“I also know that doing foolish things from boredom gets us killed.” Igrat was near tears. “Isn’t organizing this bombing campaign enough for you?”
“It will be, once we get things really moving. But this is different. It’s actually doing something instead of sitting behind a desk.” Stuyvesant caught the warning in Igrat’s eyes and carried on smoothly. “Anyway, I’ve never ridden in a Flying Fortress before.”
“Four hour flight.” Captain LeMay spoke from behind Stuyvesant. “Seven-twenty nautical miles. We have a thirty percent fuel reserve. This is satisfactory.”
Stuyvesant looked at the B-17C on the runway behind them. It had been fully repainted in British colors. The red-white-blue roundels stood out in the moonlight. “You know, those full-color markings show up pretty clearly. Can’t we dim them down a bit?”
“Attract suspicion. The British are still using full-color markings. We look different and people start to ask questions.”
Stuyvesant nodded. “When do we take off?”
“Sixteen hours time.”
“I’ve arranged for some hot food to be ready and the barracks are heated. The Marines did a good job up here.”
“I have no cause for complaint.” LeMay nodded brusquely. “Eat and get some sleep. Miss Shafrid, you need it. You look like hell.”
Igrat eyed his retreating back. “Quite the diplomat, isn’t he?”
The numbers flowed past Achillea’s eyes as the convoy headed north. A642, A63, A6120 and now the A58. The one blessing was that they’d only been through one more checkpoint, where the A6120 hand joined the A58; they’d just been waved through. “How are we doing?”
“Very well. We stay on this road until we hit the A1 at Boroughbridge, then we follow that road all the way north to a place called Melsonby. The A1 is dead straight most of the way, Achillea; it is a Roman road. A good augury, I think.”
“I hope so.”
“Then we have to follow a road called the A66 from Melsonby until we hit the A68. They’re both Roman roads as well, and they take us all the way to a place called Culgaith where we change to the B6412 to Langwathby. From there, follow the A686 all the way north to Brampton, switch to the A6071 over the Scottish border and join the A7. That puts us barely seventy miles out. We just have to wiggle through some B class backroads to join the A74. Then, take the B743 and it drops us right into Prestwick airport. We are doing very well.”
“I should hope so. My rear is getting stiff.”
Gusoyn laughed. “If you think you have problems in this comfortable staff car, imagine what it must be like in those lorries. Sitting in the cab will be bad enough; the poor people in the back on those wooden benches will be feeling really bad by now.”
“Can’t we stop and give them a rest? Or change around a bit?”
“Not really. We will need to stop for gas… I am sorry, petrol… but we will be in public view then. I am a bit worried about the last leg. We will have to wriggle across country on B roads for a bit and that will be slow and we could get lost. At least they have put the road signs back. I was a bit worried last night that I could not find a way through on that last stretch.”
“You’ll manage it Gus; you always do.” Achillea closed her eyes and let herself be lulled into sleep by the drumming of the road on the tire surfaces.
She woke briefly at another checkpoint at Melsonby after being on the road for ten straight hours. She was also awake then the convoy commandeered a resupply of petrol at a station shortly afterwards. Idly, she wondered just how much chaos Gusoyn’s casually-signed requisition would cause.
By the time she finally woke up again, the convoy was moving along a narrow country road. She shivered slightly and looked around at the surrounding countryside. “Where are we? And has the car got any heat?”
Gusoyn shook his head. “Get the car warm and I’ll start going to sleep. We’re at a place called Chanlockfoot, in Ayrshire, I think. We’re doing the backroads wriggle now.”
“Do you want me to take over?”
Gusoyn shook his head. “I’ve got the route fixed in my head and I know where I am. If I take a break, I’ll get us hopelessly lost. The A74 is a few miles ahead and once we’re on that, we’re nearly there.
“Oh, hell, what is this?”
A tractor had got stuck pulling a cart across the road . Achillea felt Gusoyn stop the car. Every nerve in her body screamed warnings. She had her Thompson on her lap. Her hands moved quickly, checking her knives and her pistol. Sure enough, half a dozen men stood up from behind the stone walls. The ones who didn’t have shotguns had hunting rifles. “Well, sure enough, we have us a lorryload of blackshirts. Morag from the village said they were coming through. Now, all of you. Out of those vehicles and drop your guns.”
Achillea reached down and dropped the Thompson. She didn’t think much of it anyway. She was more worried about it going off than losing it.
“Don’t get hasty or you’ll regret it.”
“Aye, we’ll regret shooting a full half dozen of you fascist bastards. Be payback for Spain, it will.” The six men nodded and obviously agreed with their leader.
“You were with the International Brigade?” Achillea spoke quietly. If she could get within ten feet, she would have the rifle out of his hands before he knew what happened. He might have served with the International Brigade, probably had, but she knew he was no match for her.
“Aye, I was that. And saw you swine at work there too. Now all of you get on your knees.”
Achillea thought for a second, then made a considered reply. “No. And you’re wrong, we’re not Blackshirts. We’re fakes; imposters. We’ve got some people we’re smuggling out of the country.”
“You’ll not fool me with that, lassie.”
“Then take a look in the back of the first truck.” Achillea was quite unaware she’d used the wrong word, but it made the leader of the group look sharply at her.
He walked to the back of the lorry. The sonorous, rolling tones of Winston Churchill echoed out. “She is telling you the truth and very glad I am to be able to confirm it.” Achillea grinned to herself. Churchill didn’t know it, but he had just saved six resistance fighters from getting killed.
“I’d heard you were killed.” The heavy Scottish brogue was shaken.
“I am pleased to tell you that the reports of my death are greatly exaggerated. After sitting on a wooden bench in this lorry for eighteen hours, only my rear end is dead. The rest of me is very much alive.”
The resistance leader walked back to Achillea. “How did you get through the checkpoints?”
“Mostly, they saw what they thought we were and waved us through. The others, we showed them these.” She produced her fake badge and the forged orders.
The man pulled another badge from his pocket and compared the two. “These are nothing like the real ones.” He was suspicious again.
“We know. We made them up, assuming that nobody would know what the real ones looked like.” Achillea paused for a few seconds. “Is that a real one? How did you get it?”
“Took it off a Blackshirt who came this way. Don’t know why he came, but we buried him in the woods anyway.”
“How did you kill him?” Achillea was professionally interested.
“We didn’t. We just buried him.” Achillea looked at him and grinned. The man continued after returning the smile. “What’s a lassie doing leading this?”
She looked at him stonily. “I’m not a lassie; I’m a Roman gladiator.”