Iskinder paused next to the Barb. He was smiling, a genuine and relaxed smile for the first time since she’d arrived in Alexandria. “Why don’t you take Sultan, Alma? I’ve been out of the saddle quite a while.”
“If you truly don’t mind,” Alma said. Oh, he was a beautiful horse! He was looking at her speculatively, sizing her up as she sized him up.
The groom looked shocked, as did the men standing about.
“Not a bit,” Iskinder said with a courtly nod. “It’s the least hospitality I can show you when you finally visit my homeland. I regret I cannot entertain you as I had hoped.” He handed over the reins. “But you will enjoy Sultan, I think. He seems full of high spirits this morning.”
The groom said something to Iskinder, probably to the tune of was he trying to kill the lady.
“Thank you,” Alma said, and put her hand on his warm neck. He turned his head, looking at her, a kind of speculation in his eye. Oh yes, Alma thought. We have the measure of each other. She put her toe in the stirrup and with one smooth motion mounted up. Sultan stood perfectly still, but she felt his muscles tense. He wanted to go.
Iskinder’s smile turned into a grin. “Why don’t you give him a try then?”
She needed no further encouragement. Alma put her heels to his side and took off across the plain at the lakeshore. His trot was smooth, hooves pounding, and she gave him his head, letting him go all out in a canter as he wanted to. As she wanted to. All the fiddly little things of the last few days, the considering and the planning and the careful husbanding flew away like a hat in the wind. This was it — letting go, the pure, clear joy of movement, hers and Sultan’s. Waterbirds started from the reeds at the lake’s edge, and she turned Sultan in a wide circle.
Lewis and Iskinder and the others were specks beside the wagon, and she pulled back, Sultan going up in a classic pose, her left arm lifting in a wave just as she’d done it so many times.
“Oh you are a good boy,” she said, leaning forward to pet Sultan’s neck as they came down. “Such a good boy.” He nickered in agreement, and together they came back at a slightly more sedate trot.
Iskinder’s smile was ear to ear. “Thank you,” she said.
“It’s my pleasure,” Iskinder replied. “But sadly we must go to Gondar.”
“Of course.” Alma maneuvered Sultan into line behind the wagon next to Mitch on the quiet mare.
Mitch looked at her sideways. “That was quite a performance.”
Alma laughed. “That’s exactly what it was. I used to be in a rodeo show.”
Mitch’s eyebrows rose. “Real life Girl of the Golden West?”
“Exactly. I was in Charley Cassidy’s Wild West Show as Golden Rose, the Colorado Cowgirl.”
“Really?”
“Absolutely.” Alma grinned, enjoying Sultan’s smooth gait as much as Mitch’s delighted expression. “I toured with them from ‘11 to ‘15. Even went all the way to New York City to perform in Madison Square Garden. I did trick riding and a little roping. Never was much good at calf tying, and it wasn’t a show known for fancy shooting. But bucking broncos? Absolutely.” Alma gave Sultan’s neck a pat. “I did lots of trick riding. I doubt I can do the Roman ride anymore, when you stand up with one foot on each horse, but I could when I was twenty.”
“The things you don’t know about your friends,” Mitch said admiringly. “No wonder you and Stasi get along. Why’d you quit?”
“The show broke up,” Alma said. “Charley Cassidy died and his two wives took each other to court when they found out about each other. Everything was sold to pay for the legal battle.” She shrugged. “So I figured it was about time to find something else to do.”
“Like wrangling an ambulance wagon,” Mitch said.
“Like that.” She shrugged happily. “And see how well that turned out?”
“I do,” Mitch said. “It turned out pretty well.”
