Oath Bound - Book V of The Order of the Air (5 page)

Then the Stuka rolled 180 degrees, and tipped instantly into a steep dive. Lewis caught his breath, afraid for a second that something had gone wrong.  The angle was much too steep, sixty degrees at least, and from the sound of the motor, all at full power — he’d never seen a plane under power at that angle. But then the angle eased, the Stuka pulling up and away, and Udet climbed away from the runway, still under perfect control.

“Holy —”

The little lieutenant was grinning from ear to ear.  “Very nice, ja?”

“Impressive,” Lewis agreed, and repeated the word in Spanish.

Udet did two more passes, each steeper than before, the last one so close to vertical that Lewis swore aloud, then brought the Stuka to a perfect landing. It was one hell of a plane, Lewis thought, watching it trundle toward its hangar. One hell of a plane, and pity the poor bastards on the ground.  If they’d had that in the last war…… He thought again of Patton, sitting in the rented kitchen in Honolulu, sketching crude shapes that he claimed would change the world. This was what he’d been talking about, the weapon that changed the balance, tipping it away from the trenches of the last war and toward — something else. Lewis’s fingers twitched. He wanted to fly one, wanted to fly against it, wanted — He wasn’t sure what he wanted, exactly, and wasn’t sure he wanted to name it.

The announcer was talking again, and another plane pulled out onto the runway.  It was another two-seater — another dive-bomber, Lewis realized, and winced in sympathy.  He wouldn’t like to have to follow Udet.

“Loire-Nieuport,” the lieutenant said, and shook his head. “I hope — they have had trouble, I hear.”

“Udet’s a hard act to follow,” Lewis agreed.  Especially if the French plane wasn’t as good as the Stuka.

He shaded his eyes as the French plane lifted off. Already he could see that it didn’t handle as well as the Stuka, wobbling badly as the pilot retracted the landing gear and pulled up to start his pass.  He did a fancy Immelman at the end of the runway and then dropped his landing gears to begin his mock bombing run. For a moment, it all seemed perfect, coming in steep and fast, almost as good as the Stuka.

And then it wobbled again, one of the wheels ripping loose, and the plane tumbled sideways, falling out of the air.  It hit the empty ground just past the runway’s end and cartwheeled, disappearing into a ball of flame and black smoke.

“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph.”  Lewis crossed himself automatically, and out of the corner of his eye saw the lieutenant doing the same.  The Russian woman was white-faced, both hands to her mouth, but then she shook herself, and turned toward them, calling in Russian and pointing toward the wreck. The crowd was screaming, and sirens sounded from the end of the field as the first firetruck pulled out from between the hangars.

“Go,” the Russian shouted again, “help them, we must help —”

“Too late.” Lewis shook his head.  “Nobody survives that kind of crash — Miss, they’re dead.”

The lieutenant said something in German, and she stopped just as suddenly, looking from them back to the smoke, already starting to fade as the firetrucks got to work. She shook her head, a lock of pale hair falling from her bun, and crossed herself in turn. She probably wasn’t supposed to do that, Lewis thought, with sympathy, but he certainly understood the impulse. He shivered in spite of the warm air.  This was the risk they took, every time, and sometimes you screwed up and sometimes the plane broke and sometimes you pulled it out and sometimes you didn’t. But he wished Alma was there.

December 27, 1935

P
erhaps it was because it was Ramadan, or perhaps because they’d at last found something worth mentioning, but a festive atmosphere prevailed as he and Willi sought their dinner. Full dark had fallen, the sunset prayers finished, and the streets were full of laughter as family parties went from house to house to share the evening meal with friends and relatives. Jerry and Willi went to Trianon.

The owners of the coffeehouse were Greek and didn’t keep Ramadan, but nevertheless the outdoor tables along the street were full, strings of lights strung along the edge of the awning to illuminate the diners. Much safer than swinging oil lamps, Jerry thought, a momentary image of clay lamps on chains hanging beneath cloth awnings. There was always the danger that a lamp might catch the awning on fire, or that a careless waiter might jostle hot oil onto a diner…

He caught himself, blinking. There were no oil lamps. Everything was electric. Of course.

Willi had paused in the door talking to the headwaiter, and now turned back to Jerry. “Do you mind if we sit inside rather than wait for an outside table? The fans will keep us cool enough.”

