He tried to block her way until the whirling propeller drove him back. He watched in astonishment as his beloved Olga rolled out onto the tarmac and headed for the runway. In a horrified instant, he realized that the plane was not stopping.
Drago sprinted headlong across the airfield and hurled himself onto the lower wing of the biplane. Undeterred, Grace began to taxi in a serpentine motion in an effort to shake him off. Hanging on for dear life, he crawled between the struts to the fuselage, reached up, and managed to flip open the canopy. “Stop!”
In answer, Grace opened the throttle, sped down the runway, and pulled back on the yoke. With a mighty roar, the biplane left the ground.
Watching the airfield fall away from him lent strength to Drago’s panic. He hoisted himself up and over, and tumbled into the passenger seat. “All right,” he wheezed. “I will take you to Casablanca.”
“Why should I believe you?” she shouted over the roar of the engine.
He was wide-eyed. “Because you have proven yourself worthy of my fear!”
When the aircraft crossed the border into occupied France, Drago was at the controls and Grace was in the passenger seat, hugging the briefcase to her chest.
Her journey to Casablanca had begun.
Their flight path followed the coastline, not that Grace could tell. Occupied France was under strict blackout orders, so there were no lights beyond the occasional wisp of illumination sneaking out from behind dark curtains.
Drago navigated by starlight and the dim glow cast by a crescent moon. Occasionally, he consulted a torn and ratty map that lay open on his lap.
Grace squinted out the window into the gloom. “How do you see where you’re going? I can’t even make out where the water meets the land.”
“Don’t have to see,” the pilot grunted. “Olga knows the way.”
“Funny name for an aircraft,” Grace commented. “Is it after your wife?”
“My gun.”
Grace stared at him. “You named your plane after a gun?”
“It was very good gun.”
She scanned his shaggy, inscrutable features, trying to determine if he was serious. One thing was certain: He could not be trusted. He had already tried to double-cross her once and wouldn’t hesitate to do it again.
For the present, though, the pilot seemed content to be piloting, and the biplane jounced above the coastline, plodding southwest. Grace did not remember sleeping, but she awoke with a start, instantly aware that something was different. There was no longer unbroken darkness below them. Lights shone from farmhouses and the occasional village.
“We’re off course!” she cried. “You’re taking me to the wrong place!”
He shook his head. “We have crossed over Spanish border. No war here.”
“Sorry.” She was chastened but relieved. Fascist Spain sympathized with Germany but was technically neutral. Where there was no fear of bombing, there were no blackout restrictions.
“You have father?” Drago asked her suddenly.
“Why should you need to know?” Grace demanded.
He shrugged. “I am father. My daughter, I hope, will never go on purpose to a place of battle.”
“Well, my father is out of the picture,” Grace said bitterly, “so I can’t know his opinion on this or anything else.”
“He is dead?”
Grace shook her head. “Just — gone. He left us.” As much as she resented James Cahill for that, she would have given anything to see his face right then. Mother, too — her fair features, pale skin, and auburn hair. The gentle way she spoke your name, even when she was angry. The kindness that radiated from her …
No, don’t think about that! Father might come back, but Mother never will….
“I, too, did this thing. Left my family.” Drago’s gravelly voice betrayed no emotion. “I hope one day my daughter will understand.”
“What’s to understand about your own father deserting you?”
“Some things you must do,” he informed her. “To make money. To survive. If this was not true, I would not be taking you to Casablanca.”
In the reflected light of the instrument panel, Grace peered at her pilot. Every wrinkle and pockmark, she imagined, had probably been etched by some cruel happenstance or experience.
Life is hard for everybody, not just the Cahills….
Drago’s voice interrupted her reverie. “In one hour we stop to refuel. If there is fuel.”
“If?” she echoed in alarm. “You mean there might not be?”
“Wartime,” he said grimly. “Even neutral countries have rationing.”
“But what if we can’t take off again?”
He shrugged. “General Franco’s men are not known for their trust. I will be arrested as spy. Your youth might save you. Maybe.”
Valencia appeared in the distance, glittering against the dark coastline. There was an otherworldly quality to being suspended in midair, in the cold and gloom of Olga’s cabin, passing over Europe’s storied cities. Despite the tension of the moment, Grace felt strangely free. It was almost as if the crippling fact of her mother’s death, her father’s disappearance, even the responsibility of caring for Fiske couldn’t find her up here.
Drago veered inland, skirting the city to avoid attracting unwanted attention. Half an hour later, a double row of lights appeared amid the inky fields.
“Is that it?” Grace asked anxiously. For the past ten minutes, she had been watching the dropping fuel gauge. Pretty soon they were going to have to land, whether it was in the right place or not.
Drago nodded. “I told you. Olga knows the way.”
Whether credit was due to Olga’s knowledge or Drago’s skill, they were soon down on a concrete runway, taxiing toward a stack of fuel drums.
Drago pulled the biplane to a halt and killed the motor. When the propeller sputtered to a stop, Grace realized how much Olga’s vibration had become a part of her. It had been four hours since they’d left Monaco. Her guts were shaken; her lungs were full of gas fumes. And here they were — nowhere.
