Oath Bound - Book V of The Order of the Air (24 page)

The embrace felt good, solid warmth and weight against his skin, but it did not drive away the cold certainty: war was coming. But not tonight, he told himself, and did his best to relax under Willi’s hold.  “I know,” he said, and closed his eyes against the night.

M
itch was up before dawn, full of the dubious alertness that he remembered from the war. The others were just as early, and they paid their bill and loaded their scanty luggage into the back of the taxi summoned by the hotel porter. Alma let him drive a block toward the Lake Mareotis terminals, then leaned forward.

“Wait. Stop here.”

The cabbie pulled over, glancing back at her with a tolerant look. “We go back for something, lady?”

“No. We need to stop at this address first.”  She passed a slip of paper over the seat, and the cabbie took it with a shrug.

“Yes, sure, ok.”

There were more people in the streets in the neighborhood where Jerry lived, though you could hardly call it crowded, the first wave of workers heading out, cooks and bakers and the early shopkeepers, most with a shawl over their heads against the early-morning chill. Overhead, the stars were starting to fade, though the eastern horizon was still hidden behind the houses. The moon had been down for hours: not light enough to fly, Mitch thought, but getting there.

The cabbie pulled to a stop outside Jerry’s flat, and Mitch levered himself out of the back seat. There were lights on behind the third floor windows, and a moment later, the main door opened. Jerry and Iskinder crossed the sidewalk together, and Mitch stepped aside to let Iskinder crowd into the cab next to Alma. Jerry looked up and down the street, then looked at Mitch.

“What do you want me to do if there’s trouble?”

“If we’re not back by the 8th, wire Henry in Palermo,” Mitch said. It was the best he could think of. “He should know where to start.”

Jerry nodded and took a step back. “Good luck.”

“Thanks,” Mitch said, and crammed himself back into the taxi. The others shifted uncomfortably, Alma practically sitting on Iskinder’s lap, and the cabbie gave them an uncertain glance.

“The Lake Mareotis terminals,” Lewis said, before the man could protest, and the cab pulled slowly away from the curb.

“You’re sure von Rosen knows where to meet us?” Mitch said, and Alma scowled at him.

“I was as clear as I could be. And if he’s not there, he’ll just have to find another ride.”

There was nothing to say to that, and Mitch was conscious he was only talking out of nerves. He braced himself against the seat, hoping the door was solidly latched, and hung on until they pulled up outside the cluster of buildings that made up the lakeside terminal. There were lights on in the main building, but most of the warehouses were still dark and shuttered. Mitch hauled himself out of the back of the cab, then steadied Alma as she climbed out.

“I don’t see Claudet,” he began, and she shook her head.

“Third door down.”

He looked again, and realized that one of the shadowed rectangles was a little lighter than the others. Maybe there was a light inside, it was hard to tell, but at least it was someplace to go. He picked up his satchel as the cab pulled away, and then Alma’s, both equally small and light. Iskinder had no baggage at all, not even a bundle, and Mitch felt a cold finger touch his spine. Iskinder was heading home, yes, but home was at war. He had come this far with less than nothing, from what Jerry had said, and the only thing that mattered was the cargo he was bringing with him. Iskinder saw him looking then, and gave a wry smile.

“You can’t know,” he said softly, “I can’t tell you how much difference this will make.  And — I have to say it again, Mitch, it’s dangerous.”

“You’ve said that enough,” Alma said. She put a hand on his shoulder. “I believe you, I really do. But this is work put before us.”

Iskinder smiled again, the expression more relaxed. “I suppose it is —”

A movement in the shadows caught Mitch’s eye, and he was already turning as the men emerged from the alley between the first warehouse and the main terminal, putting himself between them and the rest of the group. None of them seemed to be carrying guns, but there were five of them, and at least two were carrying what looked like lengths of pipe. A third carried a knife, and Mitch was willing to bet the other two were equally armed.

“Hey,” Tiny began, and Lewis took a quick step forward, putting himself at Mitch’s side.

“Go on,” Mitch said, to Alma. She took a step back and screamed, sounding as loud as a steam whistle in the pre-dawn quiet. The first of the men faltered, and Mitch took a quick step forward, swinging for his jaw.  He connected, and the man dropped like a stone.  Mitch shook his bruised hand, swearing, and Alma screamed again. A second man rushed him, pipe swinging. Mitch ducked under it, and drove two short jabs into the man’s stomach. He doubled over, and Mitch knocked him backward with another fist to the jaw. He stumbled and fell back, dropping his pipe, and Mitch scooped it up. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Lewis knee a third man in the groin, leaving him kneeling on the pavement clutching himself.

