A Memory Between Us (40 page)

“I wish you all could have been back here,” Nick said. “Beautiful pictures on the scope, clear as can be, just like the briefing pictures.”

“Thanks,” Charlie said. “Took those pictures myself.”

Jack shook his head and whistled. “I don’t want to be around when May finds out you’ve been flying over enemy territory again.”

Charlie laughed. “I’ll deal with May. Just get me home, Skipper.”

Jack didn’t like the looks of engine three, but he’d flown planes in far worse condition. Even if he lost number three, he could still bring her home. It would be close, but he could do it. “I plan on it, buddy. You can trust—no, don’t trust me. Trust God.”

53

“Wake up, gorgeous.” A rough hand shook Ruth’s shoulder.

She looked up from her canvas seat along the side of the plane.

At the front of the cabin, Burnsey leaned back against a high stack of crates. “Decision time.”

Oh no. Ruth rubbed her eyes to conceal a glance at her watch—9:45 in England, and they wouldn’t land at Meeks until 11:30. She’d avoided Burnsey for over four hours by sleeping. She’d slept fitfully, but she’d slept. What good did it do now? How could she avoid this conversation? She drew a deep yawn. “Later. I’m still tired.”

Burnsey laughed, cool and humorless. “You want to wait until Prestwick.”

“Well, yes.”

“Where you’ll rat on me.”

Clammy fingers coiled around her heart. “I didn’t say that.”

“You don’t have to say it.” A bottle of scotch dangled from his hand. Although the cabin temperature hovered around freezing, he wore his wool jacket. He’d taken off his sheepskins.

Those clammy fingers dug in. Burnsey had drunk enough liquor to warm up—enough to affect his judgment? Ruth nodded to the bottle. “Let’s wait until you sleep that off.”

He took a swig. “You think you’ve got this figured out. Wait till Prestwick, show them the invoices, and you’ll get what you’ve always wanted—to get rid of me.”

She took a measured breath. Although he had her motive wrong, he knew her strategy. “I don’t want to get rid of you. I just want to be treated—”

“Your plan won’t work. I retyped the labels, switched back the invoices. You have no evidence, gorgeous. None.” He rested his head back against the crates in front of the cabin door.

The cabin door? He’d blocked the way to the cockpit. The clamminess raced down to her fingertips.

“I’ve got a bit of a problem.” Burnsey swung the bottle like a pendulum and thumped it into his palm. “See, I like my business. I really like it. You’ve made me lose this shipment, but I can’t afford to do that again. Now, everything will be fine if you accept my offer.”

And if not … ? Ruth studied his wry smile and narrowed eyes. The smart thing would be to accept his offer, then report him when safely on the ground. Was it wrong to lie to a thief? To betray a swindler?

“I knew I couldn’t trust you.”

A band constricted around her chest. She’d waited too long to answer, and even if she said she’d cooperate, he wouldn’t believe her.

Burnsey took one more swig and set down the liquor bottle. “Too bad. You could have had everything. Now you lose everything.”

“Lose?” Her gaze skittered around. Could she get past him? Could she move the crates in time? Or reach the interphone jack? If she screamed, no one would hear her over the engines.

Burnsey sauntered over, right in front of her, and Ruth pressed back in her seat. He wasn’t a big man, but he was big enough.

“See, I need a new nurse, someone more compliant, so you’re out of a job.” He cocked his head in mock sympathy.

“I won’t lose my job.” Ruth wrapped her arms around her stomach to quell the nausea and to unfasten her seatbelt.

“I heard old lady Shepard. One more complaint and you’re out.” He leaned forward and planted his hands on the fuselage on either side of Ruth’s head.

She recoiled. Burnsey’s breath was flammable, but she didn’t have a match. “I won’t complain. I won’t.”

“Today you will. I’ll make sure of it.” His gaze fell to her chest and her legs. “You see, if you were my partner, I’d behave. But now, well, I can do anything I want.”

Never—never had her hands been so uncooperative. Her seatbelt, why wouldn’t it open?

“And guess what I want.” He lifted his eyes to hers.

Oh no, Ruth knew that look, the lethal mixture of power and contempt and lust. This time she wasn’t trapped by brick walls and locked doors and bulky men, but by crates and aluminum and five thousand feet of air.

“Finally.” He smashed his mouth over hers.

No, no, no. She pressed her hands to Burnsey’s chest and kicked at him.

