Skies of Fire (18 page)

A small cough sounded at the door to the magazine.

They broke apart, both turning to find a red-faced Pullman standing in the passageway just outside.

“We’re in position, sir.”

Christopher’s hand remained on her waist as he spoke. “Thank you, Mr. Pullman.”

The first mate gave a salute, and drifted away, leaving them alone.

Louisa raised a brow. “Surprised you didn’t know he was there, with that sharp hearing of yours.”

His grin came fast as sunlight. “Who says I didn’t hear him?”

Before she could formulate a response, he bent down and gave her one final kiss, shattering in its tenderness.

Then it was over. Blue, blue eyes stared into hers. “Ready?”

She drew in a breath, steadying herself. In the whole of her service to the Navy, she never backed down from a mission, no matter its risks. This would be no different.

“Let’s win this war.”

Together, they left the magazine. They walked through the passageway, moving through the ship, heading down to the cargo bay.

Tension blanketed the ship as they progressed through it, the crew largely silent, every man aware that these next few hours meant not only success or failure, but life or death. Yet the crew went about their duties with straight shoulders, determination radiating from them.

Moving down from deck to deck, everyone saluted as she and Christopher passed by. Gravely, she nodded at each man. She couldn’t help but think of their salutes as funereal rites. The ship might survive the mission. She and Christopher would not.

“You’ve earned their loyalty,” she said quietly as more crew appeared in the passageway, saluting.

“I’ve given them what they deserve. Respect your crew, and you’re repaid in kind.” He tilted his head at the crewmen, who drew up straighter, gratified at his notice.

That was Christopher: a man who was fiercely loyal, but only to those who earned his loyalty. She’d spoken truly earlier—she could not fault him for being guarded with her. She could only hope that she’d go to her death having earned back at least a fragment of his trust.

Reaching the cargo bay, she found Pullman, Dr. Singh, and several other officers waiting. Surprisingly, Duffy the cook was also there. He handed her a small linen-wrapped bundle.

“Some
sables de citron
, should you find yourself hungry.”

“No other saboteur is so well provisioned.” She took the bundle and carefully packed it into her haversack. “My thanks, Mr. Duffy.”

The cook ducked his head and gave her a shy smile.

Christopher was in quick, quiet consultation with Pullman and the officers, discussing in low voices his plans and what he expected of them should he be killed during the ground operation. Everyone wore matching tense expressions, especially the first mate. It was clear he’d rather Christopher commanded the ship, but he seemed ready to take up his duty.

“Send Farnley and Josephson in the jolly boat for us in two hours,” Christopher said. “If we’re not there, the marines are to wait no more than fifteen minutes before returning to the ship. Under no circumstances are they to wait longer than a quarter of an hour. Understood?”

“Aye, sir.”

Tydings, the bosun, pulled the lever on the cargo doors. Gears ground together as the doors swung open, and the cargo bay filled with an upsweep of cold wind. Below was the rocky face of the mountainous drop-off point, some hundred feet down. Tydings knotted one end of a very long coiled rope to an upright support beam. The bosun tugged hard on the rope, testing the strength of the knot. He nodded to Christopher.

At the captain’s signal, Tydings dropped the rope out the cargo doors. It unspooled, whipping down, down. Until it dangled above the earth. There still looked to be thirty feet between the end of the rope and the ground. The rope itself whipped in the wind, looking as stable as a snake.

Pullman spoke into the shipboard auditory device. “Can you get us any lower?”

“No, sir,” came the tinny voice on the other end of the line. “Not without possibly damaging the hull.”

“I don’t need her lower,” Christopher said. “The jump won’t prove a difficulty.”

“For
you
,” Louisa answered. There seemed no place where she might make a safe rolled landing if she had to fall the rest of the distance.

“Leave the jump to me,” he said.

She wouldn’t question him in front of his men, so she only nodded. He strode to the edge of the open cargo doors to stand beside the dangling rope. The ground looked very far away. He appeared not the slightest bit concerned.

