Sahara Crosswind (11 page)

Omar murmured a reply, the meaning clear.

Jake slithered forward and rolled over the edge, followed by Pierre. Together they scrambled down the dune, raced at a crouch across the open terrain, and pounded up the plane's loading ramp.

Inside, the noise was deafening. The plane's age was visible everywhere, from the rusting struts to the string of bullet holes that provided the interior's only light and ventilation. The hold was mammoth and filthy and rocked continually in time to the droning engines. Boxes and bales were strapped along both sides, and loose padding littered the central gangway.

Jake was still standing there, trying to get his bearings, when voices approached and shouted words indistinguishable over the engines' roar. Panicked into action, he and Pierre ripped up padding, pressed themselves into two empty pockets between the bundled cargo, crouched down, and flung the filthy burlap over their heads.

A pair of boots climbed the metal ramp, shouted something more, then operated a winch that ground and groaned and finally pulled the ramp up tight with a resounding bang. The boots walked forward, passed Jake's hiding place, and headed up into the cockpit.

The engines' roar rose to a new pitch. The plane rattled and groaned and trundled slowly about. The thunder rose even higher, the ground bumped beneath them, then with a gut-wrenching swoop they felt themselves leap from the earth.

Jake eased himself as much as he could in his cramped position and took a couple of easier breaths. Safe.

Then he almost jumped out of his skin when a voice shouted just inches from his ear, “Well if this ain't a sight for sore eyes, I don't know what is.”

A boot kicked at his shin, and the Texas twang went on, “You two come on outta there. My copilot's down with the galloping whatsis, and this baby don't fly too well without a firm hand on the tiller.”

Chapter Thirteen

“Lucky for you boys I was blocking the guardhouse window,” the pilot told them once they had joined him in the cockpit. “That Arab back there woulda probably shot you for renegades. Me, now, I got a naturally curious nature. I see what appears to be an American Army officer skedaddling for my plane with an Arab in them fancy desert robes hot on his tail, why, I figure this is probably one for the books.”

He pointed through his window and went on, “That river coming out of the Raggah oasis used to be almost two miles wide. Now it's not much more than a stream. Not much farther on, it just gets swallowed up by the desert. This lake here is the last gathering place for waters that used to be wide as an inland sea.”

Jake tried to match his easy tone. “How do you know all this?”

“Oh, you mosey around these parts long enough, you'd be surprised what you learn. So happens I like the desert and the people. Folks around here haven't bothered with the folderol of people back home. Got a lot to teach us, if only we'd unplug our ears and stop thinking of them as backward. They're perfectly adapted to where they live. Why, you put one of your so-called civilized fellas down here, and they wouldn't last a week.”

The pilot eyed Jake. “Which brings me to ask what you're doing here.”

“I can't tell you.”

“Like that, is it. Well, long as it's not breaking the laws of here or home, I'm not bothered.”

“It's perfectly legal,” Jake said. “Sort of.”

“Sounds like a good desert-type answer to me.” He gave them both another up-and-down inspection. “You don't aim
on skinning me while I'm driving this crate, are you? So happens I'm right partial to living.”

Out of the corner of his eye Jake spotted a worn and tattered Bible crammed in with flight documents. He plucked it out, held it before him, and said, “I give you my word as a Christian that I mean you no harm.”

“Well, I guess that's good enough for me.” He stuck out a leathery hand. “Frank Towers. Formerly of the United States Army Air Force, currently head of Tower Transport, the only asset of which you're crouching in.”

“Jake Burnes. Commander of the garrison at Karlsruhe. And this is Major Pierre Servais, head of the French base at Badenburg.”

That brought a start. “You're a Frenchie?”

“I am indeed,” Pierre replied, extending his own hand. “I am happy to meet you, Mr. Towers.”

“Likewise. You boys musta been out there quite a while, to get as sunburned and sandblasted as you look.”

“Quite a while,” Jake agreed solemnly.

“Why don't you slide yourself on into the copilot's chair, Colonel. You'd be a durn sight more comfortable, and I won't have to keep craning around to see you.”