Lewis braced himself against the side of the cart as the unsprung wheels jolted over the uneven ground, the ammunition boxes piled high at his back. At least there was a track good enough to take the truck; the carts jostled along behind it, drawn by pairs of dusty brown oxen. Ahead he could see a line of trees, stretching from the east toward the road, and to the west there were low shapes that must be the buildings of the training field. Somehow this wasn’t what he’d expected Africa to look like, a scrubby plain giving way here and there to clumps of low trees or a series of well-tended fields centered on a cluster of houses. He’d expected jungle, like in the Tarzan books he’d read wild-catting in Texas, lush and hot and green and full of exotic animals. Here there were only oxen, not so very different from the cattle at home, and the horses. Only the birds were different, and they were so far away, driven off by the noise and movement, that he could hardly tell for sure. The people were different, too. None of these were the great chiefs of the novels, with jet-black skins and leopard-skin loincloths, brandishing spears and loaded with gold jewelry and lion’s claws. The soldiers just looked like soldiers everywhere, sleeves rolled up and collars open, only the color of their skin marking them as any different from the Reservists he trained with. Even the civilians wore mostly western dress, only the occasional brightly colored tunic to remind him that he was actually in Africa. He glanced sideways at the bullock driver, a skinny, light-skinned young man with a corporal’s stripes on his sleeves and wire-rimmed glasses.
“Where are we, do you know?” He felt stupid as soon as the words left his mouth — of course the man would know, it was his country — but the corporal didn’t seem to take offense.
“South of Gondar, south and a bit east.” The corporal’s accent was British, like Stasi’s when she was pretending to be a countess. “I’m from Addis Ababa myself, I don’t know the area. They tell me that’s St. Michael’s church up there.” He pointed with his chin, not taking his hands from the reins or the long goad. Lewis squinted into the afternoon sun, but could see only the trees. “That’s Camp Coleman on the other side of the track.”
“Camp Coleman?” Lewis gave him a curious look.
The corporal shrugged. “Colonel Robinson named it after a flyer he knew. At least that’s what I heard.”
As they came closer to the line of trees, Lewis could make out more detail. A bright orange windsock dangled from a pole beside a hangar that looked as though it were made of adobe, with sheets of rusty tin for a roof. There was a smaller building beside it, a tripod mast betraying the presence of a radio beacon, and a neat line of tents. There were a couple of two-seater biplanes drawn up on the hard-packed dirt of the runway, not new, but certainly not too far outdated; the nose of a third plane protruded from the hangar. On the other side of the road, a footpath led down a slope toward a collection of round adobe houses with roofs of sticks laid in a cone. One of the houses was much larger than the others, with a wooden outer wall, and next to it was a building half tent and half wood, with enormous red crosses painted on the sides and on the roof
The train slowed to a halt, the oxen grunting and complaining, and Lewis swung down out of the cart as Alma came trotting over on her borrowed horse. It tossed its head and fought the bridle, but she was grinning as she got it under control again. “Iskinder’s going to stop here with us overnight, make sure there’s nothing he needs to take to the emperor right away. If not, he and an escort will catch up with Colonel Tedesse in the morning.”
Lewis nodded. They weren’t going to take off tonight, that much was obvious; better to stay here overnight and fly out in the morning when they had good light. “I wonder what this Colonel Robinson needs?”
Before Alma could answer, Iskinder and Mitch joined them, and a couple of soldiers hurried over to take the horses’ reins. Iskinder swung himself down with a grimace, and Mitch shook his head, freeing himself from the saddle with painful care. “Reckon I’m out of practice.”
Alma laughed, dismounting easily, patting the horse’s flank with what looked like genuine delight as the soldier led it awa
y. “I’ll probably regret it in the morning, but — thank you, Iskinder. That was an unexpected treat.”
“My pleasure.” Iskinder’s smile was genuine, but there was a sadness in his voice, and Alma touched his shoulder in apology.
“I’m sorry, Iskinder, I wasn’t thinking.”
Iskinder shook his head. “I’m being foolish. Did we all not learn to seize every moment the last time?”
Lewis’s attention sharpened, the words pricking at something ghosting in the air around them. But then it was gone, and a tall man in khakis and a leather jacket came striding toward them, Lieutenant Asha at his heels.
“Y’all must be Gilchrist Aviation.” Lieutenant Asha murmured something, and the tall man nodded. “And Ras Iskinder. I’m John Robinson. A pleasure to meet y’all.”
He looked purely Ethiopian, dark skin, sharp-boned face, tight-curled hair showing beneath the peaked uniform cap, the Lion of Judah embroidered on the front of his jacket, but his voice was pure American — pure Mississippi, Lewis thought, remembering what Asha had said back at the landing.
