The Noble Mercenary

by Patrick John Donahoe

  The Noble

  Mercenary

  The Fellowship of the Ancient Covenant

  Patrick John Donahoe

  Mill Creek Publishing

  San Diego

  Mill Creek Publishing

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events are entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2015 by Patrick John Donahoe

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. Published in the United States of America by Mill Creek Publishing, San Diego.

  Visit Mill Creek Publishing on the World Wide Web at

  www.millcreekpublishing.us

  Cataloging in Publication Data is on file with the Library of Congress.

  LCCN: 2016907983

  Mill Creek Publishing

  ISBN-13: 9781944337032

  ISBN-10: 1944337032

  First Edition

  Acknowledgments

  My thanks to my son Jason who encouraged me to take my writing seriously and cofounded our company Mill Creek Publishing. I also thank my wife, Patty, for putting up with an author.

  Contents

  Prologue

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty One

  Twenty Two

  Twenty Three

  Twenty Four

  Twenty Five

  Twenty Six

  Twenty Seven

  Twenty Eight

  Twenty Nine

  Thirty

  Thirty One

  Thirty Two

  Thirty Three

  Thirty Four

  Thirty Five

  Thirty Six

  Thirty Seven

  Thirty Eight

  Thirty Nine

  Forty

  Forty One

  Forty Two

  Forty Three

  Forty Four

  Forty Five

  Forty Six

  Forty Seven

  Prologue

  Over Germany; April 1943

  This aircraft is a dream, Jacques thought. He reveled in the power of the 1600 horsepower Packard Merlin V-12 engine that pulled his P-51D Mustang along at 400 mph with ease. The stability of the P-51 aircraft provided Jacques and his wingmen with the freedom to observe the sky in all directions and lookout for enemy aircraft storming in to attack the B-17 bomber convoy they were escorting. With proper adjustment of trim tabs, it would fly along at its current altitude of 18,000 feet until it used all of its 489 gallons of fuel, or about 2000 miles.

  Jacques and Ian had initially volunteered to fly for the All-Free French RAF Squadrons in 1941, but when they were given the opportunity to fly P-51s with the Americans, they seized it. They were assigned to the 352nd Fighter Group in Bodney, England to serve as B-17 bomber escorts. The Germans referred to them as the ‘Blue Nosed Bastards of Bodney’ due to their aircraft’s unique blue pointed nose cowling.

  Ian was an excellent pilot. He had flown nearly as many missions as Jacques, and shot down three Messerschmitt 109’s, but was not the naturally gifted pilot Jacques was. Jacques, an Ace, had shot down five 109’s, and three Focke-Wulf Fw-190s, a superior aircraft to the Me-109.

  Ian and Jacques often drew the same missions, but Ian was on a leave of absence from the squadron to assist Serena and Desiree on a Top Secret mission.

  The B-17s were over enemy territory and Jacques expected flak and enemy defensive aircraft to appear at any moment. Jacques liked to position his three aircraft flight above and slightly rearward of the bombers. If the enemy came at the bombers from the rear, he would lead his flight in a dive and shred the enemy before they could do any damage. Over the radio, Jacques called his wingmen and asked, “Hawkbill, Jackrabbit, do we still have clear sky? We should encounter some resistance soon.”

  “Eagle Claw, I see something coming at us from four o’clock about six miles out.”

  Jacques looked over his shoulder rearward and downward, and spotted a small enemy flight of five aircraft approaching at high speed, at approximately 15,000 feet, 3,000 feet below Jacques’ current altitude.

  “Follow me,” Jacques radioed his two wingmen. He pushed the stick forward and to the right slightly, kicked right rudder and advanced full throttle. His goal was to intercept the enemy before they could reach the bombers. His wingmen kept pace and position as the P-51s descended at 1,000 feet per minute and leveled off at 15,500 feet. He then led the trio on a shallow dive straight at the enemy.