Drago popped the canopy and heaved his bulk out of the cockpit. “I will refuel.” He pointed to a small shack. “In there you will find toilet.”
Grace glared at him. “If you think I’m going to give you the chance to fly away and strand me, you’re crazy.”
He shrugged. “It is long way to Casablanca.”
“I’m fine, thank you very much.”
“As you wish.” He jumped to the tarmac.
A few minutes later, she heard the clanging of the metal drums and the gurgling of liquid filling the biplane’s tank.
She tried to stretch out her stiff legs, but in the cramped cockpit, there simply wasn’t room. She forced herself to ignore the discomfort. This was, after all, the easy part. They were about to fly into a war in search of an invading general. She should appreciate this calm while it lasted.
And then something cold and hard prodded her arm. She looked down at the barrel of a machine gun.
A black-clad Spanish officer stood on the bottom rung of the boarding ladder. “Your papers, señorita!”
Frightened, Grace fumbled in her coat pocket and came up with her passport.
The Spaniard’s eyebrows rose. “American. You will come with me.”
“Why?” she demanded in outrage, summoning an imperious dignity she did not feel. “You have no right to arrest me. I’ve done nothing wrong.”
“Your country is at war, and therefore so are you. You are to be detained for questioning by the government of Generalissimo Francisco Franco. You will step out of the aircraft.”
“I — can’t.” How could she ever explain it to a man with a machine gun — that if she left the plane, Drago might fly off and abandon her?
Speaking of Drago, where was he? The refueling sound had ceased. Was the tank full and the pilot in hiding, waiting for the officer to drag her away?
The gun nudged her again. “Out of the plane, señorita. Ahora!”
Grabbing the briefcase, she climbed down and submitted to being marched across the tarmac toward a small hut marked POLICíA.
Grace’s mind was awhirl. Could she bribe the man? What if he thought she was some kind of spy? If she got sent to a prison camp, no one would ever find out what had become of her! Even if they interrogated her and let her go, she’d be marooned in the middle of Spain.
Either way, she would never make it to Casablanca.
There was a loud thud, followed by the clatter of the machine gun falling to the tarmac. A split second later, the Spanish officer hit the ground beside his weapon.
Grace wheeled. There stood her pilot, brandishing a large wrench.
He took her hand and began to rush her back to the plane. “Hurry! He may be light sleeper!”
Weak with relief, Grace allowed herself to be stuffed back into the cockpit. Minutes later, they were in the air once again, crossing the Spanish mainland.
Grace gaped at her strange, shaggy pilot. “You could have left me! You could have flown away!”
Drago indicated the briefcase, which was once again in her lap. “Where my money goes, I follow.”
“You already have ten thousand dollars,” Grace reminded him. “In Monaco you said you weren’t greedy.”
He refused to look at her. “Do I resemble smart man to you?”
“You resemble a wonderful man!” she breathed.
“Bah!” he scoffed. “Where we journey is no place for sentiment.”
“I’ll pay you more money,” she promised.
He nodded. “I deserve it.”
An hour later, they were out over the Atlantic Ocean, giving Gibraltar a wide berth to avoid alerting the British Royal Air Force installation there.
They had left Europe behind. Next stop: Africa.
Operation Torch came into view before Casablanca did. The first rays of dawn revealed a towering plume of smoke obscuring the African coastline.
“Look —” Drago pointed. “There is your war.”
Grace gulped. “I was hoping it was just — bad weather.”
But now she could see hundreds of ships of all sizes — a mammoth naval battle. From this distance, they looked like Dinky Toys. Grace had to remind herself that every faint flash of orange represented an explosion of enormous destructive power. American fighter planes strafed and dive-bombed the defenders, unchallenged by any Vichy French air force. In the sea she could make out the vector-straight track of a submarine-launched torpedo. Amphibious landing craft spilled their invaders onto the beach. Thousands of troops, tiny as ants, swarmed over the sand, exchanging lethal fire with the French soldiers dug in there. The scene was all the more bizarre because Grace couldn’t hear anything over the noise of Olga’s engine. That left a ghastly pantomime of mechanical monsters and soundless death.
“How are we going to get past all that?” Grace shrilled.
“You ask me this now?” he demanded bitterly.
“I thought …” Her voice trailed off. The truth was she hadn’t thought. She had brought them to this carnival of destruction with no clear plan.
Drago had an idea. “We go around it, of course. We do not want to tangle with one of your American — how do you say — hotshot pilots.” He veered back out to sea, flying parallel to the coast, avoiding the thick of the battle. The strategy was to come ashore well south of the city. They would approach Casablanca’s airfield from the east, away from the fighting.
They were close enough that Grace could make out the minarets of Casablanca through the smoke. She wondered which of the American fleet was the heavy cruiser USS Augusta, Patton’s ship.
“There is problem,” Drago said suddenly.
It all seemed like a problem to Grace — bombs dropping, cannons firing, bullets flying, shells bursting. Even from afar, it was the utmost in chaos and insanity.
“What’s wrong?”
