Ed hung up. “Yes, you’re flying the Puget mission. We couldn’t wait on Calgary; we’ve had heavy losses in New Manhattan.” He grimaced and tossed the pencil aside. “No one will be able to say we’re not giving Pierce a chance to surrender.”
If she did, they wouldn’t load that bomb onto the plane and our plan would be ruined. “Fingers crossed.” I hesitated, my pulse pounding. “What’s…what’s happening in New Manhattan?”
“Nothing good, I’m afraid. Pierce has bombed both airports. Pilots are dropping like flies.”
I felt faint. Not propaganda then. Why hadn’t Ingo refused to fly, so that I could have had him arrested? The cold certainty that our goodbye had been final came back and fear rocked me. With a fierce effort, I buried it deep.
“You’ll be taking off tomorrow afternoon, so you have time to rest up,” Sheridan was saying. He rose. “Shall I have someone show you to a guest room?”
I managed a smile, though we’d counted on my leaving at first light, before anyone from Corporate on the east coast had a chance to get in touch.
“Yes, thanks,” I said, rising too.
“Nolan wished you luck, by the way,” Sheridan added. “He said to tell you that we’re all counting on you.”
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
June, 1943
Mac slowly hung up the phone. He scraped a hand over his jaw and looked out the window.
He was in one of the bedrooms of the Grand Hotel in New Manhattan. He blindly studied the devastated airfield a few blocks away – the scraps of metal that used to be Firedoves. At least a third of the Doves had been in for refuelling when the bombs had hit.
But now, gazing out at it, all Mac could see was a mental image of a mushroom cloud.
When Amity had relayed the news through Sheridan, Mac had struggled to keep his tone steady. Still shaken, he glanced at his watch. All right, focus. It might be too late to save hundreds of thousands, but millions more were still at risk. If Ed Sheridan up there in Harmony Five took it into his head to call back in the next hour, he had to be ready to field it. After that, their sympathetic switchboard operator would finish her shift and they were in the hands of fate.
Mac sat in a plush armchair in the almost empty hotel, smoking a cigarette. Distantly, the sound of aerial battle came from the central part of the island. He rubbed his forehead, remembering.
Over twelve hours ago, with eight hours spare before the earliest he could expect Sheridan’s call, he’d gone down to the airfield, where fitters were readying the planes in the faint light of near-dawn.
“Anything I can do to help?” he’d asked the squadron leader. Fern Bradshaw, read her name tag.
“Who are you?” she asked distractedly, studying a clipboard.
She looked a little like Sephy. “Mac Jones, WU,” he said, showing his ID.
“No unauthorized personnel.”
Mac shrugged tensely. “Come on, I hear Pierce is going to hit hard. Willing pair of hands, right?”
Fern hesitated, studying him. Finally she said, “Help the fitters. Do whatever they tell you. And try not to get hit by a prop blade.”
Barely an hour later, Pierce attacked. The work at the airfield became frenzied. Dressed in a blue jumpsuit, Mac had rushed food and coffee over to refuelling pilots; taken tools to the fitters; anything. He kept a sharp eye on the aerial battle, over the northern part of the city – if it drew too close, he’d have to take cover.
The bombs came out of nowhere. Suddenly the pavement had wrenched and buckled in fountains of concrete. The airfield became a turmoil of flames – screams – planes exploding one after the other. Mac dived for the ground and scrambled under a truck as a trio of Scorps flew low, strafing everything in sight.
When the drone of retreating airplanes faded, Mac crawled hastily out. Shouts of “Medic!” echoed. Pilots and fitters pelted from all directions towards the hit planes and the wounded. Mac’s blood beat hotly. He ran for a jeep that had taken a hit; he could see someone in it.
Fern Bradshaw lay slumped across the seat, eyes open, her torso sodden with blood. Mac stopped short, stricken.
“Ah, hell,” he murmured. This time her resemblance to Sephy chilled him. Mac took her pulse but knew it was pointless. He gently laid her hand back on her stomach.
Then he realized. “Oh, shit,” he breathed.
The airfield was still chaos; sirens bleated through the air. Mac turned hastily and saw a tall, scarred pilot racing past, heading for a plane.
