“That’s right. Kind of like physics,” she said vaguely, her expression getting even more blonde and vacant. “Isn’t it physics that’s about leverage?”
“Physics. Right.” He thought for a moment. “Could you do it again?”
She shrugged, but something in her eyes told him she could do it again. And again, if necessary.
“Truck’s here,” Norm said. “Time to go.” Norm looked like a man who’d won a prize. Jack just wished he wasn’t that prize.
Jack turned to Mel, trying to think of something to say.
Mel smiled demurely. “I’m not the one who knocked you down, you know.”
“No, you just knocked him down.” She looked at him, one brow elegantly elevated. He wished he could put his arms around her again. Already he missed her. “You going to be in the area for a while?”
He tried to sound casual, like he didn’t care. He wasn’t sure if he succeeded. Something in her eyes softened.
“Until I get my…story.”
Norm tugged on his arm. “We’ve got to go.”
“You’d better book,” Mel said.
“Book?”
“Go. You should go.” Her gaze shifted from Jack to Norm. “Bye, Norm.”
There was an odd note in her voice as she shook hands with him. Then her gaze swung back his direction.
“I could walk with you to the truck.”
Jack shook his head. “It’s not safe.
“Air raids?”
“Men,” Jack said.
“Oh.” She thought for a moment. “I wouldn’t hurt them.”
He laughed. He sobered, reaching out to brush the curve of her cheek. “Bye. I’ll see you again if—” He stopped.
“We will meet again, Jack.”
She spoke with such certainty, it made him grin. What did it really hurt to pretend to be sure? “We’re having a dance on the base tomorrow night. Anyone can come.”
“I’ll check and see if I’m anyone.”
Maybe that’s what made her different, that air of serenity. She must be the only person on the earth who felt sure of anything in these times. Before he could consider it further, Norm pulled at his arm, dragging him toward the door. Jack looked back until he couldn’t anymore. She didn’t turn away, just watched him leave with a look that was sort of wistful and wry.
Norm shook his head as they settled on the hard bench of the truck. “I don’t know if I’d want to date a girl who could knock me down.”
Jack rubbed his face. Norm had a point, though thinking about Mel, she might just be worth it.
Chapter Six
December 18, 1942
Mel found it strange to the point of disorienting to walk down a street she’d walked down—or was that would be walking down?—sixty-plus years in the future. The buildings of Cambridge stood as they always had, familiar, but somehow not. On that first occasion, she’d felt suspended between past and present, wondering if she was walking where her grandfather had walked, wondering what he’d thought about, wondering about the kind of man he was.
Now she kind of knew. Here she was strolling past timeless buildings on a narrow cobblestone sidewalk fronting a street filled with period cars and period people. Only she was the period piece, not them. And if this weren’t weird enough, she knew more about them than they knew themselves—and yet she knew almost nothing. She knew the outcome of the war, who lived and who died, but not the small details of daily life in 1942. It was the small things that could trip her up—like the way she talked. And now she understood what Jack meant about the way she walked. It was just…wrong. And she couldn’t fix it, at least not without a lobotomy.
Added to the general weirdness of it, there was what Jack called time disorientation, caused by knowing what was going to happen and trying to keep it all sorted out. The flash of a face in a crowd and her mind would be filled with pictures and information about them. And if that person happened to be, say, a German spy, she had to resist the impulse to knock him on his tush.
She had no way of knowing what changes she’d caused by her first contact in the tube. Jack said that because the past was her future, time would be fluid until she reconnected with her future timeline. He didn’t know why it happened or why her memories didn’t update with each change. There were things they just didn’t know about time travel and may never know.
In Mel’s opinion, it would have been better not to engage in behavior they didn’t understand, but no one had asked her and now here she was, the unblendable person trying to blend in.
“It’s better not to think too much about the paradoxes of time travel, I’m told,” Jack had told her. “Try to stay focused on specific tasks. Set goals for each day.”
She didn’t know if it was good advice or not and since she didn’t know, all she could do was try to do it and see if it did help. Her present goal was to locate the bus stop, purchase a ticket for said bus, board it and then disembark at the base. Jack wanted her to stay away from the base, but sightseeing wasn’t going to do it for her. Her brain insisted on action or it would continue to worry at the problem. And besides, it fitted her cover story better to arrive at the base and at least pretend to be a reporter. Also, it felt like she could do less damage there than left to her own devices in larger England. It was Friday. From the Group’s dailies, she knew there’d be an orchestra concert tonight. On Saturday, there’d be some practice formation flying and then the dance Jack had invited her to attend. And on Sunday, crash and burn day….
No, don’t go there. Don’t think. Just do.
She paused at a crossing with a small crowd of people, waiting for clear passage across the street. Little snippets of conversation pecked at her introspection. Mel realized one woman was talking about a recent letter from her soldier son. Relief colored the woman’s voice. For the time being she could believe her boy was alive.
The emotion of being here was almost as hard to deal with as the time paradoxes. These people were fighting for their lives, working against their own grief and fear to do it. They managed to find a middle ground, but Mel hadn’t located it yet.
