The Time Pirate
Page 15
Gunner collapsed at the table and buried his face in his hands, unable to stop the hot tears running down his cheeks. There was nothing for it. It was in God’s hands now. Nick was in grave, grave danger. Sopwith Camels didn’t float. Or at least not for very long. All the weight in the Sopwith was up front, jammed into the first seven feet of the fuselage. Pilot, fuel, guns, ammunition. And, in the nose, that massive monster of an engine.
As soon as she hit the sea, her tail would come straight up, her weighty nose would plow under the water, point downward, and take her straight to the bottom.
Gunner knew this from all too personal experience.
It had been a dark night, just like this one. A young pilot returning from a cross-channel training flight to Normandy and back. He’d let his mind wander. Strong headwinds. Thunderheads about, crackling with lightning. Suddenly, he was in a death spin. He fought the controls all the way down. Then he was upside down, underwater, disoriented in a pitch-black world, not knowing which way was up.
The well-nigh impossible fact that young Royal Flying Corps cadet Archibald “Gunner” Steele had gotten out of that cockpit and survived was a blooming miracle. Few survived a ditch in a Sopwith. Hundreds did not.
It had been his last flight. A military tribunal rightly blamed the loss of the aircraft on pilot error. It was a secret he’d take to the grave. To his eternal humiliation, he’d been drummed out of the Flying Corps. After a year of drowning his sorrows at the corner pub, he’d pulled himself together. If he couldn’t fly, he could certainly float. He’d joined the bleeding Navy and spent his war looking through a gunsight at the endless blue of the sea. Many a U-boat had gone to the bottom thanks to his proficiency.
But his heart had always been in the sky.
20
UP WAS AIR, DOWN WAS DEATH
· The English Channel ·
The sea was as black as the sky. Nick couldn’t even make out a line of demarcation between them. He was trying to keep the Sopwith level with the horizon. Difficult without being able to see the horizon. Modern fighters like the Spitfire had an instrument that told you when you were flying level. But this wasn’t a modern fighter. And the last thing he wanted was to accidentally catch a wingtip in the water and go spinning arse-over-teakettle across the dark sea.
He felt, more than saw, the sea rapidly coming up to meet him. Sound of a light chop, smell of seaweed and brine. He signed off with Gunner and concentrated determinedly on setting the old girl down as gently as possible. He wanted her upright at least long enough for him to scramble out of the cockpit and swim for shore. He’d flown only a half-mile from Guernsey. Should be an easy enough swim back to shore.
He ripped his flying helmet and goggles from his head and flung them overboard. He struggled out of his fleece-lined leather jacket and heaved that over, too. Then he peered over the side of the cockpit at the water. He was close! Maybe ten feet. He let her stall, and then he set her down, like a butterfly landing on a still pond.
Things happened so quickly after that, he’d no time to reflect upon his perfect landing.
Almost instantly, behind him, he felt her tail coming up off the water and the plane rapidly pitching her nose down. There was a hiss as the nose quickly submerged, finally extinguishing the flaming engine. He knew then that with most of her weight forward, she would go down, and she would go down fast. He grabbed a deep breath, sucking as much air into his lungs as he possibly could.
Then, with no warning at all, the nose dropped sharply and the aircraft went from horizontal to vertical, tail standing straight up. The nose and cockpit were already completely submerged, and Nick knew that he was headed straight for the bottom. If he didn’t act quickly, he’d be stuck in a death trap from which there’d be little hope of escape!
His first instinct was to grab the sides of the cockpit with both hands and try to lift his body straight up and out. But, even disoriented and with the water rushing past his face, he somehow knew he’d never make it out that way. His arms just weren’t strong enough to fight the tremendous force of the water rushing past the fast-sinking aeroplane.
But his legs might be.
He instantly pulled his knees up to his chest and got his feet under him, boots planted on the seat of the wicker chair, crouched in position for an explosive spring outward. He hadn’t a second to lose. He raised his hands above his head, holding them together, as if he was about to dive. He shoved off violently, using every ounce of power in his leg muscles.
It worked! He forcefully launched himself straight out of the cockpit. Now he was kicking desperately and clawing at the water with his hands. Every instinct told him he had a second to get completely away from the plunging aeroplane. Despite his furious efforts, he was suddenly stunned by a sharp pain in his right shoulder. He’d caught the leading edge of the upper wing as it went by him at enormous speed.
He frantically clawed at the water, trying to orient himself. Which way was up? In the cold, inky blackness, he saw a swirling stream of bubbles rising past his face, no doubt coming from the doomed plane now streaking toward the bottom.
Follow the bubbles, Nick, his brain said. Some deep part of some survival nodule in his brain was screaming. Go with the bubbles to the surface. Kick. Kick harder!
Up was air.
Down was death.
His lungs were afire and ready to burst when he finally broke through the surface, throwing his head back, taking huge gulps of air. He was amazed to be alive. Only moments ago, trapped in the plane, he’d despaired of his life, sure it was ending prematurely.
He hung in the water, composing himself, getting his breathing back to normal, and surveyeing the coastline. Behind him, a spreading pool of burning oil marked where the Camel had gone down. An easy marker for an enemy fighter or search plane. Ahead of him was a sandy white beach, some black shale, and then a hillock rising to meet the road, covered with trees. He saw no lights, no houses nearby, just an occasional automobile driving along the coast road.
He had to swim about a half-mile at most. Kicking toward shore, he began formulating a plan of what he’d do when he got there. He needed a safe place to hide and—what was that? A roaring sound, just to his right and growing louder. He saw their black silhouettes streaking toward him about twenty feet above the surface. Three Messerschmitts, probably making sure the English pilot had gone down with his plane. The pool of oil, still burning on the surface, had caught their attention, just as he’d feared.
Up was air. Down was death.
He took a deep breath and ducked beneath the surface. He heard the planes roar overhead. He had a few seconds to surface and take another breath. He popped his head up, and saw the three Nazi fighter planes banking hard left in a tight turn. They were coming right back! Had they seen him?
He inhaled and submerged once more.
A few seconds later, the fighters were back, streaking overhead at an unbelievable speed. He held his breath as long as he could, his lungs afire. The sound of the three warplanes gradually faded, and he knew it was safe now to swim for shore.
Safe? His confidence faded quickly. Surely the Germans would send out patrol boats to the site of the downed aircraft, looking for the pilot. They were probably already headed his way, so he swam very quickly. And they might even send foot soldiers to look for him along this bit of coast, since it was where a survivor would obviously be found.
He needed to get quickly across that beach, up the hill, and through the trees. Then he’d cross the road and begin the long climb up through the thick forest on the other side. At the top of that massive peak, called Saint George’s, was a possible refuge. If he could climb quickly enough, he might reach it by dawn.
About twenty feet from shore, he stopped swimming and raised his head. Something caught his eye, a brief flash of light among the black trees in the woods? He paddled silently in place, scanning the beach and the woods beyond. All seemed quiet. Still, there’d definitely been something. Some kind of light.
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.
21
THE DREADFUL KIDNAPPING OF KATE
· Greybeard Island ·
Kate 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!