravel as she spun the car and accelerated. The rutty country road made the smooth-riding Ministry car bounce crazily. Ace kept her foot nailed to the floor.

  As they careened past the farmhouse again, the flames from the fuel depot came into view, with silhouetted running figures. But Ace seemed to be drifting from that course and heading more toward the barn. At ever increasing speed.

  Darko Dor noticed. “Was zur Hőlle?” he shouted again. “Stop! Go that way!”

  Ace angled the car between house and barn. In the light of car’s vibrating headlights, she spotted a slash in the chain-link fence. She headed toward it, her foot pressing the accelerator flat. For a moment, there was a lump in the field and the car bounced severely. Had the car run over a body?