Robinson’s voice crackled in his ears. “Potez, take off in order starting with Two. Breda, Breuguet, follow Five in that order. Head west on two-niner-zero and be ready to take formation.”
“Roger,” Lewis said, his voice drowned by the others, and advanced the throttle, taking Potez Five out of the hangar. On the bumpy, red-brown taxiway, he eased into line behind Mitch, waiting as the first two planes lifted off. They were quick, bounding into the air, and he began to hope they might be good enough to hold the Italians back. It was Mitch’s turn now, and Lewis watched intently as Mitch turned the little biplane into the wind. This was one of the new designs, with the small lower wing; it was supposed to be more maneuverable, though Lewis hadn’t really noticed the difference in the planes he’d flown so far. Mitch opened the throttle, Potez Four skittering down the dirt track, tail lifting almost at once. Then he was up and away, banking sharply west into the sun, and Lewis swung into line, opening the throttle. The engine roared, he released the brakes, and Potez Five leaped forward. He checked his instruments, everything in order, and felt the tail come up. He pulled back on the stick, and the little plane rose sweetly into the air. He climbed steeply, a hundred feet, three hundred, and banked onto the ordered heading. He could see the rest of the flight ahead of him, dots strung out in the glassy sky almost obscured by the sun: Robinson already maneuvering to get the advantage. Below, the ground showed broken scrub and fields; the airstrip and the village fell away, and he craned his neck to see north toward Gondar.
“All right, boys,” Robinson said. “We’ve got the sun behind us. Potez Two, Three, Brueguet, form up on me. Potez Four, you take Potez Five and Breda. Let’s go find them.”
Lewis brought Potez Five around in a wide circle and took his place on Mitch’s left wing. He could feel the excitement building, the familiar delight that he hadn’t felt since the War. Mostly he was ashamed of it, even in Italy where he had seen it in the other pilots’ eyes, but this time, he could use it, could let it go. He settled himself more comfortably in the cockpit, feeling Diana’s seal heavy in his pocket, warm against his leg, and scanned the sky ahead. They’d come down on the Italians out of the sun: that was all the advantage they had, but he’d made less work for him before. This time the hound could run.
Alexandria, Egypt
January 4, 1936
“How far do you think we’ve gone?” Willi asked, following behind Jerry with his flashlight.
“It’s hard to tell,” Dr. Hussein said. He was in the lead, clearly trying not to range ahead of Jerry’s pace.
“A few blocks, no more,” Jerry said. “It seems further underground. But I can’t imagine we’ve gone more than a few city blocks.”
“Yes, the distances are deceptive,” Hussein began. His words ended with a startled squawk. For an instant he teetered, trying to keep his balance, and then pitched into the darkness, into some hazard unseen.
Jerry reflexively grabbed for him, missed, the tip of his cane skidding on the suddenly uneven surface. His bad knee gave and he fell sideways, raising his left hand to protect his face and glasses, expecting to slam into the floor.
Only it wasn’t there. Instead of floor there was a slope, stone worn smooth as glass by thousands of years of water, and there was no purchase for his seeking hand. He landed on his right shoulder — painful but not damaging, he had time to think — and then slid foot first down the slope.
Willi was cursing in German, the light he carried receding above. Jerry was reminded of nothing so much as a children’s playground slide, the tunnel sloping downward at a steep angle, as he flailed with his arm and cane for something to grab. Of course there was nothing. This was the inside of a water conduit, and any ridges there had once been were long since worn away.
And then it ended. He plowed into something yielding, the darkness absolute.
“Oooof,” Hussein said.
“Mohammad? Are you hurt?”
Jerry had more or less landed on top of him, but beneath them the surface still yielded, though there were sharp bits. A lower level of the sewer, the archaeologist in him thought, where refuse washed down from the streets above was deposited by the movement of the water.
“I think so,” Hussein said. He moved, presumably sitting up, and Jerry tried to right himself.
“Jerry! Jerry! Are you there? Are you all right?” Willi was calling frantically from above, the light of his flashlight playing over the inside of the tunnel bright as a star above.