Lights flared in the terminal, doors opening, and Mitch lifted the pipe. “Stay back!”

Alma screamed a third time, and a handful of men sprinted out of the terminal, several of them in uniform. One of the attackers looked over his shoulder, and quickly backed away, shouting something as he went. The one Lewis had kicked managed to hobble a few yards, only to be dragged back by one of the uniformed men. Another man in uniform bent over the unconscious man, and a man in a good suit said, “What has happened here?”

“These men attacked us,” Alma said. She was pitching her voice a little higher than usual, and Mitch gave her a wary glance. “I think they wanted to rob us!”

Men had emerged from the warehouses behind them, too, among them Claudet and a young man who had to be his son. And von Rosen, lagging behind the others, a worried frown on his thin face.

“And what are you doing here so early?” the man in the suit asked.

“We’d arranged with the tower to leave first thing,” Alma said, still high and breathless.  “As soon as the horizon was clear, so we wouldn’t be in anyone’s way.”

“That’s right, lieutenant,” one of the other civilians said. Mitch thought he was one of the men who worked the tower. “We have them on the schedule.”

The lieutenant looked down at the one who was still unconscious, and prodded him lightly with one foot. The unconscious man didn’t move, and the other looked up again.  “You will need to make a formal report, madam. If you expect us to prosecute.”

“But you’ve stopped them,” Alma answered. “No one was hurt, and I expect they’ve learned their lesson.”

Someone, perhaps Claudet, made a choking noise. The lieutenant gave her an illusionless stare. “So you don’t want to press charges, madam.”

“We don’t have time to make a report,” Mitch said bluntly. “We promised the tower we would be in the air before the regular flights left.”

“That’s so,” another of the tower workers said. “It was all arranged, lieutenant.”

The lieutenant looked at him, and then back at Mitch. “It is your civic duty —”

“We’re under charter, and that puts us under a deadline,” Mitch said. “I’m sorry, lieutenant.”

The lieutenant sighed. “As you wish. I will merely point out that under the circumstances we cannot hold these men, and you may well find on your return that the matter is not settled…”

He let his voice trail off suggestively, and Alma smiled widely.

“Thank you so much for understanding, lieutenant! And now we have to start loading.”

She turned away, and the rest of them trailed behind her, Mitch pausing only to pick up the bags he had dropped.  Alma had sounded strangely like someone there, he thought — like Stasi, in fact. And that was almost as disconcerting at the attack itself. He shook his head, and followed her on into the warehouse.

A
lma took a deep breath as she came into the lights of Claudet’s warehouse and heard the door close solidly behind her. Claudet was shaking his head, exclaiming in French; Iskinder answered him in the same language, and then they both switched to English.

“You’re not hurt, Madame? Or any of you?”

Alma gave them a quick once-over, but aside from Tiny looking pale and Mitch rubbing the knuckles of his right hand, everything seemed normal.  “We’re fine. Have you had any trouble? Is the Cat all right?”

“We have seen no one,” Claudet answered. “And Paul — my son — he watched the plane himself all night.”

“There was nothing and no one,” the younger man said. He looked startlingly like his father, Alma thought, though his English was almost unaccented. “It was very quiet.”

“It would be wise to check it over thoroughly anyway,” von Rosen said. “No disrespect intended to M. Claudet or his son.”

“We’d do that anyway,” Alma said briskly. It was definitely time to take matters in hand. “M. Claudet, were you able to arrange the fuel I requested?”

“Indeed I was.” Claudet straightened slightly. “All tanks are full and you are ready to go. Also I have the forecast for the south.”  He produced the flimsy with a flourish, and Alma took it.

“Thank you. All right, gentlemen, let’s get aboard. The tower’s waiting on us.”

They took a little extra time with the checklists and with the walk-around, then sounded and sampled the fuel tank to be sure it was still full and that nothing had been slipped into the tanks while everyone was watching the fight.  And that was all they could do, Alma knew. There wasn’t time to break down every system, check every cable; they had to assume that Paul Claudet had done his job, and take their chances. The sky was lightening, the eastern horizon showing sharply now, and she settled herself into the pilot’s position, fitting her headphones to her ears.