He bent to grab hold of the rope, but stopped and straightened. Facing his officers, he said, “It’s been an honor serving with you men.”

Every crewman in the cargo bay saluted. He returned the salute. With his long blue coat, polished boots and look of pride for his men, Christopher could have served as a recruiting placard for the Navy. God knew Louisa would follow him anywhere.

He dropped his salute and gathered up several lengths of the rope, gripping it with his hands. He glanced at Louisa.

“Your ferry awaits,” he said.

She stood next to him, trying not to gaze down at the distant ground below, nor the sharp rocks jutting up. There were no soft landings.

She looped her arms around his neck, then gripped her wrists in a secure hold. It looked like an intimate embrace, save for the fact that they stood beside open cargo doors and were both strapped down with weapons and explosives. If he lost his grip and plunged to the ground, the impact would set off the bombs. Not only would she and Christopher be killed instantly, but the
Demeter
would be caught in the explosion and torn apart. Thus the mission would end before it had truly begun.

Fear must be pushed away. She refused to have anything to do with it. When an agent began to doubt herself, she opened the door to disaster.

“I’m ready,” she said.

He looked at her for a moment, as though committing her face to memory. Then he lowered them both to the floor of the cargo hold. Their legs dangled down. Cold wind rushed up her skirts and swirled around her legs like a frigid, searching hand. At least she wore woolen stockings to keep the cold at bay. But catching pneumonia was the least of her concerns.

“Look at me,” he commanded.

Her gaze snapped back to his face. The face she knew as well as her own—perhaps even better, for she’d spent many more hours contemplating his face rather than hers.

When he seemed satisfied that he had her full attention, he pushed off the floor of the cargo hold. And then they spun in midair. High above the rock-strewn, sloping ground.

Hand beneath hand, he climbed down the rope. He moved smoothly, showing no strain from her weight. The wind pulled at them, icy as it scraped down from the snow-covered peaks, and the farther away they went from the hull of the ship, the more the rope snapped and danced. Even Christopher’s considerable weight couldn’t keep it fully anchored. She felt like a fish at the end of a line. Dizzy, she closed her eyes and laid her head against his shoulder.

But curiosity wouldn’t allow her to keep her eyes shut. She opened them again to watch him as he climbed lower and lower, the ground nearing in steady degrees. Craning her neck, she looked up to see the keel of the
Demeter
above, and the open cargo doors. Faces gathered around the doors, watching as she and Christopher went down, down.

She looked back down. For a few moments, she forgot to be frightened, feeling the strength of Christopher’s body and the pleasure of flight. A strange, giddy bubble rose in her chest. Her cheeks hurt. She thought she might be smiling.

Her smile faded, however, when they reached the end of the rope, and still thirty feet stood between them and the ground.

“Now what?” she called above the wind.

“A leap of faith.” With one hand still holding the rope, he scooped his other arm beneath her, cradling her to him.

The only thing keeping them aloft was his hand gripping the rope.

And then he let go.

The ground rushed up to meet them, a blur of gray. She decided it wouldn’t be cowardly to close her eyes once more.

Impact suddenly rattled through her. It jolted her bones. But the impact was far less than if she’d attempted the jump herself.

She cracked her eyes open to see that Christopher had landed in a crouch. He rose to standing, still holding her, betraying no signs that he was in pain or had injured himself. The wonder of his transformation continued to unfold.

Carefully, he set her on her feet.

“Hurt?”

“A bit wobbly from the excitement, but everything’s in working order.” Solidity returned to her legs in gradual degrees.

He waved at the ship, still hovering overhead. Though she couldn’t discern the tiny figures of the men looking out of the cargo hold, one of them must have spotted Christopher’s signal, for the rope was drawn up. The
Demeter
rose higher, then flew off to find a hiding spot. The hum of its engines faded as the airship disappeared between the mountains.

Louisa and Christopher were alone.

A brief moment was taken to gather their bearings. They stood near the base of one mountain, just above the scree slope. Thick-trunked trees massed around the foot of the mountain. The only sounds came from the wind in the treetops and scattered birdsong.

