Oath Bound - Book V of The Order of the Air

by Melissa Scott

  “Bring her in here.”

  Mitch and the priest turned toward her, and she and an Ethiopian woman lifted the injured woman carefully from their arms.

  “She’s bad off,” Mitch said, and Alma nodded.

  “She lost her son. I saw.”

  Behind her, Mitch caught a glimpse of another hose and buckets of water, women rinsing each other to get rid of the lingering traces of the gas.

  “We’ll take her from here,” Alma said. “Go get cleaned up, both of you.”

  Will she be all right? Mitch thought. Will we? There was no point in speaking the words aloud: they both knew what the answers would be. “Right,” he said, and turned toward the line of men at the pump.

  The decontamination procedure was almost identical to the one he remembered from Italy, and as he stripped and stepped into the chill stream of water the present blurred and wavered, the past filling his mind so that he could almost see scrub pines behind the airfield and the slope of the mountains rising in the distance. Instead of the unpainted buildings of Camp Coleman, he saw regulation camouflage, and for a moment he could almost feel Gil’s hand on his shoulder, steering him toward the boy who waited with another set of clothes. But the boy was a villager, someone’s spare uniform shirt rolled up at the sleeves and too-large shorts cinched tight with a piece of rope. Mitch took what was handed to him and moved aside to dress, aware that his hands were shaking, and the tears that stung his eyes were not just the aftereffects of the gas.

  The shirt and uniform trousers fit well enough that he found himself slapping his pockets for his cigarettes before he remembered. He shook himself hard, trying to push through the sense of unreality, and suddenly Lewis was at his side, holding out a cigarette case.

  “Smoke?”

  “Yeah.” Mitch took it, cupped his hand for the light and drew the smoke down into his lungs. Tobacco, the taste of home, of the land that had borne him: he closed his eyes, searching for that center, and when he opened them again, the light was normal, the afternoon sun just touching the trees beyond the end of the airstrip. “Thanks.”

  “You all right?”

  Mitch shrugged. “How’s Alma?”

  “Still with the women. There’s one hurt pretty bad.”

  “I saw.” Mitch shivered again, and took another long draw on the cigarette. It was like this after combat, he got the shakes and there was no shame in it, or at least that was what Gil had always said. For an instant, he imagined Gil’s wry smile, his easy drawl: I don’t care if you dance a tarantella once you’re down, as long as you don’t do it in the air. Mitch closed his eyes, imagining the weave and dance of the Italian planes. If he’d known what they were carrying, they could have gone for the bombers — except that the fighter screen had been too strong. For a moment, he wished he’d followed up on his attacks, made sure of the kill. Anyone who’d gas civilians — gas a Red Cross station — but surely the Italians had been aiming for the airfield… He couldn’t make himself believe it. Camp Coleman was untouched, the village accurately destroyed. He took a last drag on the cigarette and dropped the stub before it burned his fingers, ground it out in the red dirt as though his life depended on obliterating every spark. “What can we do to help?”

  “Damned if I know,” Lewis said. Mitch could feel the banked anger in him, but Lewis had himself well under control. “Stay out of the way, the doctor said —”

  Out of the corner of his eye, he saw von Rosen emerge from the barracks, his thin mouth closed tight, and Mitch turned toward him, lifting a hand to catch his attention. “Von Rosen!”

  The count ignored him, lifted a small black box that Mitch realized abruptly was a motion picture camera. He turned it toward the last few men still waiting to go under the improvised shower, and Mitch felt Lewis stiffen.

  “What the hell?” Lewis started toward von Rosen, fists clenching. Mitch grabbed for him and missed, took two quick steps to catch him by the shoulder.

  “Hold on —”

  Von Rosen turned, lowered the camera. “Good. You’ll take this, yes? The film? They need to know — everyone needs to know what’s happening here.”

  Mitch felt Lewis relax slightly, and said, “Yeah. We’ll take it.”

  “We’ll tell them, too,” Lewis said, his voice taut. “Your embassy, our embassy, the State Department, every goddamn newspaper in Europe and in America —”

  “Not that they’ll listen,” Mitch said.

