He saw nothing outside now, only a swirl of black. He was flying blind. The instruments had gone haywire, the altimeter now showing 10,000 feet, but dropping, the needle spinning backward like a clock gone crazy. His senses told him he was in a turn, and he fought against the stick. Eight thousand feet. Still fighting the turn, he yanked on the stick. The Luscombe gave a shudder — and began a freefall. The stick flopped uselessly in Braun's lap. He had lost control.
Seven thousand feet. He felt dizzy, disoriented. Braun tried to make sense of instruments that were spinning wildly, an incoherent jumble of information. Outside, the ocean of darkness kept swirling, swallowing. Sixty-five hundred feet.
He took a deep breath. Just as in Russia and the Atlantic, Braun let go. He took his hand from the control stick and it bounced aimlessly between his legs. He closed his eyes. One minute, he thought. But for the first time, Braun knew he didn't have that long.
An instant of confusion swept in. Then, suddenly, a sensation of light. Calm and bright. Braun opened his eyes. The Luscombe had broken clear of the clouds — but it might have been more merciful had it not. A mountain filled the windscreen, huge evergreen trees, slate gray rock in the gaps. The angle of dive was impossible, the earth and trees seconds away.
His hands instinctively went to the control stick. It felt firmer now, the craft somehow having found purchase on the thin air. The crash was imminent — but there was one chance. Braun forced the stick to the right and pulled back for all he was worth.
Ben Geronima Walker stepped quietly through the woods. As a Mescalero Apache, the art of stalking game came quite naturally. He had learned from his father, a hunter of considerable skill. Of course, fifty years ago, before the opening of the Mescalero Grocery, the knowledge had been substantially more important. In fact, Ben Walker had not killed a deer in six years, his last a buck taken with a clean shot from fifty yards. On that occasion he'd done the fieldwork, dressing out over a hundred pounds of venison and hauling it to his truck.
Now, at seventy-two years old, he had no desire to take any more from the forest. He knew that kill had been his last. But he still went into the woods, the rifle his excuse. His quarry was different now — he enjoyed the solitude, the spirituality of the forest. Throwing a tent in his truck, he would come here for days at a stretch to escape his nagging wife and the idiot who lived next door, a self-taught auto mechanic who banged away at ridiculously late hours. Here, in the mountains east of Pecos, Ben Walker found peace. And he'd had it all morning.
As was often the case, however, the afternoon had brought storms. The sky darkened quickly, and gusty winds swept through the pines, bringing the sweet scent of ozone. As was his custom, Walker planned on sitting out the showers in the cab of his truck, three or four cigarettes before edging back out into the fresh, cool air.
He was headed in that direction when he saw a flash through the trees. At first glance he thought it was a bird, big and white, swooping over the hill. But then he recognized the glint of metal, and heard the sound of snapping tree limbs violate the forests stillness. Birds flushed and animals scurried for cover. But then the interruption ended as suddenly as it had come, and the woods again retreated to a natural rhythm.
If he hadn't seen it, the metallic reflection, Walker probably would have kept going. But there had been something, just over the ridge to his right. It was a steep climb and he moved slowly, his knees and hips not what they were so many years ago. The Winchester rifle on his shoulder seemed heavier than usual. Cresting the rise, he saw the source of the commotion. At first he didn't recognize the mess for what it was. He saw dust and smoke, but gradually a white tube of sorts came into view. It was bent and twisted, looking vaguely like an airplane. But the thing had no wings.
He scampered as best he could, weaving between saplings and shrubs. Fifty feet away he stopped. He saw the tail now, clear with numbers and lettering. It was definitely an airplane — and there was someone in it. A man crawled out, bent and twisted, just like the metal frame. Covered in blood, he stumbled clear and came unsteadily to his feet.
Walker rushed to him. "Let me help you!" he called.
The man used a shirtsleeve to wipe blood from his face, revealing a dazed expression.
Walker glanced into the airplane as he got closer. He saw no one else. "I can help! Are you able to walk? My truck is at the bottom of the hill. You need a hospital, mister."
Ben Walker took the Winchester off his shoulder and leaned it against a nearby tree. He held out a helping hand. Oddly, the bloodied face looking at him wrenched into a smile.
Chapter 28
It was four in the morning when Lydia moved gingerly down the stairs. Each step was a new revelation in pain — her hip, her ankle, everything seemed to hurt. But it was her own doing. The nurse her father had brought in had dispensed a ration of pills last evening. Discretely, Lydia had dropped them all behind her bed. She'd had enough of the drugs. Unfortunately, without them she'd not been able to sleep a wink.
Lying awake, Lydia had decided on a trip to the kitchen. When she arrived, she was surprised to see a light burning. The Englishman was seated at the servant's table with a plate of leftovers and a pot of tea. He stood when he saw her.
"Good morning, ma'am."
"Oh, please, Major. That makes me feel so old. Call me Lydia."
"All right, but then 'Major' is far too formal. I think Michael will do."
She smiled and turned toward the refrigerator. The movement was a bad one, and Lydia grimaced.
"Are you all right?" he asked, standing. "Can I get you something?"
"No, please. I… I'm rather tired of people doing things for me." She poured herself a glass of milk and joined him at the table. "What are you doing up so early?"
"I have to catch the first bus down to New York. Then a flight. And you? Are you having trouble sleeping?"
She grinned. "That's all I've been doing, Michael. Sleeping." She wanted to add, my entire life. Lydia shifted to a less uncomfortable position. "Actually, I stopped taking my medication last night."
"I see."
"I've been walking around the house in a daze. Yesterday I found myself in the garage, but I wasn't sure how I'd even got there. And do you know what the last straw was?"
"What?"
"I woke up and saw a dim light outside my window, but I had no idea — none whatsoever — whether it was dawn or dusk."
He nodded. "That happened to me once, in the hospital after my accident." He gestured to his leg.
She saw his ill-fitting pant leg. Somehow Lydia knew he wouldn't mind if she asked. "What happened?"
"I was the ordnance officer for a squadron of Lancaster bombers. I tagged along on a mission to do some troubleshooting, and we tangled with a flock of ME-109s. Our ship eventually went down, but not before…" he hesitated, "not before I actually took up a gun position. The lad who'd been manning it was killed."
Lydia was riveted. "Did you actually shoot at any of them?"
He nodded. "It was the only chance I had through the entire war to look the enemy in the eye and pull a trigger." Thatcher looked blankly at the table. "I remember it like it was yesterday— the Messerschmitt exploding. The fireball filled the sky."
After a moment of reflection, Lydia found herself saying, "Tell me, Michael, how did it make you feel?"
His reply came right away, as if it had been a perfectly natural question. "It was exhilarating — the most fulfilling instailt of my life." They locked eyes, and he added, "Even if my wife, Madeline, would have hated it."