by Ian Hocking
‘Is everything acceptable, my friend?’ called Paul Simpson.
‘Wonderful.’
Paul Simpson was clean-shaven. Cory fought against the sudden recall of his own uncle’s dead visage, dolled-up in his casket, shaved of his beard by the mortician, and with a kicking
vertigo
nausea in his stomach he knew that Simpson was dead, as dead as Lisandro and Paloma and—he swallowed—soon every passenger and crew member on board this aircraft.
The sensation of entrapment made him want to burst. He fumbled for his seat belt but did not open the clasp. Instead, he gripped it. He pictured his fear as a horse that he could rein, but the mount changed into a snorting nightmare: he had succumbed to the dead, clockwork past. His struggles to remain outside the system had failed. He was a zombie like them.
No. I can still make it out of here.
Abruptly, Miss Evans put her hand on his shoulder. He looked at her red fingernails and could not suppress the image of her amputated hand. He bit his cuff and blocked his rising lunch.
Star Girl, he thought.
Paloma: a ghost under neon light.
No. I am the Ghost.
Cory choked and felt a new thickness in his throat. His eyes ached and ran wet.
I am the fucking Ghost.
Miss Evans: dead. Mr Simpson, King’s messenger: dead. And those behind him too. And Lisandro, harmless boy. Puppets, all of them, limbs strung by time—a puppet itself, an infinite regression of meaningless forces—and here was Cory, tangled.
Paloma: kicking.
I am the–
‘No’, came a voice. It sounded like Jennifer. ‘You are a necrophile. How does that feel, soldier?’
The boy from Georgia had never learned the word. His language-processing automata set to work on it.
Necrophile: A lover of death.
Paloma.
He thought of the bench in the courtyard. That moment still existed. It could be recovered. It was real in at least one sense. He watched his memory of Jennifer’s lips. They moved, but no sound issued. He no longer needed to hear.
‘Miss Evans, I’m very sorry.’
‘Not at all,’ she said, squeezing his shoulder again. ‘Can I get you anything? More coffee? Perhaps you’d like to challenge Mr Simpson to a game of chess?’
Cory laughed. Then he stopped, hoping this created the impression that something had just occurred to him.
‘I once heard of a man who became so claustrophobic on a flight between Paris and Berlin that he forced the captain to give him a parachute. In the event, they let him jump out somewhere in the vicinity of Amsterdam.’
He laughed again. Miss Evans crinkled her eyes and smiled. It was clear to Cory that she found his comment absurd, even worrying, but she was professional enough to come back with a throwaway remark.
‘Well, nobody has ever asked to use ours. After all,’ she said, moving towards the tail, ‘it is rather chilly on the cordillera.’
Chapter Thirty-Three
Cory waited until they were well above the Andes and oxygen masks had been fastened. His stank of rubber. He thought about his plan and wondered whether the timing provided by the journalist in the newspaper article was accurate. There was a caesium-beam oscillator in his spine that helped coordinate nanoparticle activity, but he had asked Miss Evans to set his pocket watch by that of the navigator, which was a service BSAA advertised. He could be more confident that this clockwork timepiece, and its error, better reflected the chronometer of the Chilean ground controller who would report the loss of Star Dust. He wanted to bail out west of the mountains. The closer to Santiago the better. Buenos Aires would be too hot because of the crash of Star Dust and his implied role in it. His first problem was gaining access to the cockpit. He needed a pretext.
At 1:00 p.m. Buenos Aires time, which was 4:00 p.m. standard time, Miss Evans passed him a flight information card that had been written in a beautiful hand. Across the top, it read, ‘Please circulate—Captain R. Cook.’ Star Dust was thirty-two degrees, fifty minutes south; sixty-eight degrees, thirty minutes west. Height: 20,000 feet but ascending to 24,000. Speed: 194 knots. The estimated arrival time for Santiago was 5:34 p.m. standard.
So they were over Mendoza, a city in the eastern foothills of the Andes. The oncoming mountains explained the judders and creaks of the aircraft as it entered the thickening winds. In a few minutes, they would have cleared the highest peaks. Time for Cory to move. Sooner was better; he did not know how long it would take to find the parachute or to induce the crew to tell him.