“Ingo!” he bellowed, taking off after him. Ingo glanced back and stopped; his eyes widened.
Mac reached him and said shakily, “Listen, we’ve got a problem, pal. What happens when the squadron leader dies?” He nodded back at the jeep.
Ingo froze, gaping. Then he swore and broke into a sprint with Mac at his heels. They reached the jeep. Ingo winced at the sight of Fern’s limp form. He tried her pulse too, then straightened slowly, staring down at her.
He closed his eyes and ran a hand down his face. After a moment he seemed to steel himself.
He glanced towards the office. “Come on,” he said, clapping Mac’s arm, and they ran, Mac taking three steps to every two of Ingo’s.
They burst inside. “Give me the mic,” Ingo said to the man at the desk. The guy started to protest, then saw his expression.
“Get the hell under cover until you get that phone call,” Ingo muttered to Mac as he sat down. “I’d rather not have Amity arrested because you’ve gotten yourself killed.”
Mac stared at him, a sudden suspicion forming. “Yeah, you’re right,” he said slowly. “But, buddy…”
Ingo’s thin lips looked grim. He flipped a switch, glancing out at the field.
“What happens is that I become the new squadron leader,” he said. “Did you hear me? Take cover, Mac – now.”
When the hour of waiting was over, the black, boxy telephone had remained silent. Mac exhaled and rose.
So far so good then. They had to pray now that Sheridan and Blunt didn’t contact each other before the second scheduled strike tomorrow – Mac’s switchboard contact wasn’t at work the next day. Originally, they’d thought the danger slim, with Amity leaving the facility so early. But if she somehow gave herself away during her wait, Sheridan would call, all right.
Stay tough, kiddo – you can do it, he thought.
The sound of a nearby explosion hurtled him back to the here and now. He bolted from the room and rushed down to the lobby. “What’s been going on?” he asked a WU guard.
Apparently Ingo had commandeered the broad parking lot of Henderson Square Garden as an impromptu airport. Mac made his way to it, jogging through the empty city streets to the sound of the shriek of engines, the rattle of gunfire.
He arrived close to sunset. No sign of Ingo, but Mac was given one of the trucks and told to keep an eye on the ongoing battle – to go out and find bailed WU pilots and bring them in.
On his third trip back, Ingo was just climbing out of his Dove, wincing. Mac went over. “You okay?”
Ingo nodded shortly; they moved away from the plane as fitters raced up. “Couple of broken ribs from a few weeks ago,” he said. “Did you get the call from Sheridan?”
“Wouldn’t be here otherwise. She’s there, buddy,” Mac added, gripping Ingo’s arm. “She’s okay.”
Ingo visibly relaxed a fraction and squeezed his temples. “Thank you,” he said softly.
Mac started to tell him about Calgary, then changed his mind. Ingo didn’t need to know right now that over two hundred thousand people had died – that the woman he loved was in even more danger than before.
As if validating Mac’s choice, Ingo glanced behind him as someone shouted, “Squadron Leader Manfred!”
Already looking distracted, he paused briefly before starting off. “Are you staying?”
“With your permission, sir,” Mac said, and Ingo gave a faint grin at that.
“Go to hell. And stay, please. We need the help.”
He sat on the Garden’s front steps, watching the action – wishing he could do more before the battle hit again.
Mac glanced at his watch and then up at the lightening sky. Not much longer, probably.
A young English pilot came and sat next to him. He was fidgeting, drinking a cup of coffee as he watched the fitters. “Thanks for the lift last night,” he said to Mac.
“Anytime,” said Mac. “Percy, right? How’s your arm?” A fresh bandage was on the guy’s left forearm; it had been bleeding the last time Mac saw it.
Percy snorted slightly. “The medics said my wound had opened up…it feels ridiculously trivial, if you want the truth.” He shook his head, gazing around them. Perhaps fifty pilots were milling in the broad space. “Not enough of us,” he murmured.
The day before had seen dozens of deaths. Ingo had somehow kept morale going. Mac had no idea how. The guy had helped gravely injured pilots from their planes while keeping a level, joking tone; gone up time and again himself, despite his broken ribs.