  He flew headlong at the aircraft and confirmed three of them as Messerschmitt 109s, plus two unknown aircraft. Upon closer scrutiny he realized the two unknown aircraft had no propellers. He had only seen photographs of this type of aircraft before. They were the new German jet aircraft he had heard so much about, the Me-262. He had been briefed on the Nazi’s efforts to bring jet bombers into the war, and as a last ditch attempt to save themselves had converted a few bombers into Me-262 jet fighters. Rumor had it that an American pilot, Chuck Yeager had been able to shoot one of them down as it was landing. This is going to be fun, Jacques thought.

  The Me-109s turned to run head on at the P-51s, while the Me-262s continued their same heading, altitude and speed.

  Jacques made an instant decision, “Hawkbill, Jackrabbit, shoot down the 109s, I’m going after the two jets.”

  “Roger . . . Roger, Eagle Claw.”

  Stray .50-caliber cannon slugs passed by on his left from the dogfight between his wingmen and the Me-109s. Since both of his wingmen had each downed a 109 in previous dogfights, he felt somewhat confident they could handle these three in a fair fight.

  Jacques loved the maneuverability of the P-51 and hoped he could make up for the reported 50 mph speed disadvantage he had against the jets.

  Jacques was about 200 feet above the jets and they were about a half a mile ahead of him. He applied full throttle and full back stick and his P-51 reached for the sky. As the P-51 reached apogee he pushed the stick full forward to complete the barrel roll and the P-51 raced toward the earth. The Merlin engine screamed like a banshee as the airspeed reached 480 mph, 9 mph below the rated top speed. He saw he would have to veer slightly left at the bottom of the roll to end up behind the jets. The earthbound downward propeller spin approached the knife edge of over rotation. The propeller roared like a lion.

  At the bottom of the roll he adjusted his rudder slightly left and ended up directly behind the right hand Me-262. He instinctively adjusted his course to position his cannons for the kill. Jacques fired his six wing cannons and stitched a row of .50-caliber holes across the jet’s left wing. The stuttering cannon fire slowed the P-51 a few miles per hour. Jacques fired off another long burst at the jet and stitched another row of .50-caliber holes across the right wing and right engine nacelle. To his great pleasure black smoke streamed out of the right engine’s nacelle.

  “Take that you damned Nazi!” Jacques shouted into his oxygen mask. Jacques pulled up slightly on the stick, and backed off on the throttle to a point where he would not over rotate the four bladed propeller, or blow out the engine
.

  The second jet had continued on its proscribed course for the five minutes it had taken Jacques to disable the first. With its 50 mph speed advantage the first jet was now approximately five miles ahead allowing no hope for Jacques to catch up.

  “Damn it,” Jacques cursed. He knew the solitary jet could still cause considerable damage to the bomber flight.

  Jacques enjoyed the momentary pleasure of watching the disabled jet drop falling leaf style out of the sky. The pilot ejected, but was slammed against the fuselage as the aircraft fell spiraling to earth. The pilot’s parachute didn’t open.

  “Brown dog, this is Eagle Claw. A lone Nazi jet is headed your way from the southwest at about 540 mph and 15,000 feet. I took down one jet. Hawkbill and Jackrabbit are in a dogfight with three 109s. I need to help them. Over.”

  “Read you, Eagle Claw. We see the Me-262 approaching alone. He must have a death wish. We’ll take care of him. Take down those 109s.”

  “Roger, sir.” Jacques made a hard 180-degree turn maintaining altitude by skillfully applying full throttle, rudder, and ailerons like the Ace he was. Within minutes he was in the midst of the fray. Hawkbill and one of the 109s were jostling for position on each other, but Jackrabbit was on the run with the second 109 on his tail. Without assistance Jackrabbit would be toast in short order. Jacques maneuvered to attack Jackrabbit’s 109 from behind. Even though the enemy aircraft was just beyond the normal range of his wing machine guns Jacques held his nose directly on target and fired off two short bursts.