  Von Rosen grunted. “They haven’t so far. Everyone wants to believe that it’s justice, the victory of civilization over barbarism. That’s what Mr. Waugh says, after all! But this — they can’t deny the film. It’s all here, the village, the wounded. They can’t deny this.”

  “Reckon they’ll find a way,” Mitch said. He felt hollowed out, untethered, and fumbled in his pocket before he remembered again that he didn’t have any cigarettes.

  “Here.” Lewis handed him the packet, and Mitch took it gratefully. He lit one for himself, and only then offered it to von Rosen, who shook his head.

  “We have to try. We…”

  “We’ll take it,” Mitch said. “Just tell me who it goes to, and I’ll get it there.”

  Von Rosen fumbled in his pocket, came up with the stub of a pencil and a grubby slip of thin cardboard. He balanced it on the side of the camera, between the various knobs and the winding key, and scribbled a name and address. “Ernst Wallin. He’s with the Swedish Embassy in Cairo. He’s a friend, and he’ll know what to do with it. It’s proof that the Italians are targeting civilians, deliberately bombing Red Cross hospitals —”

  Mitch took the card, checking to be sure he could read the scrawled words. He had no confidence he’d be able to remember anything today, no matter how many times he was told. They weren’t supposed to land in Cairo, of course, but they’d do it, or figure something out. Alma would figure something out. He tucked the card carefully in his pocket, nodding, and Lewis said, “They know. They must know. What good is this going to do?”

  “They can’t know,” Mitch said, in spite of himself, and knew as he heard his own voice that it was entirely possible.

  “Waugh and his like keep telling everyone that it’s a war against barbarism,” von Rosen said. “That the Italians are civilized people and the Ethiopians are committing atrocities. That the only way to save the country is to conquer it. And no one in Europe wants another war like the last one, so they take any excuse they can get not to have to intervene.”

  “So what good is this going to do?” Lewis repeated. “Don’t get me wrong, we’ll take the film to your friend, but I don’t see what it’ll do. Unless you’re trying to recruit mercenaries? Some kind of help?”

  He sounded entirely too interested in that last option, Mitch thought. His cigarette was almost gone, and he lit another from the butt before he ground it out.

  “If the man on the street knew what was happening, it would be different,” von Rosen said. “Ethiopia is a member of the League of Nations, and if the League can’t, or won’t, defend its members, then everyone is in worse danger of war. Even the blindest man can see that much. And so we have to show them. Get them angry, get them involved. Force the governments — France, Britain, even Germany — make them take notice and rein in the Italians.”

  It won’t happen, Mitch thought, but the words took too much effort. No one was going to go to war for an African nation, particularly when the Italians looked like they were already winning. “We’ll take the film,” he said, and von Rosen took a deep breath, visibly steadying himself.

  “Then I’ll finish what I was doing. The more evidence the better.”

  Mitch nodded again, watching the count stride away. The sun was at the top of the line of trees to the west of the field, their shadows stretching toward the camp. A group of women had built a fire and a couple of soldiers carried what looked like a laundry boiler toward them. A baby was crying inside the barracks, and another joined it; the westerly breeze raised a brief swirl of dust from th
e runway’s beaten dirt.

  “You sure you’re all right?” Lewis asked, and Mitch shook himself.

  “I’m ok,” he said. “How about you?”

  “Not hurt.” Lewis’s smile was wry. “I don’t think I was down there long enough, and Al and that Red Cross doc got a pretty good decontamination system going right away. But I wish to God I’d gotten at those bombers.”

  “Me, too,” Mitch said, and was surprised by the sudden wave of anger. And then it was gone, drained out of him like water from a broken jug, and he was left shaking and empty. He looked away, afraid Lewis might see, and was relieved to spot Alma emerging from the barracks. He lifted his hand to wave her over, and she veered toward them. She had changed her clothes, too, was wearing shorts and a man’s undershirt that hung halfway to her knees.

  “How are things?” Lewis asked, but his eyes were only for Alma.