Cory offered the card to Paul Simpson, who shrugged, as if say, ‘What does it matter what we know?’ He turned and gave it to Jack Gooderham, whose eyes blinked his thanks above his mask.
Miss Evans passed him on her way to the fore alcove. Behind her, the mobile oxygen cart struck the lowest stair. This was a prime opportunity to leave the main cabin, so, playing the gentleman who could not tolerate seeing her struggle, he unbuckled his belt, detached his mask, and grasped the cart by the handle at its base.
He and Miss Evans guided the cart over the threshold and into the kitchen. It was not much larger than a telephone box. Cory helped her settle the cart against the sink. Above it, a stack of dirty plates was lashed to the wall. She passed a strap around the cylinder and buckled it tight. Then slipped her mask upwards and patted her hairpins. She forced a smile of thanks to Cory—betraying an agitation that did not suit her—and motioned for him to return to his seat. It was difficult to talk in the kitchen. The engine noise was louder.
She opened the curtain that separated the cockpit from the passenger cabin and passed through, closing it behind her. Cory remained standing by the sink. It was time. Draughts worked his hair. Nervously, he put his hands into the pockets of his thin, tropical suit. The cold worried him a fraction. The chillier he became, the harder his metabolism would work. The air at 24,000 feet was rarefied but not entirely without oxygen. Cory would be able to respire rather more effectively than the crew. He had enough in reserve to snatch the parachute and escape the aircraft. But it would be close.
The cockpit was no larger than the interior of a family-sized automobile and the considered placement of flight crew made it seem even smaller. It was, however, brighter than he had anticipated. Nearest to him, the radio operator sat against a half-bulkhead of radio equipment reading Life magazine. He wore a bomber jacket, a leather helmet and an oxygen mask. Beyond him was the navigator. This man was oriented at ninety degrees to the fuselage and was holding his map table steady with an ungloved hand. At the front of the cockpit, and higher, was Commander Cook. His knees were resting in the slings of the yoke. To his right was the first officer, Hilton Cook.
Miss Evans unhooked a spare mask and pressed it to her face. With her free hand, she pinched her throat. Cory let his fingers touch the fuselage to aid his eavesdrop of the cabin loop.
‘Hello, Skipper,’ she said.
As one, the men turned. They looked from Miss Evans to Cory. He was prepared to deal with their sudden calls for his dismissal, polite or not, but he was surprised by the silence, which went on long enough for Miss Evans to turn too. Cory realised that they were calm, trained men, and they were waiting for the opinion of Commander Cook.
The time traveller and the commander looked at one another.
Cory tapped his brow in greeting. Commander Cook raised a hand. With that—nothing more—the crew visibly relaxed. They shared glances. Indeed, they could have passed comment on this German intruder safe in the knowledge that he could not hear them. They would never, after all, guess that Cory could eavesdrop on their intercom. Yet they did not. It was undoubtedly some form of English politeness, but it made Cory uneasy. Did they see a hint to their fate in his expression?
Bull, he thought. They don’t have a clue.
‘Miss Evans,’ said Commander Cook, ‘is everything alright?’
‘I’m dreadfully worried about Mrs Limpert,’ she said.
There
was another pause. Commander Cook was clearly a man who considered his words.
‘Go on, Iris.’
‘She’s turning blue,’ said Miss Evans. ‘And she might have had a fit. Mr Young, who is looking after her, says her pulse is weak.’
Commander Cook looked at the first officer, Hilton Cook. ‘Right. Since we climbed to twenty-four thousand.’
‘Did you check her oxygen supply?’ asked the first officer.
‘Yes, it’s working properly.’
The captain scratched an eyelid. It was a childlike gesture, and Cory remembered his age. He could not be more than thirty. ‘Serves us right for letting a seventy-year-old woman on board.’
‘If it’s the altitude,’ said Miss Evans, ‘then let’s drop below twenty thousand.’
‘Absolutely not.’
‘But even a small descent might help.’
‘No. Any lower and we’ll be having dinner on the cordillera. Don, how long until we’re certain the Andes are behind us?’
