by Alan Evans
Sarah’s lips twitched. “What did you expect? Somebody with a beard and a cutlass between his teeth? There’s only one man in the cab. Smith.”
Bradley stared down and the eyes below held his. He said, “On second thoughts, maybe …” He let the curtain fall and shrugged his broad shoulders so the muscles slid under the brown skin. Sarah watched him. He asked, “What does he want with me?”
“I don’t know. But he needs all the help he can get.”
“I’ll go along with you on that.” Bradley reached for his shirt and pulled it on. “Well. Let’s go see the little Admiral. Can’t do any harm.” He would remember the words with bitterness before long.
*
Smith saw Sarah returning with a tall man who, hat in hand, opened the shop door for her and handed her into the cab after speaking to the driver. The cab moved off.
Bradley sat beside Sarah, facing Smith. He eyed Smith with obvious interest and grinned broadly when he saw that interest returned. “From what I hear you’re in trouble up to your neck, Admiral, and sticking that neck out at this very moment.”
Smith saw he was bronzed with strong white teeth. Not handsome, but it was a good face with a reckless cut to it. Smith suspected this man would live up to first impressions, and hoped so. He said, “A man called Medina has a seaplane, or the Germans have one, I think it comes to the same thing. I also think you may know something about it.”
Bradley replied blandly, “No more than anybody else around here with a tongue in his head.” Then he added, “Provided they knew what they were talking about and listening to, Admiral.”
“And what did you see and hear?”
Bradley shrugged. “It’s a Curtiss twin-seater seaplane. Observer sits up front and the pilot behind him. Maximum speed around ninety knots.”
“The pilot told you this?”
“Richter? The hell he did! I’ve seen it and that’s enough. Richter told me he was a real flyer with combat experience, not a feller who found the money better or easier on the ground.” It was said easily and the half-grin was still there, but fixed.
Smith asked, “Where is it?”
“Just outside of town in a little inlet, really a wide creek. They’ve fixed up a hangar there.”
“Guarded?”
Bradley chuckled. “Who could steal a seaplane around here?”
Smith chuckled in his turn. Then he said. “You.”
Bradley straightened in his seat. “Me! Why should I —”
“To take me up. You can fly it?”
“How should I know?” Bradley glanced, amused, at Sarah, a glance easily interpreted: Mad or drunk! I’ll humour him.
Smith said, “I haven’t much time, Mr. Bradley. I think you can fly it, I think you know you can fly it. I think you are still in the service of the United States Government. I think that if you really wanted Richter’s job at any time then he would have a nasty fall or get caught up in some brawl so that the position would become vacant.”
Bradley laughed then looked serious. “You’re not thinking at all, Admiral. Plenty of people are saying you’re off your nut and I’m starting to agree with them.”
Sarah said quietly, harshly, “Jim!”
Bradley gripped her hand. “It happens, girl. Loneliness of command and all that.”
Smith said, “Take me up. You’re here to find out why that seaplane is here. Take me up and I’ll tell you.”
“How do you know?”
“I know.”
Bradley stared at him.
Sarah said, “You could do it, Jim. You said no one was there.”
He snapped at her, “That makes no difference. As soon as she takes off everybody in town will see her, and before that they’ll hear her. And you know one reason why nobody will be out there now? Because nobody in his right mind would take off in this weather.” And he thought that wasn’t half of it and Smith did not know the rest.
Smith said, “You mean Richter wouldn’t.”
Bradley replied grudgingly, “He would if he had to. Give the devil his due.”
“So it could be done.”
Sarah put in impatiently, “You’re not scared of a little bad weather!”
Smith swore under his breath. That was a dirty blow and if Bradley reacted and ditched them —
Bradley did not. He stared down at his hands that were clasped between his knees, fingers tight. “It’s not just a ‘little bad weather’. Maybe that’s what it is for the Admiral in his ship but that isn’t made out of plywood and canvas.” He paused, staring at Smith.
