The King sighed. ‘The glow of our recent victory will soon fade, and the morale of the Kingdom will not remain as high as it is for very long. As the war drags on, and we inevitably face setbacks, the people will need something, a symbol on which to pin their hopes, and currently that is Misfit Squadron. I know this request is distasteful to you and you are disdainful of being in the public eye, but I hope you’ll agree that it is necessary.’
Abby nodded reluctantly; unfortunately, he was right on all counts. ‘Yes, sir, I do.’
‘Excellent.’ The King clapped his hands and stood up, causing the rest of the people in the room to scramble to their feet. ‘Your orders will be made official and sent to you in good time by Sir Douglas and Mr Cummerbund, but count on leaving in the first week or two of October.’
‘Very good, sir.’
The King began to make his way from the room, but stopped and turned back to her, very nearly causing the Marshal, who had been following him too closely, to bump into him. ‘Will you stay to partake of a little refreshment? I know that Elizabeth in particular would be overjoyed to hear about your new aircraft and I believe Mr Joyce is here tonight, I’m sure he would like to know how you’re finding his new springs.’
Abby smiled and nodded. ‘I would be delighted, thank you, sir.’
‘Excellent!’
Abby dropped back to let her superiors go first and Dorothy Campbell fell in by her side as they followed a respectful few yards behind the dignitaries.
‘That ribbon looks good on you, Dame Lennox. Congratulations.’
Abby chuckled softly. ‘Thank you. You know better than anyone that I’ve never done this for the medals and the accolades, but I have to admit it is rather fetching.’
‘Don’t let it go to your head; I’ve seen favourites come and go in this place, although you’re lasting far longer than most.’
‘I won’t, don’t worry.’
‘Good.’ Campbell gave Abby a warm smile before turning serious. ‘It looks like we’re going to be working together again, Abby. So, how are you really getting on with your repairs? Please tell me that you were exaggerating for the big men and that you’re actually only a few days away from being ready.’
Abby shook her head. ‘I’m afraid not, Dot. I was actually being truthful.’
‘Drat. Oh well, what the King said about being able to complete the job on the way is true, but I would have liked you to have time to make at least some improvements, despite what he said.’
‘So would I; we have to keep getting better if we’re going to stay ahead of the Barons.’
‘I know. But what I don’t know is if you’ll ever be given the chance.’
Abby frowned and looked at her. ‘What do you mean?’
Campbell glanced meaningfully in the direction of the Minister for War. ‘Ever since his promotion, Cummerbund has been very vocal in his opposition to Misfit Squadron and what he sees as the King’s unwarranted and dangerous dependence on them. It’s making him rather unpopular with the people, but he is gathering some support in the House.’
‘Support for what?’
‘To supply you with Harridans or Spitsteams, turn you into a regular squadron and stop wasting British funds and resources on something that he insists Britain doesn’t need.’
‘But that’s... can’t he see that...’ Abby stumbled to a halt and Campbell stopped with her. ‘Why is he doing that?’
The woman shrugged. ‘Politics. He’s much more powerful opposing the King than blindly following and since you’re the King’s pet project he’s attacking him through you. A failure in Russia, or even just a perceived failure, will give him an excuse to shut you down and the King will be powerless to stop him.’
‘But doesn’t the King have the final say in this kind of thing?’
‘Under normal circumstances, yes, but these aren’t exactly normal circumstances, are they?’ Campbell smiled wryly and motioned for them to start walking again before the others got too far ahead. ‘It was the King who insisted on sending the British Exploration Force to France and Parliament weren’t exactly pleased as to how that turned out, so he’s having to do things he wouldn’t ordinarily, merely to keep them happy.’
‘Second-guessing the King isn’t going to help us win the war!’ Abby hissed keeping half an eye on Cummerbund, to make sure he wasn’t trying to overhear them.
‘I agree.’ The Sky Commodore nodded earnestly. ‘But as I said - it’s politics. Anyway, I’ll be popping by to brief your squadron before we leave, we’ll have a nice chat then. For now, try to enjoy your night and be nice to as many people as you can; you never know when you might need a friend.’
They had reached their destination and Campbell stopped just out of earshot of the guards at the door and leaned in to give Abby a peck on the cheek. ‘Don’t worry, we’ll get through this.’
‘Through what? The war? The mission to Muscovy? The War Minister’s idiocy?’ Abby glanced into the large reception room and grimaced; it was filled with people, soft and unobtrusive classical music, fake laughter and even faker smiles. ‘Or just the evening?’
‘All of it.’ The Sky Commodore laughed gently and gave Abby a pat on the arm, then wandered into the room, already calling out a greeting to a group of people, who looked inordinately pleased to see her.
Abby watched her friend speaking to the courtiers for a few seconds, making them laugh, seeming totally at home and wondered how the awkward woman, who’d been assigned to help her put together Misfit Squadron because nobody else had wanted her, had become so comfortable in such a setting. The two of them had always looked on in horror as the officers around them had played the popularity game, but it seemed that it was a skill that she was going to have to develop, and as quickly as possible, if Misfit Squadron was going to survive the war.