As the navigator twisted from his map, Cory pointed questioningly at the discarded oxygen mask. He knew that the commander had been briefed on Wittenbacher’s life story and, given their friendly exchange prior to his meeting with Bennett, there was a good chance that Cook would not turn down the request. To Cory’s relief, the commander turned his palm upwards at the mask. Be my guest, he seemed to say. He watched, together with Hilton Cook, as Cory shook out the straps.
‘We’ll probably be clear in half an hour or so,’ said the navigator, ‘but I’d recommend we wait until the last moment before we descend. In this visibility, I can’t accurately say when we’re clear. Denis, you’ve been over the bumps more times than anyone. What do you think?’
The man at the radio nodded. ‘No such thing as a standard crossing time, Skipper. The winds can play tricks. The watchword is caution, especially when it’s ten-tenths down there.’
‘There you have it, Iris,’ said Commander Cook. ‘Mrs Limpert will have to grin and bear it. We should be on the ground in three quarters of an hour.’
‘What about the northern route? This is a woman’s life we’re talking about.’
‘Miss Evans.’
She stiffened. There was no mistaking the commander’s tone.
‘I’ll try to make her comfortable,’ Miss Evans said, coldly. ‘Now come along, Mr Wittenbacher.’
‘Our friend can stay,’ said the Commander. ‘We have a few minutes until we get busy.’
‘Very good,’ she replied. She placed her mask on its fuselage hook and straightened her hair. As she exchanged places with Cory in the hatchway, he noticed lines of tiredness at the corners of her eyes where her make-up had cracked.
‘You know what she needs?’ said the first officer.
‘Oh, shut up, Hilton,’ said Commander Cook. ‘Don, redo the ETA. Let’s come down as soon as possible. Mrs Limpert will be alright once she’s lower. I’ve seen it a dozen times.’
‘VG, Skipper.’
‘Colonel Wittenbacher,’ said Commander Cook. His eyebrows flexed. ‘Welcome to the greenhouse. The vegetable on my right is Hilton, whose sense of humour needs no introduction. That’s Don Cheklin at the map table, and that’s Denis Harmer at the wireless. Grab the spare Irvin if you’re cold. It’s underneath Don. Watch his flask doesn’t fall out. Tea is the second most important liquid in this kite, and I wouldn’t want you to see my navigator cry.’
Cory pulled out the leather jacket, unfurled it, and passed the vacuum flask to the navigator, who jammed it between his knees. There was a parachute beneath the seat. Cory stared at it. Suddenly, this was the moment. Should he take it and run? How would he open the rear door in time? The first officer had closed it with a huge tug. Could Cory open it before one of the crew pulled him away? What about the passengers? There were capable men among them. Cory couldn’t fight them all, and still less could he leap from an aircraft before he had figured out how to attach the parachute.
While his mind hesitated, his body continued: he put on the jacket.
‘Enjoying the flight?’ asked the first officer.
‘Yes,’ Cory replied carefully. There was something of the bully about Hilton Cook.
‘Well, that warms the cockles of my heart.’ He leaned towards Cory, as though about to reveal a confidence. Cory noticed that he was not buckled in. ‘You know, I was going to observe the irony. Not three years ago you’d have had us pushing up the daisies. Now we’re smuggling you across the border so you can continue the party with the other Nazis.’
‘Steady, Hilton,’ said Commander Cook. ‘Rumour has it the war’s over.’
‘So you know about my predicament,’ said Cory, addressing the first officer. ‘I apologise, but my life is in danger. And I am not a Nazi.’
‘Benno works in mysterious ways,’ said Hilton Cook. ‘When the only thing a man flies is a mahogany Spitfire, his judgement suffers. What do you say, Skipper?’
‘Don’t be tiresome, Hilton.’
Cory felt himself detach from the situation. The forces behind Hilton Cook’s eyes, though he took them to be private, were the public forces of physical law. The inevitable, violent meeting between Hilton Cook and solid earth was founded on principles hardly dissimilar from that governing the approach of two clockwork bell-strikers as they approached to mark the hour.
‘I apologise, Captain,’ said Cory. ‘I’m disturbing your crew.’