There was too much time before the next bus left, so Mel slipped into a shop, needing a break from feeling so much, if that were possible.
“Can I help you, luv?” the shopkeeper asked.
What might be a reasonable request? “Stockings? I need some…stockings.”
“You’re an American.”
Mel bit back a sigh and nodded.
“Haven’t had stockings for a long time.”
“I suppose not. Is it all right if I browse a bit?” Surely browsing was typical in any generation or time?
She wasn’t sure she could buy anything anyway. She had a few clothing coupons, but she didn’t know if she could or should use them. She sighed a bit. A dance tomorrow night and she had nothing to wear but the clothes on her back. She was going to be real sick of this suit by the time she got out of it.
She pushed through a rack of clothes and found a red party dress. It wasn’t exactly her style, and it was really, really red. At least sixty years out of date in her world, but it was…charming. It had a flared skirt and a wide boat neck. It was even her size. She pulled it out and held it up to her, studying herself in the rather spotty mirror affixed to the wall. With a sigh, she put it back on the rack and turned to go. It was better to flee temptation, particularly when she hadn’t the power to give in to it anyway.
“Why don’t you try it on, luv? It suits you a fair treat.” She looked around, and then lowered her voice. “I’m sure we could come to an agreeable…arrangement.” Mel’s surprise probably showed on her face, because she added, “Not like my lot can afford the coupons for glad rags like that.”
She had a point. “How much?”
The amount wasn’t unreasonable, even in American dollars, and a deal was made. There were even shoes to match. In short order, it was wrapped and the package stowed in Mel’s capacious bag, just in time for her to catch the bus.
>
* * * * *
Mel stared out of Colonel Stanley Wray’s office window. The view wasn’t that deserving of her attention. It was, in fact, rather bleak. She just thought it a good idea to let the Colonel absorb her cover story unobserved for a few moments. The last thing he wanted on one of his planes was a reporter and for that reporter to be a female…
Of course he thought she was out of her mind. That he was correct was beside the point.
His choleric color only added to the oddity of seeing him like this, in the vibrant prime of his life. She had a vague sort of memory of him from a Group reunion just before he died. She’d been young, maybe six or thereabouts. Other than that, she’d only seen him in the inevitable black and white photographs from the period. Talk about your dead man walking.
Okay, getting disoriented again. Mel gave a mental shake and turned around. Wray was standing pretty much the way she’d left him. The only movement was in the region of his mouth, though no sound emerged. He was probably giving silent voice to his opinion of whoever had cut her orders. His dropped jaw was square, and classic and he had a straight unapologetic gaze that cut through bull like a razor—when the playing field was level. Mel was glad she didn’t have to try out her real reason for going on the mission with Jack.
Normally he was straightforward and very determined. His Group had originally been detailed to Kimbolton, but he hadn’t like the accommodations and the runways couldn’t handle the Forts, so he’d picked up and moved here, informing the powers that be after the fact. Clearly his sense of outrage was at war with his notion of how a gentleman behaved in the presence of a lady, not to mention the respect due those in command over him. It didn’t help that he thought she really was a reporter, either. As Mel had cause to know, being on the record was a bit inhibiting. She’d bitten back a lot on her many adventures in not crying uncle.
She tried to look sympathetic and harmless, while projecting an aura of competence for the task. It was not a compatible mix, if the look on the Colonel’s face was an indication. She thought about bringing on the charm, but something in his eyes made her discard that approach, too. She would, she realized a bit sadly, have liked his respect, but was not likely to get it.
“I’m not here to expose or betray your group, Colonel. My purpose is to make a record. My…article most likely won’t even appear in print until after the war.” Sixty years after, if ever…
“That’s the biggest line of…” he stopped, trying to find an alternative acceptable for the presence of a lady.
Mel met his gaze squarely, trying to look serious and honest. “You’re right. And I wish I could tell you why I need to be on that plane, but I can’t. I give you my word, though, that my presence is not, and will not, be a danger to your plane or your crew.”
“And what if they are a danger to you, young lady? What if you go down in France? What then?”
Young lady. Mel had to bite back a smile. He was kind of cute and gallant in a gruff, I’d-like-to-spank-you-and-send-you-home kind of way.
“I’m fluent in both French and German, sir, and have received ample training. I won’t be a burden to them.” His men could be so lucky to have her training. “I just need to be on a plane…the next time you fly.” She’d almost slipped there, dang, it was hard not to reveal what she knew. When he still didn’t say anything, she asked, “Are you going to help me, sir?”
He waved her papers at her. “These don’t leave me much choice, young lady.” His hard gaze still bored into her. His fingers beat an impatient tattoo against the side of his leg.
It wasn’t easy to meet that gaze. She wasn’t used to being drilled for character by such an expert. Usually her looks worked for her. It was better if people didn’t think she could do the job and underestimated her. This time it was a pain in the posterior.
“I’m not as young as you think I am, sir.” She smiled just a bit, careful not to cross the line into impertinence. “Would you feel better if I kicked someone’s… bottom…for you?” She added a bit of demure to her smile. “I promise you I can.”