“That’s fine,” Jerry said. He followed Willi in, wooden leg loud on the black and white parquet floors. Ceiling fans suspended from the pressed tin ceiling turned lazily over a mainly European clientele, though there were a sizable number of Alexandrian Greeks. Some of them had a great deal in common with him and Willi. Though of course homosexuality was as illegal here as in the rest of the world, there were always gathering places if you knew the right words. Trianon was one of those places, though it was also a perfectly respectable coffeeshop.

The headwaiter arranged Willi and Jerry at a small table in the banquette between filled tables on both sides, which limited conversation somewhat but couldn’t be helped considering how busy the restaurant was. Willi flipped open his menu and looked at Jerry over the top of his glasses. “We should order something nice to celebrate.”

“We’ll celebrate when we find the Pylon of Isis,” Jerry said.

Willi’s eyes twinkled. “You’re so sure we’ll find it then?”

“Yes,” Jerry said. “We’re very close.”

“Optimist.”

“Maybe so.” Jerry glanced down at the menu. He couldn’t explain his certainty, and absolutely not to Willi. Despite all they shared, esoteric interests were off the table. Willi thought such things were crazy at best. The last thing Jerry could say was the gut-level truth:
I know the Pylon of Isis is within a hundred meters of where we are digging because I remember it there.
The only question truly remaining was whether this was the street that ran in front of it or behind it. But Willi would not believe that, and saying it would only start a fight. “Well,” Jerry said. “Maybe we’ll be lucky.”

It was nearly midnight when they left Trianon to walk back to their rooms. The streets were quieting some in the residential neighborhoods, though merry parties still gathered in the squares and around restaurants. Many people enjoyed the night hours of Ramadan as much as they fasted during the day. Still, as they turned into the narrow street where they lodged, the shadows were deep and there was no sound of celebration. The windows were dark. Everyone was sleeping, or else some of these upper floors were offices and no one was there at night. There was no one else in sight.

Jerry’s stump was beginning to ache. It would be good to take off his leg, to stretch out and sleep in the cool quiet.

There was a sound behind and Jerry stopped, leaning on his cane. Willi took two more steps before he saw that Jerry was not with him and halted as well, looking back.

The sound came again, an almost silent footfall in the shadows behind. And then it stopped. In the darkness of a doorway down the street there was a slightly darker form, a man watching out of the night.

“What’s wrong?” Willi asked quietly.

“We’re being followed,” Jerry said.

Willi gave him a quick, worried look. This was not a particularly dangerous neighborhood, but there were always thieves. Any city had thugs who looked for someone who appeared prosperous. The best way to stay out of trouble would be to run. Unfortunately that was out of the question for Jerry, and a one-legged man was a vulnerable target for a thief.

“There are two of us,” Willi said quietly.

Which was true. Perhaps the man following them would hesitate to accost a double target. Unless he was armed. Which Jerry was too. He’d shot a robber in cold blood before, in Los Angeles six years ago. When you can’t run and you can’t hold your own hand to hand, the only thing to do is shoot first. Jerry eased his hand into the interior pocket of his jacket where he carried a .22 caliber pistol.

The man down the street moved. He was a big man, his face obscured by a keffiyeh. He wore a plain gallibaya like a working man, and even in the darkened street it was clear that it was stained and tattered. A desperate man, Jerry thought. He raised the barrel of the gun.

Willi reached for his arm, appalled. “You cannot shoot a man who has not threatened us!” he whispered urgently.

Exasperated, Jerry lifted the gun into the faint light. “What do you want?” he called out clearly in Arabic.

The man held his hands out from his sides. “To speak with you, Dr. Ballard,” he said in English, a very familiar voice incongruous in these circumstances. It couldn’t be…

“Iskinder?” Jerry said incredulously.

The man took another step forward, out of the shadow of the doorway. “I have been trying for a full day to catch you not in a public place. Now put the gun away, Jerry. I have trouble enough without you riddling me with bullets.”

It was clearly Iskinder’s voice, though why in the world, a prince of Ethiopia and a very wealthy man, was doing sneaking around Alexandria dressed as an Egyptian peasant, was an excellent question.

“You know this man?” Willi said.

Jerry lowered the gun as Iskinder approached. “Absolutely. He’s my oldest friend.”