  The 109 dove to avoid Jacques’ attack, but Jacques anticipated the avoidance attempt, dove with the 109 and stitched its tail section with several slugs. The 109 had to break off his attack against Jackrabbit, probably saving Jackrabbit’s life. Jacques followed the 109 in its dive, firing at the fleeing aircraft each time he could get the 109 in his sights. The 109 accelerated toward the ground in a suicidal attempt to escape Jacques’ attack.

  Using his experienced nerves of steel to full advantage, Jacques dove downward and fired several short bursts at his fleeing adversary ripping off the 109’s left wing in the process. Jacques adversary spun out of control in a downward spiral. Either the pilot was too injured or too afraid to eject out of his broken bird, but in either case he rode the aircraft to an exploding crash.

  Jacques scanned the sky for his companions. “Jackrabbit, Hawkbill, this is Eagle Claw, do you read.”

  “Jackrabbit here, Eagle Claw, I’ve been hit, and am losing fuel. I need to return to base.”

  “Hawkbill here, Eagle Claw, I shot one of the 109’s down, but I’ve been hit. My rudder is sluggish, and I need to return to base. The third 109 followed the second Me-262.”

  “Both of you head back to base. I’ll catch up and escort you home.” Jacques searched the sky for the third Me-109 and spotted it about a mile away trying to catch up to the Me-262. He advanced his throttle full and pursued the aircraft. Although he would not be able to catch the Me-262, he could catch the Me-109 by running full throttle and endangering his aircraft. If he could get close enough to hit the Nazi aircraft with his guns, he would be close enough. He had to down the Me-109 before it could do any more damage.

  The bombers, warned about the approaching Me-262, began firing on the jet with their tail guns while it was still out of range. The Me-262’s pilot seemed unconcerned for his own safety and pressed forward firing its guns while being fired upon. The most rearward bomber was hit in the tail section, but the Me-262 was extensively damaged. It spiraled to the ground and burst into flame.

  Jacques feared he would hit his own bombers by firing on the Me-109, but he had no choice. The Me-109’s pilot appeared to be on a suicide mission, the only aircraft left from the five plane attack force. The pilot seemed to be willing to go down as long as he took one or more bombers with him. Jacques positioned himself to take a clear shot at the Me-109 and fired a burst. He shattered the canopy with the first burst. His second burst sheared off the rudder and the plane spun so hard to the left that the right wing snapped off close to the fuselage. The plane fell sideways to the ground, exploding on contact. The pilot did not parachute, probably killed when the canopy was destroyed.

  His mission complete, Jacques needed to escort his wingmen back to base in case they encountered another death squad. “Brown Dog, my job here is done. I need to take my wingmen home. Am I cleared to break away?”

  “Our thanks to you Eagle Claw. Your efforts, and those of your wingmen, will not go unappreciated. Escort your wingmen to base. Out.”

  “Roger, sir.” Jacques did a 180 degree turn and headed toward base. He hoped he could catch up with his wingmen, and find they were safe.

  One

  On the Road to Constantinople; 1101AD

  Ian slapped the German knight’s horse on the rump startling him to lurch forward. The dozing knight was nearly thrown off his mount, and shocked into wakefulness. He glared back at Ian with hatred burning in his beady eyes.

  “Stay awake, you miserable brute, or I’ll let you fall off of your own accord.”

  The band of six riders, Ian, Jacques, two of Ian’s most trusted palace guards, James and Dugan, and the two German prisoners were within sight of the city. Ian sidled Tonnerre Noir over next to Jacques’ horse. “Thank you for accompanying me to Constantinople.”

  “I couldn’t let you go alone, brother, besides I needed a vacation, and I haven’t been able to visit the city since our arrival in Jerusalem.”

  “We’re going to be in grave danger all the while we’re there.”

  “Even more fun, brother.”