Mac saw Harlan then, sitting on his own, his expression stony as he watched the planes being prepared. Percy followed his gaze. “Poor bugger,” he said softly.
Mac glanced at him. “Why?”
“Lost his girlfriend of over two years a couple of months back. In a bombing raid. It was, um…quite a bad one.” Percy grimaced then and looked down at his coffee, swirling it. The laugh-lines at the corners of his eyes looked incongruous on his tired, drawn face.
Mac’s gaze returned to Harlan as he winced, thankful that Sephy was safe in Nova Scotia. Yes, and what the hell was he doing, still here risking his life in this place, when she was pregnant? He’d lost his own dad when he was eleven. He wanted to be a father to his kid.
Yet looking around him at the too-few pilots and the makeshift airfield, Mac knew he couldn’t leave.
Later, as the pilots started gearing up, Mac hesitated and went over. Harlan froze when he saw him, one arm through his parachute strap.
Mac cleared his throat. He put his hand out. “Listen, Mr Taylor…I’ll understand if you don’t want to shake my hand. But I wanted to tell you I’m sincerely sorry for your loss.”
Harlan’s expression darkened. He finished putting his arm through the strap and didn’t answer.
Get out of here, Jones, you’re making it worse. Mac let his hand fall. “Well…good luck up there.”
When he’d taken a few steps away, a gruff voice said, “Wait.”
Mac turned. Harlan came over and regarded him for a moment, his blunt, handsome face grim. “Her name was Vera Kelly,” he said. “She was one of the pilots you saved on the Western Seaboard base.”
“Collis saved you, not me,” said Mac. “He told me not to choose you.”
Harlan grimaced at this. “Yeah,” he said finally. “Anyway…she forgave you for what you did. When she knew the truth. I don’t. But I thought you might like to know.”
Mac’s throat tightened. “Thank you,” he said quietly.
Harlan nodded. He gave a faint smile. “She was always a lot nicer than me.” He turned away and walked to his plane, holding his helmet in one hand.
Three hours later, Harlan Taylor was dead.
He was one of dozens more WU pilots who died that day, defending the island and its people. Mac wasn’t the one who found him. He got to the downed WU plane after the medics and scrambled out of his jeep amidst the wails of sirens and the thud of artillery from overhead.
From the set of the medics’ shoulders as they rested the pilot on a stretcher, he knew it was already too late.
Mac stopped short at the sight of Taylor’s still features. He lay staring up at the battle. Then a medic drew a blanket over him.
Sorrow wrenched Mac’s gut.
“Ah, hell, buddy…I’m sorry,” he muttered.
Later that day, he brought in a European Alliance pilot with red-rimmed eyes.
“I saw him go down,” she said, huddled in the corner of the jeep. “I…I knew from the hit he’d taken that he wouldn’t make it. I was going for a bomber – he held off a pair of Scorps that had ganged up on me.” She stared blindly out the window. “The big jerk saved my life.”
Mac hardly even knew what he said – something he hoped was soothing. Empty fucking words. They pulled into the Garden with only the sound of battle overhead.
As the pilot got out she gazed over at the waiting planes and added, “You know…a group of us played poker together sometimes.” She glanced back and gave Mac a wan smile. “Harlan kept promising that he’d make us some of his rotgut to drink.”
Mac sat where he was after she’d left. The medics’ truck was parked not far away, its back doors open. Several blanket-covered bodies lay inside.
Mac somehow knew one was Taylor – and remembered the burly pilot saying of Vera, She was always a lot nicer than me.
Abruptly, Mac slammed the jeep in reverse and glanced behind him, one arm across the top of the seat. “Yeah, you were wrong about yourself, pal,” he murmured aloud to Taylor. “I think you were probably pretty okay too.”
The summer day burned as bombs rained on the city. Mac found and brought in what pilots he could. Around three o’clock, a plane went down in flames in Centre Park. When Mac reached it, the pilot was Ingo. He’d been grazed by a bullet, leaving the right arm of his shirt soaked in blood, and seemed to have cracked another rib.
As Mac drove him back to the Garden, Ingo sat clutching his side, not speaking, his face deathly pale.