“That’s right,” Alma answered, and held out her hand. “Alma Gilchrist Segura. My partner, Mitchell Sorley, and my husband, Lewis Segura.”
Robinson blinked in turn, and something like a grin flickered across his face before he had himself under control again. As they all shook hands, Lewis thought he could like the man. “Welcome to Camp Coleman. Asha tells me you’re willing to consider selling me some spare parts.”
“If we can,” Alma answered. “We’re flying back to Cairo as soon as possible, and we can’t get caught short on that trip.”
“Absolutely not,” Robinson agreed.
“I also don’t know what we have that would be of use to you,” Alma said. “But I’m certainly willing to talk.”
“Why don’t you come into my office? We can have some coffee and talk about it. And of course you’re welcome to stay the night, we have space in the barracks at the moment.”
Robinson led them to a small building that had been added onto the back of the hangar. It was one long narrow room, with a curtain at the back to hide a bed, a desk in the middle covered with papers, and a collection of mismatched chairs in the area closest to the door. The floor was covered with bright red and blue carpets, and there was a stove to one side for warmth. An older woman was poking at the fire, and Asha said something to her. She nodded and took a basket down from a shelf, then began fussing with something that Lewis couldn’t quite see.
“Have a seat,” Robinson said again, and they settled themselves in a circle around a low table. Out of the corner of his eye, Lewis could see the woman toss several handfuls of what looked like beans into a long-handled skillet, and begin to shake them back and forth over the hottest part of the stovetop. “You probably saw, we have mostly two-seater reconnaissance planes here, fighter-bombers, but we also have some heavier transport aircraft — Fokker trimotors. I’m looking particularly for spare magnetos.”
Lewis looked at Alma, who cocked her head to one side as she considered. They had spares, of course, and it wasn’t like they’d be able to replace them in flight. If they made sure everything was good when they left, they could buy more spares once they reached Alexandria. Alma met his eyes, and he tipped his head forward: he was good with it.
“We have spares,” Alma said. “I haven’t yet checked out my engines, though as far as I can tell, everything was fine. I’m willing to sell you anything we don’t need, but first I have to make sure nothing needs replacing.”
Behind her, the woman was rattling the beans in the skillet, faster and faster, and the air smelled sharply of roasting coffee. Iskinder took a deep breath, his expression relaxing for just an instant.
“Fair enough,” Robinson said. “I can pay you in francs —”
“I’d rather trade for aviation gas,” Alma said. “I don’t need much, but I’d like to top off my tanks before we leave for Alexandria.”
Robinson pursed his lips. “Obviously, we’re always short ourselves, being out here pretty much in the middle of nowhere. And there’s the question of getting it back to your plane. But I could maybe spare you a couple of drums, and a cart to haul it.”
“It’s a deal, then,” Alma said, and held out her hand.
Robinson shook it. “Deal.”
“We can go back to the Cat tonight, check over the engines,” Alma began, and Lewis suppressed a sigh. He wasn’t enthusiastic about making the trek in the waning afternoon, or about all of them trying to sleep in the Cat — though he supposed they’d all fit in the cargo compartment well enough. “Or if you’re willing to trust us, we could send the spares back with the cart that brings the gas.”
Robinson looked over his shoulder. “Let’s have coffee first.”
The woman came forward with a tray that held half a dozen tiny china cups, jammed tightly together so that their edges touched, and what looked like a bowl of processed sugar and a bowl of raw sugar. She set that on the table, and returned with strange-looking pitcher, bulbous at the base, with a long, thin neck and an equally thin spout. She pushed back her sleeve and began to pour the coffee in a long stream, circling the pot over the cups until they were all filled.
“Lovely,” Iskinder said, reaching for the white sugar and adding a pinch to his cup. Asha did the same, his eyes slitting in bliss. Lewis reached for it next, and Robinson leaned forward.
“That’s salt,” he said.
“Salt?” Lewis felt his eyebrows rise.
“It’s an old-fashioned thing,” Iskinder said, and sound almost embarrassed. “I have missed it.”
Lewis met Robinson’s eyes, seeing the same amused disbelief lurking there. He reached for the sugar instead, and added a healthy dose. “Thanks.”
“You’re welcome —” Robinson broke off as the door opened, and another young soldier burst into the room.