‘Not at all, Colonel,’ said the commander. ‘The only person you’re disturbing is Hilton, and I must congratulate you, considering how disturbed he already is.’
‘Skipper,’ interrupted Don Cheklin, ‘I’ve got the new ETA. We’ll reach Santiago at 17:45, give or take.’
‘Give or take what, navigator?’
‘Two minutes either way.’
‘Hello, Denis.’
‘Yes, Skip.’
‘Please notify Santiago tower that our revised ETA is 17:45.’
‘I say, Wittenbacher,’ said the first officer. His eyes were wide with feigned excitement. ‘Could it be that you’re the Wittenbacher, the German fighter ace?’
‘Yes. Would you like an autograph?’
The first officer laughed.
‘That was funny.’ He looked at his fellow crewmen. ‘The Kraut said something funny.’ Then he turned to Cory once more. ‘You like funny stories? Here’s one. I’ve this minute remembered where I first heard your name. It wasn’t during the war, but just after, when I was babysitting some Nazi brass. One worked in the Ministry of Propaganda. He used to make up what he called ‘ghosts’—fictional people, basically, to misinform the enemy. One was a flying ace called Wittenbacher the Wittvenmacher. The widow-maker. He was particularly proud of the rhyme. Inventing people—funny idea, isn’t it?’
Cory flushed. Each man in the crew studied his reaction, the commander included. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘I flew with a couple of Yanks,’ said the first officer. ‘Got to know their lingo. Sometimes your accent slips, buddy. Where are you really from? The deep sahth? What other jokes do they make down there-ah?’
But, thought Cory, panicked, in-built mechanisms select my accent, mechanisms I cannot control.
He felt as though a crack had run through his psyche.
Mechanisms I cannot control.
Those winds that Hilton Cook would call his own—the laws of physics, bedrock of his being—were, true enough, public forces as indifferent to his will as Cory was indifferent to the fear of Harkes. But those laws governed Cory too. How could he step beyond their jurisdiction? He had been travelling in time for two months. Was that long enough to become a zombie like Hilton Cook?
The amber had set.
Take the parachute.
Run.
‘Well, Colonel?’ asked the commander.
Vertigo.
Cory dropped to the floor and clawed at the parachute. His hand had almost touched the strap when Don Checklin’s boot—carefully but firmly—came down on hi
s neck and pressed him against the deck plate.
‘Well done, Don,’ said Hilton Cook. ‘Odds-on our friend here is a Yank. Special operations. And we’re the babysitters. See, Reg? What did I tell you?’
‘Don’t get excited. We need to tie him up and radio Santiago.’
As his skull rattled between the boot and the deck, Cory waited for the homunculus of his training to wake. How must Lisandro have strained against the brutish Englishman who pressed his lungs to tiny pockets, the better to butcher?
Hilton Cook appeared before him, crouching, and punched down on his ear. As he landed a second blow, Cory took his wrist and twisted it. The wrist broke. Hilton grunted. Cory put the first officer in a head lock and brought him down. Their eyes were inches apart. For the first time since his training, Cory let the fires of his ichor fully ignite.
‘Denis,’ said Commander Cook, ‘tell Santiago tower we’ve got trouble.’
Cory dashed Hilton’s head against a stanchion. He saw the navigator reach for a fire extinguisher. The man was encumbered by bulky clothing and the stiff leash of his oxygen tube, but he brought the canister down hard enough to sting Cory’s palms as he stopped it. Before the navigator could shift his grip for a second strike, Cory trapped his hand with his own and drove the canister against the radio operator’s bulkhead. The navigator shouted as his hand came away bloody. Cory worked the extinguisher from his grip and punted his cheek with the end. The navigator collapsed across his map table. Cory ripped away his own mask and stood up. He turned the valve on the extinguisher, spun, and doused the face of Denis Harmer before the man could grab him. Harmer collapsed with his hands to his face. Cory swung the extinguisher again. He struck away the hands and the mask beneath them. The wide, boyish expression stayed Cory’s fury. He tried to reconcile the real terror of the man with the counterfeit terror of a puppet. He could not. The radio operator squeezed his eyes shut the instant before Cory swung again.