“I’m fine,” Jerry called back. His shoulder and hip hurt, but everything seemed to move as it should. He felt about. That was Hussein’s leg in flannel trousers, that a sharp piece of broken pottery in the refuse beneath. “Where’s your flashlight?” he asked Hussein.
“Here.” There was movement in the dark, and he felt the cool metal pressed into his hand. “I think the bulb is broken.”
Jerry flipped the switch a few times, but no light resulted. “Yes.”
Willi’s light shone down from above, reflected off the inside of the tunnel. It looked no more than thirty feet long. Willi was still swearing. “I told you to be careful. Now how are you going to get back up?”
“I have a rope,” Hussein replied.
“Yes, but you’re down there. And how do you think Jerry is going to climb a rope?” Willi said.
Jerry stood up, careful of the shifting refuse beneath his feet, not damp or stinking, fortunately. Perhaps water no longer flowed through this section. He looked up the tunnel, slanted so he could just see Willi’s worried face and the flashlight held above his head. As far as he could see, the walls of the tunnel were completely smooth. How anyone would climb up it thirty feet… “We’re going to have to find another way out,” he said.
“How do you know there’s another way out?” Willi asked.
“The water went somewhere,” Jerry said.
“True,” Hussein said. He had gotten up, and from the sound of his footsteps seemed to be cautiously exploring. “If we had a light down here we could see where the outlet is.”
Jerry looked up at the bobbing light. “Willi, you’re going to have to come down here.”
“Then we’ll all be stuck down there if there’s not an outlet,” Willi replied sensibly.
“There must be an outlet,” Jerry said.
“It might be too small for a man.”
Which was unfortunately true. “We can’t see to tell whether there is or not,” Jerry said. He heard Hussein scrabbling. “Mohammad, be careful,” he said. “There might be a vertical drop.”
“No, I think it’s tunnels,” Hussein said. “I can feel an arch about waist high. And there’s movement of air above. I think we’re in a cistern. In the bottom of one.”
“A dry one,” Jerry said, thinking. “And at a higher level than the bottom of the Ptolemaic one.”
“It feels like another Roman arch,” Hussein said. “This might be one of the Roman cisterns. In which case there are tunnels coming in from the Roman streets.”
“You’re going to have to come down,” Jerry called up. “The only way I’m getting out is through one of those arches.”
There was silence, and then Willi swore. “Fine. I’m coming down,” he said.
The light bobbed, then grew stronger. Willi slid down the tunnel with the flashlight in his lap looking like a child on a giant slide, a tiny smile on his face. He put his feet down neatly at the bottom and stood up.
“See?” Jerry said. “Wasn’t that fun?”
“You are insane,” Willi said, but he was still smiling. He shone the light around the chamber. “Now what have we got here?”
There were several arches in the walls, one almost at floor level and four or five higher, all the familiar barrel vault construction of Roman waterworks. Hussein stood by the lowest one, an arch half-choked with refuse that had washed down. He blinked in the sudden brightness of the light, his gray flannel pants streaked with dirt.
“You’re right,” Jerry said to him. “Well
done. A Roman cistern indeed. So we are at the level of the Ptolemaic streets or just below. Now let’s figure out where we are. Which way is north? I’ve gotten turned around down here.”
“Um,” Hussein said.
“Here.” Willi reached in his pocket and handed him a compass in a steel case.
Jerry laughed. “You had a compass all along?”
“You were having so much fun before.” Willi shrugged.
Jerry flipped it open, turning to get his bearings. “That’s north,” he said. “We should still be a few blocks west of the Soma. So…”
“Probably this way?” Hussein stood by one of the arches, a tunnel that came in a little more than waist high to his right. “This one should take us west.”
“I think so,” Jerry said.
“We are still looking for the Soma? Rather than a way out?” Willi said.
“Do you think we’re going to get a better chance?” Jerry replied.
Willi threw up his hands, laughing. “No. When will we ever have a chance to get stuck in Alexandria’s sewers again? By all means, let’s take full advantage of the opportunity!”
“The tunnel’s only about four feet high,” Hussein said. “We’re going to have to crawl. Dr. Ballard…”
“I can crawl,” Jerry said. “I’ve got my knee. Just help me get up there.”