He laughed putrid fumes over her face. “Don’t fight me. Don’t even bother.”

When he swooped down again, Ruth twisted to the side and let his mouth crawl over her cheek. She had to get her seatbelt unfastened, get to the cockpit somehow.

Burnsey slobbered all over her neck, and Ruth’s stomach contracted.
Lord, please don’t let me get sick. Don’t let me hyperventilate.

He grabbed the collar of her sheepskin flight jacket, ripped open the zipper.

“No!” The buckle came loose, and Ruth jerked up her knee.

He cried out, clutched one hand to his stomach.

Ruth shoved him aside, dashed from her seat, and slammed into the stack of crates. They didn’t budge. Oh no, she’d have to move them one at a time. She wrapped her arms around the top crate.

Burnsey hurled expletives, charged at her, grasped the back of her collar in both fists, and with a guttural, triumphal cry, yanked the jacket down and off, scraping Ruth’s hands over the raw wood.

She moaned. Red lines scratched the truth across her palms. She couldn’t stop him. She couldn’t escape.

54

The propeller blades on engine three rotated into the feathered position. Boy, did Jack hate to lose that engine.

Charlie hummed on the interphone, then broke into song. “‘With our full crew aboard and our trust in the Lord, we’re comin’ in on a wing and a prayer.’”

A wing and a lot of prayers would be better. Jack kept solid left pressure on the rudder to compensate for the loss of both engines on the right wing.

The rest of the 94th had passed him when they rounded the Channel Islands. The Allied fighters scared off the Luftwaffe, so solitude didn’t present the usual danger, but Jack had plenty of concerns with falling fuel levels and the muscle required to keep the wings level. At least they’d descended below ten thousand feet and didn’t need oxygen anymore.

“Okay, Mel,” he said. “Let’s transfer fuel from three to two.” The transfer from engine four had failed, probably due to a ruptured fuel line, and Jack needed every drop.

Mel flipped the lever on the bulkhead below the door to the bomb bay, and Purcell switched the fuel gauge to monitor number two.

“Come on, baby.” Jack willed the gauge to rise, but it didn’t. “Oh, swell.”

“I was afraid of that.” Mel sat on the platform of the top turret. “Zimmerman sure ripped up that wing, didn’t he? What about—”

“Landing gear. I know.” The right wheel nestled in the nacelle of damaged engine three. “Okay, crew, let’s test the landing gear. Purcell?”

The copilot flipped the switch in the center of the panel.

Jack looked out the side window. “Down left.”

“Tail wheel down,” Fred Garrett called on the interphone from the waist.

Jack glanced at Purcell, but the kid shook his head. Jack rapped his fist on his knee. “Mel, try to crank it down.”

If Mel couldn’t lower the right wheel manually, Jack had a dilemma. A belly landing would be suicidal with a full bomb load. A one-wheeled landing was safer, but tough without power on the same wing he needed to keep high on the landing. What else? Ditching in the Channel? Never. Abandoning ship would be the best option.

Mel leaned through the door to the cockpit. “Something’s disconnected. It cranks too easily. The wheel’s not coming down.”

“Gear up.” Jack couldn’t afford the drag. “Gus, how long to Weymouth?”

“About six minutes.”

“Hallelujah.” He wasn’t going in the drink today. “Okay, crew, listen up. Prepare to bail out in a few minutes. Then I’ll put this bird on autopilot and point her out to sea.”

If the men were scared about making a jump, they were smart enough to keep it to themselves, or smart enough to know it was safer than landing or ditching.

Charlie crawled up from the passageway between the pilots’ seats. “Got a minute?”

One look told Jack that Charlie questioned his judgment. Fair enough—he’d earned the right to be heard. “Sure do. Here, take my spot.”

Charlie raised his eyebrows but switched positions with Jack while Purcell held the plane steady.

“Thanks, buddy.” Jack kicked out a cramp in his left leg. “I could use a rest. What’s up?”

“The autopilot?”

Jack pulled the release tabs on his flak vest and laid it aside. At least Charlie didn’t voice his concern over the interphone. “I know. I don’t think it’ll hold her true.”

“So …”

“So I’ll land her.”

“Jack …”

“I can do it. Remember that time in Townsville? Only had one engine then.”

“But no bombs.”

Jack smiled. “Doesn’t change the landing, just the results if I fail. I won’t fail.”

Charlie narrowed his eyes, then rolled them. “Why not ditch her?”