Not for the first time did she wish that she was just a pilot again; things were much simpler in the air. That wasn’t possible, though, so she sighed and plastered what she hoped wasn’t too gormless a smile on her face, then went to follow her friend’s example.
It was approaching midnight and the city was pitch black when Abby left the Palace, absolutely exhausted, heading for The Dorchester, where she was staying the night before flying back to Bagshot Hall in the morning.
The reception had turned out to be quite pleasant, not nearly as bad as she had feared it would be, and the conversations with Mr Joyce and Princess Elizabeth had indeed been enjoyable - the Princess had actually volunteered to fill the empty slot in the squadron and Abby had had to turn her down, not because she wouldn’t have fit in or wasn’t a fantastic pilot, but rather because she was only fourteen years old. She hadn’t been able to fully enjoy herself, though, because of the shadow of the impossible mission in Russia, or rather Muscovy, that was now hanging over her squadron’s heads.
It was thoughts of that which kept her awake well into the wee hours of the morning, despite her tiredness, and then, when she did finally get to sleep, her dreams were haunted by visions of a thin man in a black suit with severely parted hair and a disparaging scowl.
Chapter 4
It seemed to Gwen that she had only been asleep for minutes when she was rudely shaken awake.
She opened her eyes and looked up at the dim shape hovering over her. ‘Wha... Kitty? What is it? Waddya want?’
There was a laugh, a very masculine, very melodious Welsh laugh. ‘Sorry to disappoint you, Gwen, but it’s me, Owen.’
Gwen didn’t particularly enjoy being dragged abruptly from a deep sleep, but she had to admit that the man’s lilting voice wasn’t the worst way to be woken up. ‘What is it? Is it Abby? Has something happened?’
‘Nothing like that, don’t you worry, it’s just that there’s been a request for our services.’
The thought of a mission, of getting up into the air and into combat, immediately brought Gwen to full consciousness and she sat up with a jerk. ‘What is it?’
Owen pointedly looked away when the s
heets fell away from Gwen, revealing her sheer silk nightie. ‘Um... Get some clothes on and I’ll fill you in on the way to the airfield. I’ve got an autocar waiting for us at the front door. Quick as you can, mind you.’
The light coming from the corridor outside the room briefly dazzled Gwen when Owen went out of the door and she blinked rapidly as she swung her legs out of the bed and started getting changed, but she froze at Kitty’s annoyed growl from across the room. ‘Have fun, you lucky, lucky, b...’
‘Go back to sleep and stop being so jealous,’ Gwen said, cutting her off with a chuckle. ‘I’ll let you risk your life next time.’
She grabbed her shoes and padded towards the door, but she stopped when a hand reached out to grab hers.
‘Please be careful.’
Gwen stared down at the young woman. Gone was any pretence at envy and in its place was genuine worry that made Gwen’s heart swell with affection.
Even though the two of them had spent hours working together in the design shed there hadn’t been many opportunities for them to speak about their feelings, mostly because Gwen had engineered it that way. However, she’d seen the looks that Kitty continually shot her way, had noticed the excuses the woman found to be near her, or that she never lost any opportunity to make some kind of physical contact, no matter how insignificant, and Gwen was all too aware of how the American made her feel in return, often finding herself staring at her while she was supposed to be working. She still had serious doubts about whether she wanted another relationship, though, especially one where she might have to watch her partner die in battle. Her heart hadn’t received the message her brain was sending, though, and it was pounding loudly in her ears as she looked down at the American.
‘I will, don’t worry.’ Her voice cracked and she bit her lip as she was drawn into the blue skies of the woman’s eyes.
Scarlet chose that very second to snort and roll over and Gwen started and guiltily looked over at her. The Irishwoman didn’t wake and immediately went back to her snoring, but the moment was lost, so Gwen just smiled down at Kitty, gave her hand a squeeze, then left.
The autocar Owen had appropriated wasn’t one of the squadron’s boringly practical vehicles, but rather one of Lord Bagshot’s collection, an open-topped two-seater spring-powered sports autocar, as responsive and agile as Wasp, and Owen sent it careening along the road towards the airfield without any headlamps, relying only on the light from the full moon to see by.
Gwen found the ride exhilarating, but she tried to keep her mind on the job at hand instead of just sitting back and enjoying herself. ‘So, what’s the flap about? Why did you wake me at this godawful awful hour of the morning?’ She peered at the clock on the dashboard of the autocar. ‘Bloody hell, Owen, did you know it’s two in the morning?’
Owen laughed and spoke to her without taking his eyes from the road. ‘Sorry to disturb your beauty sleep, Gwenevere, but early warning detected a raider heading towards the south coast ten minutes ago and they want us to have a crack at taking him down.’
‘Don’t they already have other squadrons flying night interceptions?’
The Prussians had all but abandoned their daylight bombing raids and were instead sending smaller groups, and in some cases isolated aircraft, against strategic targets during the night. The RAC in turn was trying to intercept these aircraft, but with wildly varying degrees of success.