“Yes, sir,” Hussein said.
The light flickered over the refuse on the floor, a glint of metal suddenly shining brightly. “Wait a moment,” Jerry said. “What was that?”
Hussein bent over, picking it up and holding it out to Jerry. “Some kind of medallion,” he said. “It must have washed down from above. Do you know what it is?”
Jerry took it from his hand. “I do,” he said. “It’s a Roman contorniate, an amulet people carried for luck. Shine the light here, will you, Willi?” Jerry’s breath caught as the light hit it. There was Alexander’s profile, clear and crisp, the ram’s horns bound on his brow. Around the margin were the Latin letters SOL INVICTUS.
Willi blew out a long breath as Jerry turned it over. “That’s different.” On the back was the familiar Chi-Rho, the monogram of Christ adopted by Constantine.
“It certainly is,” Jerry said. He lifted it closer to the light, examining front and back alike. “St. John Chrysostom spoke against amulets like these, that fused the pagan and Christian traditions of Alexandria in one, creating if you will a fusion deity of Alexander and Jesus.”
“So fourth or fifth century?” Hussein said keenly. “Likely fourth?”
Jerry nodded. “About the same time the Soma was lost.”
“When Emperor and Church alike cracked down,” Willi said. “Perhaps it was sold at the Soma. A souvenir. A cult object.”
“That’s very possible,” Jerry said. “Many cult sites sold amulets for visitors to take home.” He could see it so clearly, the hand which had last held this, the likenesses spread on a tray under the echoing dome…
“It’s a sign we’re close,” Hussein said. His eyes met Jerry’s, alight with fever. “We’re almost there.” His voice choked.
“Yes,” Jerry said.
After all these centuries, the magic still worked.
Camp Coleman, Amhara Region, Ethiopia
January 4, 1936
Robinson called out the new heading, not reciprocal but north and east, and Lewis glanced quickly sideways, checking his position off Mitch’s left wing. They’d done this before, during Reserve weeks; it was von Rosen and the Breda who worried him — well, and Robinson’s trainees, and Asha, all of them bobbing awkwardly in Robinson’s wake, spread out more than Lewis liked to see. They wouldn’t be able to provide much cover for each other that way. But that was Robinson’s problem. His job was to stick with Mitch, see if they couldn’t punch through the fighter screen and do enough damage to discourage the bombers.
Four thousand feet, with a thin scrim of cloud at ten thousand and a few fat fluffy clouds below them at about three thousand feet: no cover worth considering, except the declining sun behind them. It would blind the Italians for a few precious seconds, but after that… He touched the controls, gauging the Potez’s response. After that, it would be up to him.
He focused his attention on the sky to the northeast, looking for any sign of shadow or movement against the pale blue. They had passed over the field, and for a moment he dared hope they might engage early enough to keep the bombers at bay. But, no, there they were, four solid dots against the cloud, and a swarm of smaller dots that was the fighter escort. He opened his mouth to call them in, and Asha’s voice sounded in his headphones.
“I see them! Eleven o’clock! At — four thousand?”
Five thousand, Lewis thought. His hands twitched on the stick, but he didn’t pull up.
“Climb to six thousand feet,” Robinson ordered. “And close.”
Lewis pulled back sharply, matching Mitch’s smooth rise, and out of the corner of his eye saw von Rosen following only a hair late. They needed all the height they could get, that and the sun would be their only advantage. He could make out the shapes of the Italian planes now, ten double-winged Fiat CR.32s spread out in a loose fan a few hundred feet above the three-engine bombers. There were four of them, all right, big monoplanes with a fixed undercarriage, flying two by two. He had the height now, they all did, and it was just a matter of how close they could get before the Italians spotted them — close, he hoped, given that they probably weren’t expecting much resistance. They were closing, within firing range and still above the Fiats, and he glanced toward Mitch’s Potez Four, hoping he could signal his choice of target, but there was no chance of catching Mitch’s attention. Still, it was pretty clear which plane he should go for: tail-end Charlie, lagging behind the rest of his flight. If Mitch and von Rosen kept his teammates busy, there wouldn’t be time to get a bead on him, and he’d have a chance to take one out cleanly right at the start —
“Now,” Robinson called.
