Chapter Twenty-Seven

When Hildegard reached ten thousand feet, Alec finally realized what had happened.

He laughed. That sound was part surprise and part relief at being free and alive. His body still buzzed, and he was a little bit inebriated from being shot at repeatedly and surviving. His head ached; he struggled with disbelief. He owed the victory not to his own skill, but to the woman in the seat behind him.

He reached a hand over his shoulder.

Ellenor found it immediately. He squeezed her fingers: Damn brilliant work, old girl.

She squeezed back.

Alec wanted nothing more than to land, spin around, and embrace her. He would kiss her with the full force of his emotions, the good and bad alike, and to hell with the rest of the world and its petty dip-shit bickering. But it was still foreign territory down there. Monsters still lurked. He could not risk putting down.

A small part of him actually felt bad for the German, who’d been caught by surprise in the middle of what he assumed was a truce. Had Ellenor violated an unspoken rule of warfare that would one day come back and demand some kind of karmic recompense? Perhaps. But not today.

He laughed again. Strapped to his seat, there was nothing else he could do.

The wind blew from the northwest, guiding them naturally southeast. Alec settled Hildegard into a steady rhythm in that direction, worrying about her injuries but unable to assess them in the dark. Liberated from her payload, she flew lighter. Still, her dual tanks would be nearly depleted by the time dawn arrived. Until then, Alec would ferry them across Germany, keeping the western Front on his right, reaching for whatever waited beyond.

****

Ellenor reclined in the observer’s seat, wrapped in blankets and scarves. Only her eyes were visible, wide open behind her goggles, staring into the lightless morning sky. She thought of dandelions and bashert and the way the German’s propeller had burst like a sand dollar struck by a fist. She thought of Alec’s hands on her bare back and of the taste of his lips. She thought of things she’d never seen before, the unknown town where they would eat their next meal.

Most of all she thought of flying.

“May it never end,” she whispered, and closed her eyes.

****

Just before sunrise, a late-model Adler bearing the Air Service insignia murmured to a stop in front of a telegraph station five kilometers east of Metz. Two men climbed from the car. The driver was like drivers everywhere: blunt and colorless and in need of a better-fitting tunic. The passenger wore ankle boots, clean puttees, and a single-breasted coat with officer’s marks on the arms. His hair was longer than regulation, which indicated his assigned post was so removed from the action that no one gave a damn how he looked. He yawned and stretched and seemed like a man who had not yet eaten his breakfast or smoked his first pipe of the day.

Gustov sat in the grass, cross-legged, and watched them.

He’d already worked through the possibilities. In the hours while he’d waited to be picked up after sending his report with the help of a bleary-eyed radio man, he had time to sort it out. He assumed one of two fates awaited him. They would reassign him, or they would simply drive him back to his squadron and let him resume his duties. Both options came with a severe reprimand, as he’d not only managed to let a bomber be stolen out from under him, but he’d permitted that very plane to destroy German property, kill German troops, and then fly away unpunished. If Gustov’s family weren’t politically and fiscally connected to so many people with important-sounding names, he might have ended up demoted to gunner or—far worse—transferred to the infantry.

He stood up.

The officer approached. In the anemic light from an electrical bulb above the door of the telegraph station, Gustov noted the man’s rank of major. Reluctantly, Gustov saluted.

The major returned the greeting. “Captain Voss, I assume?”

“That is correct, sir.”

“Shot down, I hear.”

“Yes, sir.”

“A pity. Your aircraft?”

“Salvageable.”

“Good.” The major’s demeanor changed. He slouched a bit, as if tired of the formalities so early in the morning. “My name is Baumann. To be entirely honest with you, Voss, the lieutenant-general who dispatched me told me nothing at all about your mission, and frankly I don’t care to know. But I’ve been ordered to bring you to Berlin. Is that acceptable?”

Berlin? Gustov recalculated. Apparently he had more than two possible fates. He hadn’t been to the capital since before the war, and to be summoned there now was unusual, to say the least. Revealing none of this to Baumann, he nodded. “Of course, sir.”

“Glad to hear it.” The major looked relieved; perhaps he’d been expecting resistance. “It’s a considerable drive, so if you don’t mind, I’d like to get a bite of food first and a pot of coffee, the blacker the better. Can you recommend a suitable eatery in Metz?”

Gustov assured him that he knew of such a place, and then followed the man to the waiting car. Berlin could mean many things, both good and bad. The city could immortalize you or turn you to a pillar of salt at a glance. Removing his hat, Gustov settled into the rear seat and stared from the window while the driver got them moving toward town.

Without realizing it, his eyes strayed to the southeast.