This time he looked at her like he was seeing something more than a young lady standing before him. A slight frown pulled his brows together as he studied her, before the frown faded into a reluctant, though, parsimonious smile. “So I hear. Corporal Stymes has a bruised tail bone.”
“He was…intoxicated, sir,” Mel felt bound to point out. “And belligerent.”
“He often is,” Wray said. His smile got less parsimonious. He tapped the papers with one hand. “What made you decide on Hamilton to fly with?”
She had no good answer for that and fell back on basic reporting technique: deflecting awkward questions with a question of her own.
“Is there a problem with him?”
Wray shook his head. “He’s a fine pilot. His copilot is…less than one, though. I could have him replaced for the mission.”
Mel stiffened, and then made herself relax. “I think it would be better if everything looks…and goes…as normal, sir.”
She could tell he was still troubled, but other than flipping him on his tush, she didn’t know what else to do.
“Combat is no place for a woman,” he said.
“With all due respect, sir, this war affects everyone. All any of us can do is our best—and what we’re asked.” She tried to look older and serious.
He sighed and nodded and she knew she’d won. “What do you need from me, young lady?”
“If you have some spare gear I could use, it would be helpful. I think it would be best if I blended in with the crew as much as possible. And then just let me on that plane when the time comes.”
“The gear shouldn’t be a problem, but I can’t control the weather.” He looked out at the gray, grumbling sky.
Mel looked, too. “I have a feeling it will clear up soon, sir.”
He looked at her, his gaze sober and serious, then out at the overcast sky. “I have the same feeling.”
* * * * *
Mel, feeling much more comfortable in Air Corp fatigues, stood on the tower next to Colonel Wray with her hand shading her eyes. The chill wind whipped through her clothes and hair as she looked up at the approaching Forts tracking white contrails like clouds of glory across the gray sky. It was amazing to see them all together like that. Before it was over, so many of those planes, and the men flying them, would be gone. What she knew, it haunted her. It felt as if she walked and talked with ghosts, but they were the ones who were real to this time, to now. She was the ghost, the one who was out of time.
Despite her doubts, she was almost glad to be here and see this in real time, to be where men fought grimly to free the world from tyranny and were honored for it by those who benefited, not castigated by the clueless. They didn’t know that someday they’d be called the Greatest Generation, that they’d have changed the world, that it was a better place, that their sacrifice had meant something. They were just doing their duty. She thought about the odds against them. Dang rough duty.
The formation looked pretty good to her, but Colonel Wray snorted in disgust.
“We’ll do it again tomorrow, unless—” He stopped, but they all knew what he meant.
He strode away, leaving her to watch the Forts roar in for their landing. It was an amazing sight as one by one they touched down. The roaring of their engines filled the air and the ground shook beneath her. When they were all down, Mel turned and headed down. It was lunch time. She’d find Jack and Norm in the general region of mess tent looking for a late lunch.
* * * * *
Jack and Norm paused outside the mess to light up. Cigarettes helped blunt the taste of the food. He also needed some wind-down time before plunging into the chaos of the mess. His shoulders ached from wrestling to keep the Fort in tight formation. His legs would hurt, too, when the feeling returned to them. He was cold all the way to his bones and hungry enough to face whatever food horror was waiting for him inside, but he needed a spot of quiet first. Time alo
ne was one of the things he missed the most.
As he inhaled the smoke, his thoughts drifted in Mel’s direction…
“Don’t you know those things can kill you?” A voice very like Mel’s came from behind them.
Jack spun around, his match burning down to his fingers as he stared at the girl who went with the voice. He cussed and dropped the match to the ground. She was standing where the wind could whip her hair to a sexy tangle. In Air Corp fatigues, she looked more comfortable than she had last night. She faced him with her hands shoved deep into the pockets of her flight jacket, her shoulders at a don’t-mess-with-me angle and her booted feet planted.
Jack struggled to organize a response with his thoughts tangled up in pleasure. Finally he managed a slow grin and nodded in the direction of the flight line.
“Those can kill us, too, ma’am.”
Mel chuckled. “Point to you, Captain, but I’ll bet your Fort doesn’t stink as much as that cig.”
“You’d lose that bet,” Norm said, but Jack noticed he put the unlit cig back in his pocket.
“Well, I guess I’ll soon find out,” Mel said, strolling forward, her walk as relaxed as a guy’s.
Jack didn’t like the sound of that.
“The colonel’s letting you go up on a practice run?”
Luckily, Norm asked the question because Jack couldn’t. Just who was she and what was she really doing here? The Colonel might give a reporter a joy ride, if the brass were pressuring him, but a woman?
“I don’t believe it,” Jack said flatly. Only…why had she been outfitted like one of them? “He’d never let a woman up there.”
Mel didn’t look offended. “Brave talk from a guy who was saved by a girl last night.” She grinned. “Maybe I used my feminine wiles on him.”
“Not bloody likely,” Jack said.
“That I have feminine wiles or that he’d be influenced by them?”
Jack didn’t have an answer that didn’t put him at risk of a physics lesson.
Mel’s look of amusement deepened. “If it’s not likely to happen, then why are we talking about it?” Mel asked.
Out of Time Page 7