“Colonel!” He stopped, his English visibly deserting him, and turned to Asha, nearly shouting. The language didn’t matter, Lewis could hear the fear in his voice.
“A radio message from Gondar, sir,” Asha said. His own voice wavered for just an instant. “They’ve spotted a flight of Italian bombers. Heading our way.”
“The Cat,” Lewis said, sharply, and saw the same fear in Alma’s eyes.
Robinson ignored them. “How far out? And how big a flight?”
Asha repeated the question, and this time the radioman answered in English. “Maybe twenty minutes. Four bombers plus escort.”
Robinson’s face tightened. “Get the Potez on the line — Two and Three, hold number One for me. Pilots — put Ezera and Gedeon in Three, Aman can take Two and pick his gunner.”
“Go,” Asha said, to the radioman, and looked at Robinson. “With permission, sir, I’d like one of the Breugeuets.”
Robinson nodded. “Go ahead.”
Four planes, Lewis thought. Four outdated fighters against the cream of the Italian Air Force, four bombers and an unknown number of fighters. The odds were horrendous.
“Colonel,” Mitch said. “Are you short planes or pilots?”
“Pilots.” Robinson looked toward the door. “This is my training camp, most of the boys here can just about keep themselves in the air.”
“Lewis and I are Great War vets,” Mitch said. “I have seven kills. Lewis has three, and I don’t know how many as an observer.”
Robinson gave them a speculative look. “The Italian planes are better than anything I have. You’ll be taking a huge risk.”
“We know,” Mitch said, with a wry smile. “We just came from an air show in Italy…”
“Our only way out of here is the Cat,” Lewis said. “If we can stop them here —”
“The best we can hope for is to divert them,” Robinson said sharply. “Keep them from tearing the place up so badly we can’t use it. Anything else is gravy. Either of you flown the Potez 25?”
“I have,” Mitch said. He looked at Lewis. “Before you came to Colorado.”
“Seven,” von Rosen said sharply, from the open door. “Colonel, give me a plane. You know I’m qualified.”
Robinson nodded. “All right. I’ll take all of you, but get this straight. I’m in charge here. If you don’t like it, you’re better off on the ground.”
“Understood,” Mitch said, and Lewis nodded.
Von Rosen dipped his head as well. “Agreed.”
“Colonel,” Iskinder said. “Are there any antiaircraft guns here?”
“We thought we were too far behind the lines,” Robinson answered. “If you want to unload some of those fancy guns you just brought up, feel free, but we’re heading out.”
Lewis caught Alma’s eye and smiled, no time to do anything more, and saw her nod. That was enough, her blessing and benediction, and he followed the others toward the hangar.
Robinson’s men were already hard at work, the first two machines running and ready to taxi, mechanics struggling with the others. As Lewis watched, a nice-looking Breugeut sputtered to life, Asha at the controls, and turned ponderously toward the hangar’s open door.
“Get Four and Five running,” Robinson called.
One of the mechanics waved his hand in answer, and von Rosen took a quick step forward. “The Breda — if I might?”
Robinson nodded. “I don’t have experienced gunners for you, but you can have the men I’ve got.”
Lewis glanced at the nearest Potez 25, saw the forward-mounted machine guns as well as the Lewis gun mounted on the rim of the observer’s cockpit, and shook his head. “I’d rather go alone.”
“Me, too,” Mitch said.
Von Rosen eyed the Breda. “I’ll take a gunner, thanks.”
Robinson gave the necessary orders, and a few moments later Lewis hauled himself into the Potez 25 marked with a single number five on the tail. He glanced quickly around the cockpit, finding the familiar controls: he’d never flown this particular plane, but he’d flown dozens like it; it wouldn’t take him long to get her measure, to know what he could do. At least there was radio, and he settled the headphones snuggly on his head, pulling the goggles down over them. He checked the forward guns, but left the safety on, then signaled for the nearest mechanic to swing the propeller. The engine sputtered and died. The mechanic hauled the prop around again, and this time the engine caught. Lewis adjusted the throttle, testing rudders and flaps, and saw Mitch in number four doing the same.
Oath Bound - Book V of The Order of the Air Page 24