He looked thinner and there was a hesitation to his step, but it was unmistakably Iskinder’s smile. “Jerry.”

Iskinder reached out to embrace him, and Jerry returned it awkwardly with cane and gun, feeling the sudden flinch as Jerry’s arm passed along his side. “Are you hurt?”

“Stabbed,” Iskinder said. “And admittedly it’s rather painful, so please don’t thump me.” He stepped back. “Do you have any idea how hard it is to get you on your own? I thought I’d have to risk it tonight even though you had one man with you because otherwise I’d never manage.”

“Stabbed?” Jerry put the gun in his pocket. “Stabbed how? Oh, and this is my associate, Dr. Radke. Willi, this is Iskinder.” He gave Iskinder a look which he hoped conveyed that Willi was all right, and possibly more than just his associate. Iskinder could add that up. He’d covered for Jerry in college decades ago, and more than once since then.

“Pleased to meet you,” Willi said bemusedly, apparently confused by the news that Jerry’s oldest friend was an Egyptian peasant.

“We need to get off the street,” Iskinder said, glancing about. “You are staying near here?”

“Yes, but…” Willi began.

“What is this about?” Jerry asked. “Iskinder, what kind of trouble are you in?”

“I’ll tell you when we’re off the street,” Iskinder replied.

Their rooms were only another block away, a third floor flat with two bedrooms and a tiny sitting room. Iskinder pulled the shades down before Jerry turned on the electric lights. Willi bolted the door as soon as Jerry was inside.

“Is someone following you?” Jerry asked.

“I don’t know,” Iskinder said. Here, in the light, the changes in him were startling. Not only was he positively thin, but his face was creased with care, his black hair graying at the temples.

“What’s happened?” Jerry said.

Iskinder raised one eyebrow. “Surely you’ve heard that the Italians have invaded Ethiopia?”

“A border incident according to the papers,” Jerry replied, feeling a furious flush rise to his face.

“No, my friend,” Iskinder said gravely. “It’s a war. This is not a matter like Walwal last year, a skirmish over a border town. This is an invasion, a three pronged attack deep into our territory. When I left, they had just occupied Maqale.”

“That hasn’t been in the papers,” Jerry said a bit defensively. How could he not know what was happening when his oldest friend was in the midst of it?

“Probably not,” Iskinder said. “Because who cares what happens in Ethiopia?” He turned, pacing away from the window. “Why should the Times of London or the Hearst newspapers cover Mussolini invading us? We’re black Africans and the Italians…” He broke off, a bitter twist at the edge of his mouth. “Hearst may have attended Harvard as we did, Jerry. But last year he was in Nuremberg shaking hands with Hitler. Do you think he’s going to print the truth about what’s happening in Ethiopia?”

Willi drew in a sharp breath, and Jerry and Iskinder both turned. “Don’t look at me that way,” Willi said. “Just because I’m German doesn’t mean I like Hitler! I think he’s a nut. These crazy saber-rattlers — don’t they know where this goes?”

“It goes to my homeland,” Iskinder said gravely. “We’ve had thousands of casualties already. Not that any western paper has bothered to report it, I expect. We must rely on ourselves.”

Jerry frowned. “Then — if you don’t mind me asking — why are you here, Iskinder?”

Iskinder smiled. “You mean, have I fled the country? Hardly, Jerry. I have a job to do, and I mean to do it.”

“What kind of job?”

“Our emperor, Haile Selassie, imagined something like this would happen after the Walwal incident last year. He is a prudent man, so he placed some orders just in case with Fusil Darne.”

“The French arms manufacturer?” Jerry said.

“The same. A thousand M1922 light machine guns paid in cash last spring,” Iskinder said. “To be shipped from Marseille to Alexandria for pickup.” He sat down heavily in the room’s one armchair. “I’ve come to pick them up. With their ammunition, of course. Fifty thousand rounds on belt fed cartridges.”

“Jesus,” Jerry said.

“I doubt very much Jesus has anything to do with it,” Iskinder said. “He was fairly clear on the concept of not killing your fellow men. However, I am not about to let my country be overrun and my people killed. So I am here at the Emperor’s request, and I will see this mission through.”

Willi took a deep breath. “I see,” he said. Jerry glanced at him, and Willi squared his shoulders. “And of course you cannot trust me.”