Smith asked again, “Take me up.”
Bradley muttered, “I’ll say one thing for you, Admiral: you never give up.” He was being driven into a corner and he was proud that he was so cool about it but he wondered how long he could keep that up. He backed further into the corner: “You were going to tell me why.”
Smith nodded. “Two German armoured cruisers have slipped the blockade in the North Sea and are heading for this coast. The seaplane is to scout for them.”
Bradley sat still. He said softly, “Jesus.” And then: “But why ship it out here? Why couldn’t these cruisers carry their own seaplanes?”
“There are numerous hazards in flying off and recovering seaplanes at sea. Whereas with a land-based aircraft?” He put it as a question and left it to Bradley to answer for himself. He finished with another: “And has Medina set up other bases as part of this proposed mail contract, like dumps of fuel and mooring facilities?”
Bradley nodded slowly. “That he has. Plenty.”
Smith went on, “There was a collier at Guaya that called herself neutral but was a tender for the cruisers.”
Bradley put in wryly: “I heard about her.”
“Another collier, the Maria, sailed from this port a little over nine hours ago. She’s gone to a rendezvous with the cruisers. She may have sailed south or west and I need to know which before I start to chase her. I need to know. Badly.” He did not say that he had offered Bradley a bargain and Bradley had taken his share. Bradley had not accepted the bargain, he was not even bound by his word. There was only an unspoken understanding between them.
A ghost of the grin returned to Bradley. “That Richter. Oh, boy!” He leaned out of the window of the cab, and Smith realised that all the time he had been noting with a part of his mind that the cab had walked steadily around the same four streets, around and around the block. But now as Bradley yelled up at the driver the whip cracked and the cab rocked as the horse broke into a trot. Bradley hung there for a moment, head and shoulders out of the window, feeling the wind on his face and not having to smile. He thought he had taken a step forward. Toward the edge of the plank.
*
Five minutes later the cab halted and they climbed down. Bradley paid the driver and told him to wait. They stood on a dirt road lined with trees but Bradley led them on a path into the trees and they followed its windings. In less than a minute they came to the little inlet. A large shed stood at the water’s edge. The sea broke gently in this inlet and washed in little ripples around their boots as they walked around to the front of the shed. The big doors were locked with two massive padlocks but Bradley fished a bunch of keys from his pocket, selected two and opened each lock and tossed it aside. He said solemnly, “Fitted myself up with the keys a coupla weeks back. Good idea to check up on your competitors’ stock once in a while.”
Smith replied equally seriously, “It does no harm. I believe the farm tool trade is very competitive.”
Bradley guffawed.
They pushed back the doors that concertinaed on themselves.
Bradley said, “And there she is. Single-engined biplane made of fabric an’ wood. Curtiss engine of one hundred and fifty horses, maximum speed ninety knots — but I told you that.” He rattled on but as he talked he swung up on a staging beside the engine, looking it over then checking the fuel. He dropped down and pushed the staging aside, hesitated a moment then said, “As I thought. She’s all r
eady to go.” One more step.
He glanced around, moved to one wall where two long, leather Flying coats hung from nails with leather flying helmets and goggles. He tossed one set at Smith who stood peering up at the flimsy aircraft where it stood on its bogey. They both dressed, took off their boots and pulled on the waders that lay by the wall, dropped the boots in the cockpits of the seaplane. Bradley said, “It’ll be cold up there.” And he shivered despite the coat and the closeness of the air in the shed. Smith noticed but said nothing.
The seaplane stood on a wide-wheeled bogey. As they shoved the bogey forward out of the shed and across the narrow strip of sand, a line attached to the float-struts snaked out behind them. Its other end was anchored in the shed. The bogey disappeared under the ripples that washed the beach. They pushed it another foot and the seaplane floated, lifted clear of the bogey and rose and fell gently to the wash of the waves under the floats and, under the wind’s urging tugged impatiently at the mooring line.