“Our fuel is low,” Drago replied.
“How low?”
His expression was grim. “We must land now.”
“What — in the middle of all that?”
“Now!”
He turned Olga toward the city and began to descend, veering closer to the teeth of the clash. “Airfield is just beyond town. I can make it!”
“But you’re heading straight into the war!” she cried. “It’s not safe!”
“Safer than crashing into the ocean!”
Her eyes were riveted to the canopy, watching as they edged nearer to the smoke of the battle. Fifty yards … twenty … ten …
Stay out of it … she prayed, twisting her shoulders as if her body language could alter the plane’s inevitable course.
And then the conflict surrounded them like a fatal fog. The aircraft began to vibrate as Drago cut speed.
Grace could feel the concussion of exploding artillery shells. The fighting was no longer silent. Bursts of flak bloomed all around them.
With a sharp crack, a stray fragment of antiaircraft fire tore through the fuselage.
Drago turned to Grace. “Now you will land Olga yourself.” “Me? Why?”
“Because I will very shortly be dead.”
And then she saw the blood pooling on the moth-eaten fur of his coat where the shrapnel had pierced his chest.
Horror surged through her. “You’re hit!”
“We must change seats” — his voice was strained — “while I can still move.”
“We have to get you to a doctor!” she shrilled.
“Do it! There is very little time.” He leaned forward, literally stuffing her into the seat behind him. At last, he collapsed into the passenger chair.
Grace took hold of the yoke and throttle, fighting to steady her trembling hands. “You have to tell me what to do!”
The sight of him terrified her. The whole front of his coat was now saturated with blood. His face was chalk-white, his lips blue.
“You will do it,” he promised in a thready voice.
“How can you know that?”
He stared at her as if memorizing her face. “I lied about Olga. She is not my gun. She is my daughter.”
Grace struggled to control the shuddering craft.
“I have not seen her since she was small child,” Drago whispered hoarsely. “But it is my hope” — he coughed — “that she is growing up to be like you.”
Grace tore her eyes from the horizon for just a second. It was long enough for her to realize that the pilot was gone from her. Drago was dead.
Not even at her mother’s funeral had Grace wept with such intensity. She had dragged him here on her mad mission, and it had cost him his life. It was her fault as surely as if she had shot him herself.
But there was no time for regret. Below her was the beach — American troops shooting up at defenders on higher ground. Olga was now low enough to be in the thick of the fight. Rifle fire whined all around her like deadly mosquitoes. A stray bullet tore through the fuselage inches from her elbow and exited through the canopy.
I will not die here! Grace gritted her teeth, wrestling with the controls as the biplane crossed over the shore. I will live on and have children and grandchildren who will never have to go through terrors like this just because they’re Cahills!
She eased up on the throttle, gentling Olga lower and lower until the highest buildings of the city were passing mere feet beneath the landing wheels.
Where was the airfield?
A sputter from the engine told her that she did not have the time to find it. Drago had been right. The fuel tank was running dry. She was soon going to be on the ground one way or another.
Beyond Casablanca, the vast desert loomed. All right — if she couldn’t locate the airfield, she was going to have to set down on one of the roads that led out of the city. She could see ribbons of pavement crisscrossing the sand.
Her flight instructor had been James Cahill, which meant that she had not had a lesson in more than a year. It was a bad time to be rusty, but there was no point in l
amenting that now.
Speed equals altitude had been Father’s motto. Less throttle meant more descent. The biplane swooped low over windswept dunes. The road was directly in front of Olga’s nose. Grace went for it, all focus.
With a cough, the engine burned its last drop of gasoline. The propeller stopped, and Olga was falling. The crash was jarring. One tire blew, and the struts on the other collapsed. Sparks flew as metal parts scraped against the pavement at high speed. The plane spun off the road into the sand.
Grace’s world turned upside down, and she reached out a hand to brace herself against the control panel.
Impact. Blinding pain.
Darkness.
It began as a general ache all over her body. But as Grace awoke, it localized. Her arm was in agony. She struggled out of her coat and examined the damage. Swollen, misshapen, and black and blue to the elbow. She must have broken her wrist in the crash.
The pain was awful, but not nearly as awful as the sight of Drago’s lifeless body tossed like a rag doll in the seat beside her.
She looked up and instantly regretted it. The sun was overpowering — and very high in the sky. She must have been unconscious for hours.
Using her good hand and her teeth, she ripped out the lining of her overpriced coat and fashioned a sling for her left arm. It still hurt like mad, but at least it was supported. She popped open the canopy, swung a leg over the side, and dropped to the ground.
The plane was a total loss. The collision with the sand had torn one of the wings, and the tail was broken off. Smoke billowed from a spot behind the propeller.
“Drago —” she whimpered. How could she abandon him to the desert? Yet she could do nothing for her pilot now. A dead man had no use for company. To the money in the briefcase she gave not a single thought. Its sole purpose had been to buy her way to Casablanca. And here she was. In the general vicinity, anyway.
In the process of landing she had overshot the city by several miles. It was going to be a long hike, and she had best get started.
Vespers Rising Page 11