  Dugan, at point, called out, “There is something on the side of the road up ahead!”

  “What do you see?” asked Jacques.

  “It looks like two people lying on the ground.”

  Ian rode up next to Dugan, and said, “I’ll look into it.”

  Jacques pulled his horse up next to Ian, “No, Ian, it may be a trap. You can’t afford to take a chance by yourself.”

  “Back me up. They appear injured. Remain behind me, close, but not too close.” Ian prodded Tonnerre Noir ahead with a gentle nudge. As he approached the figures he determined one figure to be a wounded man with blood stains on his robe, and the other figure to be a younger version of the man, perhaps a son in his teens.

  The boy pointed a sword at Ian and said, “Stay back,” in Arabic.

  Ian replied, “I mean you no harm. I want to help, if you will allow.”

  The boy stared at Ian and looked back at Ian’s companions, “But you are Frankish and German knights. Why would you help us?”

  “We are defenders of all peoples, Christian, Jew and Muslim.”

  “And you escort German knights as prisoners?”

  “Yes, they have committed crimes. We’re taking them to Constantinople for justice.”

  The boy lowered the sword, “Camels do not fly. You are most unusual knights.”

  “Yes, we are. What’s your name?”

  “Ishmael.”

  “My name is Ian. Now may we help you before your father dies in your arms?”

  “Please, sire, my father is gravely injured.”

  Ian dismounted and went to the boy’s father. Opening the man’s robe he found a serious, but if taken care of quickly, non-fatal wound. Ian motioned for his companions to approach.

  “Dugan, bring the medical kit.”

  Dugan dismounted and brought the medical kit to Ian.

  Ian went right to work, cleaning and applying salve to the wound and surrounding area, and stitching the tear. Ian had been developing his wound salve since he left Ireland, constantly improving its healing capability. He had been recording each salve improvement in his Book of Healing.

  The boy and Ian’s companions watched in silence, enthralled by his confident methodical manner. The man groaned a few times. Ian soothed the man with quiet consoling words in Arabic. Satisfied with his first aid, Ian bandaged the wound with clean linen strips from the medical kit.

&
nbsp; Ian looked at the boy for the first time since he started working on the boy’s father and asked, “Where is your encampment?”

  “Our camp is nearby. They will be alarmed if all of you approach together.”

  “I understand. I will put you and your father on my horse and walk beside you until we reach your camp. My companions will follow some distance behind.”

  Ishmael stared at Ian again, “You are truly unlike any Frankish knight I have ever seen. And I am glad you have these two as prisoners.” The boy shot an angry glare at the two German knights. “It was their kind who attacked us. When they discovered we had no wealth they stabbed my father, stole our horses and left us here to die.”

  “Be that as it may, let us take you and your father where he can be tended to, so we can be on our way.”

  Ishmael directed the group to the camp a mile back and a half mile off the road to Constantinople. Riders from the camp rushed to Ishmael who said, “These are friends. . . knights who saved my father from death. Do them no harm.”

  The riders escorted Ian’s entourage into the camp where Ian assisted Ishmael and his father off Tonnerre Noir, then turned the wounded man over to four men who carried him into one of the camp tents.

  A large Arab, dressed in a full robe and turban, with a scimitar similar to Ian’s at his side, strode up to Ian and asked, “Why did you save my brother?”

  “God placed him in my path. He was in obvious distress and would have died.”

  “You are a Frankish knight.”

  “I am, but my duty is to protect everyone, Christian, Jew or Muslim.”

  “Your prisoners have not this duty.”

  “No, they have committed crimes for which they must pay.”

  “My name is Abram; my brother owes you his life. If you are ever in need, you must call on him, or on me, so we may clear our debt.”

  “Your friendship is enough reward for me and my companions.”

  Abram grasped Ian by the shoulders, pulled him close and kissed him first on the left cheek and then the right. “Friends, please sup with us at our humble campfire.”