‘Of course and they’ve managed to bring down a few bombers, but this is one slippery Flea, apparently - he’s been coming over for the last ten nights to bomb London, taking off from somewhere around Dieppe and crossing the coast over Eastbourne - he’s arrogant enough that he takes the same route every time. Fighter Command have sent pilots up after him every time he’s appeared, but either they fly around for hours unable to find him, or they do, and he shoots them down. We’ve lost three Harrys and a Spit to him so far, apparently.’
‘What? Really?’ Gwen blinked, not sure she had heard correctly.
Owen nodded with a grimace. ‘They think we might be dealing with someone flying a purpose-designed machine, something like Dreadnought - heavily armed and armoured and with an unusually large load.’
There was no time for Owen to say anything more because they had already reached the airfield. They went through the gate in the fence, which was held open for them by two Military Guards and straight across the grass field, ignoring the perimeter track. There was a slight chink in the blackout curtains on the hangar and a red light came through it, revealing the presence of fitters working to ready aircraft, but aside from that the base was deserted.
The early autumn night air was cold and Gwen was shivering slightly in the light clothing that was all that she had taken time to grab, so she hopped out and ran through the ready room, straight into the changing room as soon as the autocar stopped. She started getting into her flight suit as quickly as she could, joined seconds later by Owen, who began to do the same.
He grinned at her enquiring look and shrugged. ‘You don’t think you’re the only one getting to have some fun tonight, do you? I’m going up with you to guide you onto the bomber.’
‘Good. Anything that helps me take him down.’ Gwen paused as something occurred to her. ‘Oh, uh, by the way, I keep meaning to ask you - has this been cleared with Abby? And why me?’
Owen grinned. ‘No need to bother her with something like this, right? And besides, I’m second-in-command, so I’m in charge when she's not here - if she didn't want me using my authority, then she shouldn't have given it to me.’
Gwen laughed. ‘That’s good enough for me.’
‘And as for why I chose you, well, I thought you’d welcome a bit of excitement for a change.’
‘Thank you, I think.’
Owen laughed at her doubtful expression and they both looked up as a sleepy steward, who Gwen recognised from the officer’s mess at Badger Base, knocked then came straight in with some steaming mugs of tea and bacon sarnies.
Even with a few seconds wasted on wolfing down the food and drink, they were both ready in less than five minutes and they grabbed their gloves and helmets and went back out into the night, running blindly towards where they knew the hangar was, blinking furiously to try to get their night vision back.
They pushed through the curtains and came across a frantic scene as the fitters of both Wasp and Bloodhound raced through final preparations, one group loading ammunition into Wasp’s guns and putting a last few turns on her spring, while a second group pushed the other aircraft to the side to make room for Owen’s large radar-equipped machine to leave the hangar.
Abby’s fitter, the grey-haired veteran Aviator Sergeant Jenkins, latched closed the trapdoor on the ammunition loading bay in Wasp’s right wing and looked up as she ran over. ‘You’re fully loaded with armour piercing rounds and ready to go, ma’am.’
‘Thank you, Sergeant.’
Gwen climbed up onto the wing then stepped into the cockpit and dropped onto her seat. She began to plug herself into her machine, placing the communications jack into its socket on the right side of her seat before reaching down to plug her suit into the combination heater and oxygen apparatus under her seat, adjusting the controls on the panel to her left and sending a warm flow of air around her suit to remove the chill that she was still feeling. She turned on her radio and as soon as it came alive, she tuned it to the squadron frequency. While she tightened her straps and began running her final checks on the controls and instruments, she listened to Owen as he spoke to Fighter Command from his cockpit.
‘...airborne in two minutes, report status of intruder, please.’
‘Bandit is holding course three four zero at angels five, ten miles off Eastbourne, over.’ Tophat was the sector station at RAC Kenley - the Misfits had been placed under their control when they’d moved.
‘Acknowledged, Tophat. Badger Leader out.’
Gwen smirked at Owen’s usurping of Abby’s call sign as she did her checks, then looked over at
Jenkins, who was waiting for her to finish. She gave him the thumbs up, which he immediately returned, then they both looked to Bloodhound, waiting for the order to go.
Owen finished his preparations just after her, his big engines roaring into life as the water within them reached the boiling point and excess pressure was released with a gout of steam that billowed upwards in a thick cloud that burst when it hit the roof of the hangar. His fitter gave the necessary signals and the red lights were dimmed to almost nothing as the curtains were drawn back and the two machines were pushed out into the night.
The wind was in their favour, so Owen lost no time in turning onto the airfield and piling on full power, but Gwen held back, giving him a good head start before doing the same, not wanting to run into him in the dark.
In a surprisingly short time, the long wings of Bloodhound caught enough air to lift off, the four hugely powerful engines powering it rapidly to a speed that was only just shy of what the biplanes of A flight had been capable of, and it soared into the sky.
The Russian Resistance Page 7