“An ideal place for a picnic,” she said.

“We’ll have to come back with some wine and bread. Spread a blanket out beneath that tree.”

They both knew no such thing would ever happen, but it made for a pleasant diversion as they collected themselves. Or rather, as Louisa composed herself, for he looked as unruffled as if he’d stepped off the front step of the Officers’ Club rather than climbed down seventy feet of rope with a woman hanging from his neck, then jumped another thirty feet.

She pulled out her pocket watch. Their two hours had already begun.

In silent agreement, they edged their way down the scree as quickly as the treacherous gravel slope would allow. Then they were in the forest, the trees silent and immobile sentries as she and Christopher jogged through the woods. His long coat flew out behind him as he ran, like the wings of a great, dark bird.

Though she kept herself well-conditioned for situations exactly like this one, Christopher clearly had to slow his stride so she might keep up with him. It was only moderately annoying. She’d taken several trophies in running when at school.

“How fast can you run?”

“Haven’t measured it.”

“Hazard a guess.”

“Forty, forty-five miles an hour.”

She shook her head. “Your boots would fall apart before you did.”

In all ways he was extraordinary. But he had been this way well before his transformation into a Man O’ War.

They fell silent and continued their run toward the munitions plant. All unnecessary communication had to be curtailed the closer they got to the enemy’s position, and she needed to conserve her breath for when she truly needed it. For over half an hour, they ran, dodging between trees, jumping over fallen trunks, careful to keep their footfalls as quiet as possible. Easy for Christopher, not as easy for her.

Yet she did not slow or falter. Only sped along as quickly as she could. The longer it took to reach the munitions plant, the less time she’d have to plant the bombs and attempt to flee before they detonated.

Christopher stopped abruptly, just at the edge of the forest. She skidded to a halt beside him.

Eyes wide, she beheld their objective. One hundred feet ahead. The munitions plant.

As the plans had suggested, the back wall was indeed carved from the side of a mountain. The front of the plant jutted out, built from stone that must have come from the mountain itself. Its imposing façade was five stories high, with small square windows spaced at uneven intervals. There was nothing beautiful about the structure, no attempts at ornament. It was aggressive in its austerity. It served only one purpose: to build weapons to be used against the enemy.

The enemy was her. And Christopher. And the whole of Britain.

There were only two entrances. The one closest to Louisa and Christopher’s position had to be where the workers entered and left. It was the size of a normal doorway, with a heavy steel door. A path had been worn into the ground from the tread of many feet. Sentries armed with ether rifles guarded the door. Clearly, a direct approach to this door was out of the question.

The second entrance was situated at the other end of the plant. Two massive sliding doors, with two sets of train tracks, marked where shipments came and went from the factory. This entrance was just as guarded as the one for the workers. One couldn’t simply slip past the sentries, not without attracting notice.

Because the train was one of the plant’s more vulnerable areas, much of the forest had been cleared away around the tracks’ approach to the factory. If anyone attempted to hop onto the train, they’d be spotted by the guards and shot.

It would take a hell of a lot of calculation and a considerable amount of luck to get inside.

Fortunately, she and Christopher had a goodly share of cunning. He silently gestured to her, and they both faded back into the forest. They had one hope of breaching the munitions plant.

“Train’s coming soon,” he whispered to her. They would need to move quickly.

It seemed counterintuitive to get into the factory by walking away from it, but this was the only means of getting inside. They followed the sound of water—the very river they had used to track the location of the factory. Emerging from the trees, they found themselves standing at the top of a gorge. A trestle bridge traversed the gorge, with train tracks running the length of the bridge.

The gorge was deep, and the trestle bridge high. Its steel-beamed structure soared up fifty feet in a complex geometry. Where the tracks met up with the land had also been denuded of trees, leaving no cover for anyone who might try to climb aboard the train. Which meant there was a single location where a potential stowaway might climb on: from the trestle bridge itself.