Bradley beckoned Sarah Benson and showed her the loop in the line where it was made fast to the float-strut. “When I lift my hand you pull that loop, the line comes free and she goes. Right?”
She nodded, eyes watching his face and worried now.
He turned away from that look and waded out to climb on to a float. Smith waded out after him. Bradley felt the wind thrusting at the seaplane and thrumming through the fabric. Little waves chased across the inlet. Beyond its mouth he could see the bay and the ships anchored there, a tramp and a liner and far out the ugly shape of a warship. The cloud ceiling was low and dark and clouds ran in on the wind. There was rain in the wind that touched cold on his face. He wondered if Smith really had any idea —?
Smith asked, “I have to swing the propeller?”
“That’s right.”
“I can do that.”
“Yeah?” Bradley reached up and clamped his hands on the side of the cockpit, staring at the fuselage inches before his face. Smith saw sweat standing on his face but Smith himself was sweating in the leather coat. Bradley said thickly, “I think in fairness I should tell you I flew one of these things into the sea a while back and I couldn’t face flying after that. So they sent me down on this job, where all I had to do was talk about it and know about it.” He licked his lips and went on: “I got as far as this because I thought I should fight it, give it another try; and because you’re in one hell of a mess. And because Sarah asked me.” He paused, then said, “I can’t do it.”
Smith could barely hear the words. He hesitated, weighing this new factor against his instinctive judgment of the man, weighing the possible gains against the possible loss if they went on, and in that mental exercise not overlooking the fact that loss might be his life. Then he decided that basically the situation was unchanged. He said, “I told you I have to know where that collier is. I think you can fly it.”
Bradley sighed. “Look. Have you ever flown in one of these things?”
“Once. A chap in the Naval Air Service took me up for a spin. Strictly against the rules, of course, but Tubby didn’t worry much about that sort of thing.”
Bradley said, “Uh-uh. So you had a joy-ride with friend Tubby. Great. He sounds like a great guy. But the way the weather is today —”
Smith said, “He was. I saw him killed a couple of days later, trying to take off in bad weather. Total loss.”
Bradley turned his head slowly to look at Smith. “Weather like this?”
“Yes.”
“You’re hell-bent on this.” Bradley whispered it. “But you know the odds and you think it’s worth the gamble?”
Smith nodded. “You’re a gambler.”
Bradley said bitterly, “It takes one to know one, Admiral.” And: “‘Can’t do any harm.’ Ha!” He splashed back to the shore where Sarah Benson waited, lifting the long tail of his coat as he went and digging into a trousers pocket. He brought out a wash-leather bag and dropped it, chinking heavily, into her hand. She held it, feeling the weight of the silver inside. He said, “The Bradley fortune. Hold on to it for me. And get the hell out of here as soon as we’ve gone.”
He stared at her seriously a moment then turned and splashed back to the seaplane and climbed into the cockpit, kicking his waders off into the water. He pulled on his boots and took the paper Smith handed him and looked at the course Smith had pencilled on it. He heard a voice outside himself calling instructions to Smith on the swinging of the propeller and was aware that his hands and feet and eyes were going through the cockpit check, the old routine, the movements of a puppet that he watched perk to the strings. He noted that the wind would be right on the nose so he could take off straight over the breakers and into the wind and the breakers looked huge out there away from the shore. This would be bad enough but coming back would be a bloody sight worse. If they came back.
The cloud ceiling was a thousand feet at most and there would be better than two hours of daylight left, maybe three. The rain was flighting heavier on the wind and looking out across the bay he could see the squalls running in, the rain painted dirty grey. He could see the ships and the squat, old, gun-bristling bulk of Thunder and the smoke that wisped from her funnels confirmed the direction of the wind for him.