“Tiny, let the tower know we’re ready to start engines.”

“Yes’m.” There was a little silence.  “Ok, Tower says we can start up. They’ll clear us to taxi once we’re running.”

“Roger.” Alma glanced at her instruments, checking that all the auxiliary systems were up and running. “Lewis. Let’s start her up.”

“Roger.” Lewis’s voice was reassuringly relaxed. “Left and right valves on.”

Alma set the propellers to their highest rpms, and opened the throttle to the first notch. “Propellers and throttle set.”

“Engines ready. You can set the ignition.”

Alma flipped both switches.  “Ignition on.”

The starter rumbled, the big plane shivering slightly as engines began to turn. The starboard engine caught and steadied, and then port, and Alma eased the throttles back to their lowest position.

“We’ve got oil pressure,” Lewis reported. “Temperature’s rising nicely.”

“Roger.” Alma watched her gauges, waiting for the oil temperature to hit the minimum, her eyes flicking across the rest of the instruments. Everything was normal, perfect — as it should be, they’d had plenty of time to baby the Cat while they were in Italy. Everything should be in ideal shape for the flight.

“Oil temperature is at 104 and steady,” Lewis said.”

“Roger.” Alma adjusted the throttle again, feeding a bit more power to the engines.

They moved smoothly through the rest of the checklist as the sky grew lighter beyond the cockpit. Along the lakefront, the buildings grew more distinct: plenty of light to take off in, Alma thought, particularly with an entire lake to work with. At last Tiny reported the last gear stowed, and Alma looked at Mitch.

“All right.  Call the tower, please, we’re ready to go.”

Mitch reached for the radio, switching himself to the tower’s frequency. “Tower, this is Gilchrist Aviation. We’re ready to taxi.”

The tower’s answer was reassuringly prompt. “Roger, Gilchrist. You are clear to leave your dock.”

Alma slid back the cockpit’s side window and waved to Tiny, perched on the chine rail to release the last mooring rope.  She couldn’t see him wave back, but a moment later, the Cat’s motion changed, and then the hatch slammed shut as Tiny pulled himself aboard.

“All clear,” he shouted, and Alma worked throttles and rudder, steering the Cat toward the main taxiway. The sun wasn’t up yet, but it was light enough to see the buoys and the markers, the boats and occasional plane still at their moorings. The lake stretched clear ahead of them: plenty of room, she told herself again, and no fishing boats to get in the way.

“Gilchrist Aviation, this is the tower. You are clear to enter the taxiway.”

There were the buoys, unlit at the moment, but clearly visible, standing tall out of the calm water. Alma lined the Cat up between them, checking the control settings one last time, rudder and elevator and aileron tabs, floats locked solidly in the down position.

“Roger, Tower,” Mitch said. “We’re in the taxiway.”

“We confirm that, Gilchrist. You are now clear for take-off.”

“Roger, Tower, clear for take-off,” Mitch repeated. “Thanks.”

Alma advanced the throttles, feeling the big engines rev up to full speed.  The Cat lumbered forward across the water, heavier than she was used to with the full cargo in the back, but not so different from the Terrier after all.  She took her time, letting the speed build, and at last felt the lift catch the Cat’s massive wing.  She eased back the control yoke and the Cat rose gracefully, shedding water from her sleek hull.  She climbed easily, toward the rising sun, the horizon now showing a clear line of light.

“Floats are up and secure,” Lewis reported.

Alma checked her own instruments. “Confirmed. I’m turning to heading one-four-seven. Our bearing to Cairo, right, von Rosen?”

“That’s correct. As the sun comes up, you’ll see the delta under your port wing.”

“Confirmed.” Alma put the Cat into a gentle climbing bank, bringing them onto the new heading. “Very good, gentlemen. We’re on heading one-four-seven, outbound for Cairo.”

She let the Cat climb slowly, not pushing the engines, until they settled into their cruising altitude at 10,000 feet. That was high enough to keep them above any weather — though Claudet’s weather report was promising clear skies most of the way south — but would still give them a decent view of the landmarks below. Or at least it would once the sun came up; at the moment, she could see the horizon plainly, but nothing more than shadow on the ground. At least Jerry was right about one thing: it would be very hard to miss the Nile.