  “I’m fine,” she said, though she didn’t look it. “And we’ve got most of the wounded treated. There are some, though… But Dr. Biniam is doing what he can. We’re going to have to stay the night. There’s no one to help us cart the gas, and it’s too late to start now anyway.”

  “And you’re needed,” Lewis said.

  Alma nodded. “That too.”

  And that was Alma for you, Mitch thought. She’d do what she had to do, and do it well. “If we leave first thing in the morning, we can make it back to the Cat in time to take off in daylight. If the weather’s clear, we won’t have any trouble following the Nile, and that’ll mean a dawn landing in Cairo, more or less.” But a night flight, and that was always trouble.

  “We’ll decide later,” Alma said, and Mitch nodded, happy to let her make the decisions. He lit another cigarette, his eyes stinging, and settled himself to wait.

  It was obvious that no one was going to leave Camp Coleman that day. Colonel Tedesse had brought his men back to the camp at the first sign of the attack, and they were now bivouacked on the far side of the airstrip. The hangar and the part of the airmen’s barracks that wasn’t being used as a makeshift hospital had been given over to the refugees from the village. Someone had found a couple of awkward square tents that looked as though they were lef tover from the first Italian war back in the 1890s, and set them up behind the hangar, and Iskinder had insisted that Alma and her crew take one of them. Alma had protested — she should stay in the hospital to help Dr. Biniam — but Iskinder had taken her arm.

  “It will make everyone more comfortable if we know where all the foreigners are tonight. And in any case, you should get a good night’s sleep, if you’re going to fly out tomorrow.”

  That was inarguable, but there was something in Iskinder’s expression that made her hesitate. “Trouble?”

  “I don’t know yet.” Iskinder sighed. “Very possibly. I am waiting for word from headquarters — I’ll let you know if it’s anything you need to worry about.”

  There was no arguing with that, and Alma retreated to the tent with the others. Luckily, there was plenty of mosquito netting, and they were able to roll back the canvas flaps to let in as much of the cool night air as possible. One of the women brought around a plate stacked high with rounds of spongy bread and a bowl of lentil stew, and Alma divided it scrupulously among the three of them. Half a dozen bonfires were burning, marking the centers of various campsites; in contrast, they had only a battered kerosene lantern, and despite Lewis’s careful tending, it cast only a fitful light. It was getting chilly as the night deepened. Alma shivered, and Lewis fetched a blanket from one of the cots and draped it over her shoulders.

  “We’re going to have to go back tomorrow,” Mitch said. He was sounding better than he had before, but he was still sitting a little back from the light, the ember of his cigarette waxing and waning in the dark. “I reckon we can make it on the gas we have.”

  “Probably.” Alma wrapped her arms around her knees. The blanket smelled of sweat, and felt as though it was woven from wire — goat hair, maybe — but at least it was warm. She wanted to stay. Dr. Biniam had done a good job training some of the villagers, but she’d had a lot more experience, particularly with gas and bullet wounds. Her presence would be useful. And yet. She had other responsibilities now, to Stasi and the children, to Tiny Foster, to Gilchrist Aviation, to Floyd Odlum and even Henry Kershaw. And of course to Mitch and Lewis: as magister and as the chief pilot, it was her job to bring them home.

  She leaned back against the end of the nearest cot, resting her weight carefully until she was sure it wouldn’t shift. Not that it was an easy choice, exactly, but it was an obvious one, a necessary one. And that meant she had to think about the flight back. Mitch was right, they had enough fuel for the trip back, though she would have liked to top up the tanks just to be on the safe side. A night flight had its dangers, but if she just flew northwest, she would find the Nile, and the combination of enormous river and the stark divide between it and the desert should be an obvious enough signpost. The moon was waxing, nearly full; if the weather was reasonably clear, there shouldn’t be a problem.

  But of course she didn’t have a current forecast. When they left Bahir Dar — was it only this morning? The forecast then had been for high pressure and few clouds, but she’d been hoping to get an update from Iskinder’s people, and she’d certainly been planning to leave before now. The weather could change in the blink of an eye, and a night flight with heavy cloud, no moon, and no navigational beacons was a recipe for disaster. On the other hand, a late-night landing in Alexandria carried risks of its own, especially if the weather was less than perfect.