He closed his eyes and saw the sea blurring below then rushing up at him and felt the shock and then the agony as the flames burst around him and the sea took fire — and he opened his eyes as the engine fired, caught and raced. Smith scrambled around and up into the observer’s cockpit forward and Bradley hated him. If Smith had not come this would not have happened. He could have been telling himself still that sure, he could do it if he wanted to and if the chance was there.
He could have been alive.
Smith was mad.
Oh. Sarah!
*
He ran the engine up for several minutes, sitting there, staring out to sea across five thousand miles. The snarl of the engine drowned the sound of the wind and the surf. It would be clearly heard, unmistakable, in Malaguay and Richter would already be running. The seaplane tugged on the anchoring line, fretting to be away.
Smith dragged on his boots and turned to stare at Bradley. The pilot had pulled his goggles down over his eyes and the light reflected from them so Smith could see no expression in the eyes nor was there any on the face below the goggles. Smith turned away.
Bradley knew he could wait no longer. He lifted his hand and felt the jerk of release as Sarah Benson set the seaplane free. They raced out across the breakers and he held the stick back so the floats would not dig into the breakers and cartwheel them, and with these big waves that would be easy. It was a question of getting the speed and judging it right and if you were wrong it was — bang! But the speed built up, he eased forward and the tail lifted and now the floats were smacking across the tops of the breakers with great thuds and the spray was bursting, tossed on the slipstream. He pulled back and they lifted off. The ships fell away beneath the lifting nose that pointed at the sky and all the sky was his.
Something burst inside him and the seaplane rocked and yawed under his hands until he brought it under control, the master once more. He reached forward and nudged Smith who had been peering over the side, seeing Ariadne slip beneath them, a pale speckle of white faces against the yellow timber of her decks. Then he caught the movement at the corner of his eye and turned to see Bradley laughing like a maniac. Smith laughed with him.
Bradley wheeled the seaplane in a gently-climbing, banking turn then levelled off and straightened out on course just below the cloud base, at a height of a little under one thousand feet. The course was west.
It was cold. Smith was glad of the leather coat and wished fervently that he had worn sea-boots with thick stockings. He moved his feet continually to try to keep them warm. These were sensations forced upon his attention by his protesting body. He acknowledged the protest but then ignored it, had no time for it. He had flown once before and so knew what to expect but was still fascinated by the panorama opening
swiftly below him like the unrolling of a huge chart. The sea was a white cross-hatching on green, the coast-line ragged brown and a deeper green and fading behind them as their course took them out to sea. The cloud base kept them comparatively low but still visibility was a good fifteen to twenty miles in any direction. At sea level in this weather he would be lucky to have half of that visibility. And they were making four or five times Thunder’s best speed.
He was still afraid. He remembered the crash of the Naval Air Service seaplane only too well and not only because it had cost him a friend and he knew he had few friends. But Bradley had survived a crash like that and yet was flying again. He marvelled at the man’s courage.
Bradley flew straight and level on the course for a halfhour then banked gently to the left on the first leg of a series of zig-zags, each leg ten miles long, working up the line of the course. They searched like that for more than an hour and in all that time they saw only two ships. Bradley took the seaplane down in a shallow dive to investigate each of them, sweeping low overhead and circling close, just skimming the surface of the sea so they could read the name on bow and stem. Neither was the Maria. But when Bradley lifted the seaplane from the sea to slip bellowing over the bow of one of them he set a seaman running in blind panic. Bradley roared with laughter.
He finally reached forward and held out a note-book to Smith. Bradley had printed neatly: We’re making about seventy knots over the ground. Maria could not have passed this point. Light is going. Must turn back.
He took it back from Smith and watched the thin face, pale where it was not blue with cold, for a shadow of disappointment. He saw none. Smith nodded and put up his thumb.
Smith had found out what he wanted to know but he was not happy. He had gambled with Bradley’s life because he had to, because of Wolf and Kondor, and the game was not over yet. They had to get back and Bradley was flying for their lives while Smith, the cause of it all, was a useless passenger.