Mac glanced at him. “Listen, buddy – suggestion? Maybe you shouldn’t just tape yourself up and go right back into battle.”
“Shut up, Mac,” said Ingo in a low voice.
Mac knew better than to push it. He glanced overhead, keeping a wary eye on the sky as he hurtled them through the potholed streets. Ingo sat with his head back against the seat, his eyes closed. Mac thought for a second he’d passed out.
“They’ve got to be okay,” he murmured.
“Amity and Collis?”
Ingo rubbed his temples. “Yes, them, of course. But I meant everybody who’s left.” The news of Taylor’s death earlier had hit him hard. He let his hand fall, looking twenty years older than he was, and gave Mac a faint smile.
“I can see now why I’ve never wanted to be in charge,” he said. “I feel personally responsible for every one of them.”
The medics had set up a station inside the Garden. Mac left Ingo getting his ribs and arm seen to, and left to go after another pilot – one of Pierce’s this time, a scared-looking kid who put up no resistance when Mac turned him over to the WU police.
When Mac returned to the Garden, he saw Ingo talking urgently on the shortwave wireless that had been set up in one corner, his shirt open over his taped ribs, his curls chaotic. Something in his expression made Mac go over.
Ingo was just signing off when Mac reached him. Ingo stared at him as if he didn’t know who he was. “Keaton’s surrendered,” he said.
Mac stared. “Keaton? What about Pierce?”
“They haven’t heard from her. It came through Keaton. A nuclear bomb was dropped on Calgary yesterday.”
“I know,” Mac admitted. “Amity saw it. They were still planning to bomb Puget today when she got to the factory.”
Ingo stared at him. All at once he got up in a flurry and headed for the door. Mac followed him outside. They stood looking up at the sky, Ingo clutching his taped ribs, his breathing too shallow. Scorps and Doves were still battling above the buildings. Even with no bombers in sight, the orders now seemed to be to destroy the New Manhattan air power.
Numb, Mac pushed a hand through his hair. “So…it’s really almost over?” In terms of this city, he could only be glad – but if Atomic Harmony Device
s didn’t load that last nuke onto the bomber, any chance to end those things for good would vanish.
“I don’t know,” said Ingo, his expression taut. “Yes, I think so. The Can-Amer pilots don’t seem to know yet – they could be out of range.” He shot a frustrated glance at the battered Firedoves in the parking lot – the fitters were repairing several.
Suddenly Ingo glanced at his watch and then at Mac, fear in his dark eyes.
“Amity,” he said in a rush. “She’s still there, isn’t she? If she’s only supposed to be dropping one bomb, she wouldn’t have left as early as we thought.”
Mac winced. “I’m sorry, pal. I didn’t tell you yesterday, because—”
“Skip it! They could know by now the whole thing was a ruse – what happens to her then?” Ingo grimaced and swiped at his mouth. “No, don’t even answer that.”
Mac kept quiet, his own thoughts grim. Using deceit to get hold of a nuclear weapon in wartime… Amity would be arrested and court-martialled for treason. The penalty for treason was death.
Ingo stood beating a fist against his palm, the expression on his half-scarred face hyped-up, borderline violent.
“Buddy…” Mac started helplessly.
They both looked up as a fitter called over that a plane was ready. Ingo at first stared at the woman as if he hadn’t understood, then shuddered and visibly steeled himself.
A second later he was running towards her, buttoning his shirt over his taped-up ribs. Mac followed. Ingo winced, still paper-pale as he put on his parachute.
Mac didn’t tell him that he shouldn’t be flying in his condition. Ingo knew that. Mac watched, his fists tight in his pockets, as Ingo yanked on his helmet, staring up at the too-many remaining Scorps. A Dove took a hit as they watched.
“Once this is over, it’s finished for good,” Ingo muttered – and Mac guessed he was thinking of those pilots he felt personally responsible for.
Gunfire echoed above. Ingo climbed onto the wing, wincing, and slid into the cockpit. Watching him, thinking of the dozens who’d died these last twenty-four hours – Harlan, Fern, so many others – Mac’s chest felt made of lead.
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