“You’ve heard the latest statistics—43 percent chance of survival. I stand a higher chance on land, you know that. Besides, I’d hate to lose this plane. She’s a beauty.”

“All right. I’ll take Purcell’s spot.”

Jack laughed. “Absolutely not. I’d rather ditch than earn the wrath of Little Miss Jensen.”

“Jack …”

He stretched his arm down between the seat and the wall and flipped the alarm switch for six seconds to signal the crew to stand by for bailing out, and to silence his friend. Then he motioned Charlie out of the seat and resumed his wrestling match with the rudder and wheel. “Go on, buddy. Get out of here. I’ll see you at Bury.”

Charlie laid a hand on Jack’s shoulder and looked down at him with staggering finality.

Jack swallowed hard. “Pray. And—and give May my love.”

“And Ruth?”

Jack turned to the altimeter, which fell rapidly. Give his love to Ruth? If only he could. “Tell—tell her I’m sorry. Now, go. Watch how you land on that leg.”

Charlie squeezed Jack’s shoulder. “I’ll be praying.”

“Thanks. So will I.” He looked out the window to solid green land. “Gus, are we far enough inland to bail?”

“Yes, sir.”

Jack gave the bell three short rings. “Bail out, boys. Bob, count chutes for me before you go.”

Over the next minute, Bob counted off parachutes from his seat in the tail. Good, Charlie didn’t play stowaway. After Bob bailed, Jack relaxed his grip and let
My Macaroon
turn to the right as she wanted to. When she pointed south toward the sea, Jack activated the autopilot.

“Okay, Purcell. Thanks for the help. Out you go.” He didn’t have to ask twice. The kid scrambled down to the nose.

Jack marked two minutes to make sure Purcell was clear, then released the controls. The Fort banked to the right. As he suspected, the autopilot didn’t hold. If he bailed, the plane would spiral down and explode on English soil. “Okay, Lord, give me a nice big landing field.”

A one-wheeled landing. Jack could do it. He knew how to handle a plane.

What a story that would be. Jack would get his name in the papers, another Distinguished Flying Cross, maybe a Silver Star, and a good position when he transferred.

Ditching, on the other hand, would result in the loss of the plane and probably his life.

Jack shuddered and searched the ground, where a village tapered off to small farms. Fear didn’t influence him this time, and neither did pride.

Or did it? “Lord, am I counting on my abilities again?”

Jack shook it off and turned the plane away from the main road out of town. In this case counting on his abilities was warranted. Logic, not fear, said land offered a greater chance of survival than water. Still, he sent up a prayer. “Lord, guide me. And help me listen.”

There it was, a nice green field at eleven o’clock. Jack grinned and turned the plane to approach the field from the side. He extended the landing gear and swung over the tail wheel lock on the floor. Then he tested the brakes. The hydraulic pressure stayed above six hundred pounds per square inch. Good, something worked.

What a great field. Jack visualized his course—a right turn into the downwind leg, a left turn for the base leg, and a left turn into the final approach. He’d have plenty of room before the thatched farmhouse at the end of the field.

Jack chuckled. Wouldn’t those people be surprised? A cocky Yank landing a B-17 in their field with one pilot, two engines, two out of three wheels, and—

Then his blood froze in his veins.

And a full bomb load.

What if he couldn’t keep the wing up? He risked not only his life, but the lives of anyone in that house.

Nonsense. He could keep that wing up. He’d be the hero. Jack groaned at the ugly tentacle of pride. But what was the alternative? Ditching. Drowning.

“Trust God, you idiot.”

The stretch of warm, green, grassy life sang out its temptation, but Jack gritted his teeth and wheeled the Fort toward cold, gray, watery death.

55

Burnsey tossed aside Ruth’s leather flight jacket. “That’s better. Now for the rest.”

She backed against the crates and raised her trembling chin. “Don’t touch me.”

“I’ll do what I want.” He seized her shoulders and pressed his mouth over hers.

“No!” She stomped on his foot. He cursed and drew up his leg, and Ruth planted her hands on his chest to push him away.

Burnsey shackled her wrists in his hands. “You little—” His mouth twisted with fury, with vile words.

Ruth stared him hard in the eye and with all her strength, drove her knee into his groin. He gasped, doubled over, and Ruth broke free, down the aisle, down the valley of crates, down the valley of the shadow of death. “‘I will fear no evil: for thou art with me.’”