“Thanks. The name is Jake.”

“Pull down that seat in the bulkhead there beside you, Major.”

“Pierre.”

“Right you are. It'll take both hands, seeing as how it ain't been used since the war. Can't afford a radio man, and even if I could, most of the places I fly don't have a soul on the air I could talk to.”

“What are you doing here, if you don't mind my asking?” Jake said.

“A likely question. Joined up in thirty-nine, flew them lend-lease planes 'til we decided to jump into the fighting ourselves. After that, well, I flew just about anything you'd
care to name.” He eyed Jake in the seat beside him. “That true, what you said about being a Christian?”

“It is.”

“This I can confirm,” Pierre said gravely. “My friend has taught me not only with words, but with the way he tries to live.”

“That's nice. Real nice. Myself, I saw the light after getting shot down around Arnheim. Guess maybe you heard about that. Brother, let me tell you, that was one whale of a mess. Anyway, I managed to crawl back to where it was safe, but I lost a lot of good buddies out there. So I started looking for answers, something that'd make some sense of what I'd been going through.” He pointed at the Book in Jake's hand. “Had a buddy start showing me things in there, stuff I'd heard all my life but never bothered to think about before. Been trying to live up to the Master's example ever since.”

Frank Towers stretched out his lanky frame as much as the cramped cockpit would allow. “After the fighting was over, I didn't have much to go home to. Then this mission group came by the church I was attending at our air base in England, said they were planting some schools down here and asked if maybe I'd fly out supplies. Craziest thing I ever heard of, but somehow I sorta felt like I was being called to help out. One thing led to another, and now all of a sudden I've got a name down here. Got more and more folks coming by, asking me to take this and that to places I never even heard of before, can't hardly find them on the map first time out.”

He gave an expansive grin. “Things've gotten so busy I'm about ready to buy my second plane. Don't suppose either of you boys knows how to fly a crate?”

“Not a chance,” Jake said.

“Sorry,” Pierre replied.

“No matter. There's a lot of fly-boys out there looking for something that'll keep 'em in the air. It'd be nice to find another believer, though.”

Jake swiveled in his seat and gave Pierre a long hard look.
The Frenchman's features screwed up momentarily before he nodded slowly.

Jake turned back and said, “Seems to me we should trust you with our story.”

“Well, now, there ain't nothing I like much better than a good yarn. ‘Specially when we got a full day of flying stretching out in front of us.”

“A day?” Pierre exclaimed.

“Where are we going?” Jake asked.

“Oh, guess I didn't tell you.” The wide-mouth grin reappeared. “Either of you boys ever had any thought of visiting Malta?”

Chapter Fourteen

“Let me see if I got this straight,” Frank Towers said, sipping cold coffee with one hand while the other guided their thundering craft over sparkling blue Mediterranean waters. “You're aiming on stepping off this plane and going straight to the British authorities—”

“Or whatever authorities are in charge,” Jake corrected.

“Son, the only folks in charge on Malta are the British, and they ain't near as much in charge as they'd like. But let's leave that for a while.” He was enjoying himself immensely. “So you aim on marching straight up to the chief honcho himself and apologizing on account of the fact that one set of papers are traveling across the Sahara with the wrong fella, namely the major's very own long-lost twin brother, who just happens to be wearing his uniform. Meanwhile, the colonel's ID is in some backwater sultan's rear pocket. Then you're gonna spin this tale about an admiral perched at the other end of the Med who thinks you're the cat's pajamas and how you need to borrow one of his boats so you can get to France and save the country.”

Slowly Frank shook his head. “Man, are you ever in for a shock.”

“It's not a tale,” Jake insisted. “It's the truth. All of it.”

“Oh, I believe you. Trouble is, I doubt if you'd get past the corporal of the guard without papers, and sure as granny's lost spectacles he ain't gonna risk his stripes on any yarn like that one.”

Pierre leaned forward and said, “Enlighten us.”