Lewis tipped the Potez onto its port wing, arrowing over and down, one finger flicking off the safety. He could feel the struts shaking, close to their tolerances already, and filed that information for later, counting the heartbeats. He wasn’t going to shoot until he was at point-blank range, going for all the surprise he could manage. Someone shouted on the radio, and the stutter of machine guns sounded behind him. He saw the tail-end Fiat’s pilot spot him, saw him tip the little fighter down and away, scrambling to get inside his turning radius. Wrong move, he thought, watching the observer fire blindly, tracers flicking away into the distance. He pressed his own trigger, fired a quick burst that stitched the Fiat’s tail. The Fiat spun, pulling up and away, and Lewis brought Potez Five around on its tail, his engine screaming under the strain. He was finding his limits all too fast.
The Fiat’s observer fired again, but Lewis had the range, pressed his finger on the trigger, aiming for the Fiat’s belly as the pilot tried to turn and climb away. He saw the tracers flash across, saw the holes appear along the undercarriage, and the observer jerked in his cockpit.
“On your tail, Five,” Mitch called, and Lewis flung Potez Five to the right, barrel-rolling away from the first Fiat, now showing a satisfying trail of smoke. Tracers flickered past, mostly off the port wing. Lewis pulled up as steeply as he dared — slower than he would have liked, but the Italian was slower still to respond. At the top of the climb he rolled, and found the Fiat still behind and below. He hit the trigger again, once, twice, two short bursts at the engine cowling, and saw smoke appear from the exhausts. The Fiat rolled away, and for an instant he strained to follow, ride his kill into the ground, but this was not that kind of fight. He was here to drive off the Italians, not to kill them, and he rolled Potez Five back toward the melee.
Mitch had another Fiat on the run, dropping low and fleeing toward the north — presumably damaged, though it wasn’t trailing smoke. The student pilots had ganged up on one of the Fiats and the three spun in circles as they tried to get a decent shot.
Robinson had engaged another Fiat, and the Breda and von Rosen were exchanging shots with three more Fiats.
“Five! Help Two and Three!” Robinson called, and in the same moment Lewis saw Mitch turn toward von Rosen and Asha, scrambling for height. Two more Fiats homed in on the students, who were on the ragged edge of control as they turned and twisted, trying to escape.
“Roger.” Lewis turned toward them, diving to pick up more speed, and saw Potez Two break away, tail surfaces visibly chewed up by the Fiats’ machine guns, fighting toward the field. Lewis ignored him, bringing Potez Five up to dive out of the sun onto the tail of the fighter chasing Potez Three. He got in a good shot as he passed, saw the Fiat jump and waver, then pulled up again, feeling the strain in his wings. This was the moment he was most vulnerable, if the Fiats could see it, but they seemed so startled by the attack that he was able to climb past them, airspeed dropping toward a stall. He applied full rudder, the Potez seeming for a moment to stand on its wingtip, and then came rushing down again on the nearest Fiat. It yawed wildly, the observer firing blind, and Lewis grinned as he saw the line of tracers march across the unprotected belly. Potez Three had managed a credible roll of his own, and got some decent hits on his erstwhile pursuer; it made a split-S and fled to the north, following its fellows.
Lewis banked into another climbing turn, automatically reaching for height and sun, and realized that the fighters had disengaged. The bombers were past, turning back to the north, and on the ground he could see the dusty clouds thrown up by the bombs. No, he realized, not dust, and not ordinary bombs; he’d seen gas before, on the Western Front, and there was no mistaking that lingering haze. But it was in the wrong place, not by the field but over the village, drifting slowly south and east as it faded, and he jammed the throttle forward. No one used gas, that was forbidden by the League of Nations, and no one in their right mind used it against civilians, against a church and a Red Cross hospital — against Alma. She’d been down there, somewhere, and he shoved that thought from his mind. He was going to destroy those bombers, going to give them what they deserved for breaking all the laws of civilization, everything they’d fought for in the last war —
Oath Bound - Book V of The Order of the Air Page 25