  “Penny for your thoughts,” Lewis said, and leaned one shoulder companionably against hers.

  “Thinking about how to get us home,” she answered, and felt him shift.

  “About that…”

  Before he could say anything, Mitch looked up sharply. Alma followed the line of his gaze and saw Robinson walking toward them, two women at his heels, carrying a tray of cups and one of the odd bulbous coffee pots.

  “Colonel,” she said. It was too chilly to get up, but she freed one hand to wave generally at the floor. “Please, make yourself at home.”

  “I thought you all might like some coffee,” Robinson answered. “And I also wanted to say thanks. You all were a big help there today.”

  “We should have done more,” Lewis said. “If I’d known what those damn bombers were carrying —” He broke off, shaking his head, and Robinson seated himself easily on the floor. The first woman set down the tray of cups and disappeared; the second began pouring, tracing rhythmic circles over the closely-packed cups.

  For an instant, Robinson looked bleak. “Yeah.”

  “Bastards.”

  Alma could feel the leashed anger in Lewis’s shoulder, and touched his arm. He looked warily at her, but subsided. Mitch said, “Your boys did well, too.”

  “For kids with an average of twenty hours’ flight time and no combat experience at all —” Robinson sighed. “No, not bad. And nobody got killed, though we’ve got a lot of work to do to patch up all the bullet holes.” He waved at the coffee cups. “Please, help yourselves.”

  Alma chose a cup and a healthy spoonful of the coarse dark sugar, and sipped it carefully, grateful for the warmth. “We’re going to want to be leaving tomorrow.”

  “I figured.” Robinson nodded.

  “The main thing I need is a weather report,” Alma began, but something was moving in the dark outside the tent, a shadow passing in front of the nearest fire that resolved itself to Iskinder, Colonel Tedesse at his side.

  “Colonel,” Iskinder said, and for all that he sounded perfectly calm, Alma could see the tension in the way he held himself. “We have a radio message from brigade headquarters. The Italians have broken through and are heading south. We’re going to need to evacuate Camp Coleman.”

  Robinson visibly swallowed a curse. “How long do we have?”

  “Seventy-two hours at most,” Tedesse said. “My men and I must be on the r
oad sooner if we’re to get the guns somewhere useful. I’d advise you to do the same.”

  Robinson nodded. “We can ferry the planes out of here — we’ll have to do it in stages, but we can manage, especially if von Rosen can collect his trimotor. What about the rest of the people, the folks from the village?”

  “That’s why we’re here,” Iskinder said.

  “We can’t take everyone,” Alma said. “I assume you’re thinking of ferrying them to Bahir Dar? It would take us a couple of days, and I — we have to be back in Alexandria in three days. We just don’t have the time. We can certainly take the wounded, and the women with children —”

  “Most of them can go by boat,” Tedesse said. “It’s been done before. Though you are right that we need your help.”

  “There are wounded here that can’t be treated in Bahir Dar,” Iskinder said. “And also one or two people who are related to persons of importance, people who must not fall into Italian hands lest they be used against us. Alma, can you take them to Cairo? To the embassy there?”

  Alma sat very still, the numbers dancing in her head. “How many?”

  “Ten, twelve? Fifteen at the outside. Plus children.”

  “How many children?”

  “Seven children, four of them wounded. The rest adults.” Iskinder reached for one of the cups of coffee and drained it.

  Fifteen adults, seven children, plus the four-person crew. Some of the wounded would be on stretchers, too, which would take up space even if it didn’t add weight. A full load of fuel, plus a minimum of food and water just in case. Tight, she thought, it would be very tight, and she’d need every inch of the lake for the takeoff, never mind the landing… “Yes. We can do it.”

  She saw the relief in Iskinder’s face, and in Tedesse’s, and added hastily, “It’s not going to be comfortable, and we’re really going to need that fuel, Colonel Robinson’.”