“Right. To begin with, Malta was hit sixteen ways from Sunday in the war. The island's been a British enclave for a donkey's years, and they were using it as the main supply point for the desert war, and then for the invasion of Italy. Perfect place for a supply point, let me tell you. That's why
I've set up there. It's the closest you can come to North Africa and still find a taste of home. So where was I?”

“The war,” Jake said, staring out the window. Sparkling sunlit water stretched out in every direction as far as he could see. It was breathtakingly beautiful, and yet he could not help but feel as though it did not belong. So much water.

“Right. The Germans bombed it with everything they had, and the Maltese put up with it. They're a tough bunch. Scrappy. They like the British, and they hated the Germans, but now that the war's over, they want to be repaid for all they did by getting their independence. And the British, bless their souls, they'd probably give it to them, give or take another coupla hundred years. Only the Maltese figure they've earned the right to rule themselves now. And they're getting jumpy, if you know what I mean. So here you've got an important naval depot, hundreds of ships, a city that's gone through years of bombing, and people that're fast running out of patience.”

“Confusion,” Pierre offered. “Chaos.”

“You said it. Whole island reminds me of the time a squirrel crawled up the leg of my daddy's overalls.”

Malta was a rocky jewel set in the glittering azure of the Mediterranean. The capital, Valletta, was a hodgepodge of structures and styles. Steep-sided hills rising from the water were crammed with buildings from many different eras. A number were in ruins.

“Seems like everybody's conquered Malta at one time or another,” Frank Towers told them. “Romans, Greeks, Arabs, Turks, French, British, Italians, even the Holy Roman Empire. Every one of 'em's ended up cussing at the Maltese people's stubbornness and their clannishness. They're proud, these people. Reminds me of folks back home. But their islands were too small to build up a strong army. So they've had to put up with more than their share of foreign tyrants.”

Valletta was dominated by the Grand Harbor, and the harbor by a large central spit of land, and the spit by an ancient
fortress—or more accurately, a dozen fortresses built like crumbling steps one upon the other. From the air, much of the capital looked the same, with houses and official buildings alike erected upon the ruins of other, older structures.

When Jake commented on that, Towers replied, “I heard a tale the first time I touched down here. Back before the war a Roman bath was discovered directly under Valletta's central fish market. It was so well preserved that archaeologists flocked here from all over the world. Trouble was, these experts found themselves working in a steady rain of fish scales and rotting garbage, on account of the Maltese absolutely refused to move their fish market someplace else. Why should they? Another conqueror, more ruins, who cared?”

The Grand Harbor was a vast rock-lined sea perhaps ten miles wide and laced with numerous inlets, all filled with British ships, both merchant and navy. The waters gleamed gold and copper in the late afternoon sun. Jake said, “I don't think I've ever seen so many warships in one place before.”

“This place is no stranger to men of war,” the pilot agreed. “Not to war either. Like I said, the Germans bombed it almost every day for three solid years. Sometimes as many as fifty air sorties every day.”

“It's a wonder anyone survived.”

“You'd be surprised. Like you can see, the main town here was blasted to smithereens, a lot of it, anyway. Except the churches. They're in pretty good shape, overall. Strange how the Germans managed to shoot around the biggest buildings like that. Anyway, most of the islanders lived through it to tell the tale, hunkered down in these big ol' caves. Like I said, they're a stubborn lot, these Maltese. They just plain refused to give in. Worked like the dickens to help the Allies. The king gave them the George Cross. First time an entire people was ever granted such an honor.”

They flew inland to the airfield near the village of Luqa. As they entered into their final approach, Towers had Jake and Pierre return to their hiding places in the cargo hold.

They landed with a thud and rolled across an uneven surface. As the brakes squealed and the engines drummed to a halt, Jake bundled the burlap wrapping up and around him. The air ached in the sudden silence.

“Not a peep from either one of you,” Towers warned, passing down the hold's central gangway. “I'll be back as soon as I can. If you hear voices, play dead.”

The winch creaked noisily as the rear loading platform was lowered. A fresh breeze blew through the hold. Through the burlap Jake smelled fragrances he seemed to recall from another lifetime—flowers, pine, ripening earth, a hint of the sea.