“Once or twice, King. Bunny was at the controls then. I wish to hell he was now. Get aft and take Prentice with you.”
“Okay,” Cole said. “Good luck.”
“Fuck off, Yank.”
Cole slapped Prentice on the back. “We’re closing up shop. Let’s get aft.”
“But the wireless—”
“Forget it.” Cole followed Prentice’s gaze to Bunny. “It’s no good, Prentice,” he said. He didn’t want to abandon the pilot on the floor either, but it was apparent that Bunny wouldn’t last long. “Come on. Let’s get cracking.”
They found Johnny stuffing parachutes against the bulkhead. He had jettisoned the door and the frigid wind roaring through the opening made it almost impossible to hear. Debris whipped wildly around the interior of the aircraft until it was near enough to the door for the slipstream to suck it out.
“Stay clear of that bastard,” Johnny shouted, pointing at the turret. “She might come loose when we land and crush you. Get on either side of the fuselage and cushion yourself with these parachutes.” N-for-Nancy gave a lurch. It was a warning, she was dying and she could give her crew no more time. “Where’s Bunny?” Johnny asked Cole. Cole shook his head.
“Right,” Johnny said sharply. “Right. Get settled in. It won’t be long now. Peter will try to keep her nose up as long as possible. If she hits a wave head-on she’ll explode. If he can drag her tail we’ll have some time to inflate the dinghy and get out.”
Cole felt his stomach drop. They were going in now. They were going to ditch. He wedged himself against a parachute and pushed his feet against the step that led up to the turret. Johnny and Prentice were on the other side of the cabin, each waiting for the impact.
Cole wondered what would happen and for the first time in his life he was frightened, really frightened. He had no control over what was going to happen or if he would survive it. He felt his heart pumping wildly and he thought he could feel every movement of every rivet in N-for-Nancy. For a moment he thought the aircraft was alive and he wondered if fear was causing him to hallucinate.
He thought of Rebecca and the last time that he had seen her, asleep on the couch, and he wished that he had left a note or awakened her to say good-bye, or something. But he didn’t and he wondered how much of a bastard he had been to her and if perhaps he could have done more to help her.
He thought about praying but he didn’t believe in God, not in any real sense, just some nebulous unformed entity that people spoke of with reverence but to his logical, educated mind simply could not exist. No atheists in foxholes, he had heard before, and maybe that was right but he did not seek God as N-for-Nancy dropped slowly to oblivion; he inventoried his failures and regrets. There they were, listed on a tally sheet for him to check off, and it seemed that he had more than his share on the negative side of the ledger.
What have I given my life for? he wondered, and the answer came immediately: to satisfy my own ambition — an ambition that had nearly consumed him and did destroy any relationship that he was fortunate to have. But inside, as N-for-Nancy lost altitude and he saw Prentice’s lips moving rapidly in prayer, he knew his arrogance would never permit him regrets. Regrets meant that he had been fallible and he just couldn’t accept that notion when he was this close to death.
But that didn’t silence the fear.
Oh God, he could see through the open door and the waves were becoming larger, becoming more distinct, taking on shape and character — blue-green hillocks with white, frothy crests. The plane was getting lower and soon it would be even with the waves and an instant after that, impact.
N-for-Nancy fell slowly and Cole watched the waves rise to meet them, and as the waves neared, his nerves grew taut, twisted so tight that he knew they would snap.
They were lower now, skimming over the tops of the waves. They must be biting into hillocks, destroying the crests, but there was no sound except the roar of the open door and the high-pitched whine of N-for-Nancy’s one, pitiful engine. He could smell the sea. The scent was sharp, clean, and for some reason it comforted him.
Atlantic City. His parents took him to Atlantic City when he was a boy and he let the waves roll him onto the shore, feeling his body scrape along the sand, giving himself up to the power of the ocean.
There was a bump behind them and N-for-Nancy shuddered harshly as the fixed tail wheel dug into the waves.
A second later N-for-Nancy collided with the sea.
Chapter 23
A low light from the hallway flooded Bimble’s office, followed by a soft knock on the door. Bimble, who had been working at his desk by the light of a small lamp, looked up wearily. The moon might crash into the sun, German ships might gobble up British cruisers, and the end of the world might be on hand, but nothing, nothing must interfere with the reports required by Their Lords of the Admiralty, completed in the proscribed manner, and within the specified time. Bloody nuisance, Bimble labeled it, sailing a wooden desk with paper sails.
“Sir Joshua?” It was Hawthorne. The light gathered around the outline of his body like a halo.
“Yes,” Bimble said, rubbing his sore eyes. “What’s the time?”
“Just after four.”
“A.M. or P.M.?”
“In the morning, Sir Joshua. We’ve received some news. Harland has called to say the Home Fleet’s going out.”
“High time. Never known Townes to be so slow about things.”
“Not all of them,” Hawthorne said. “KG V and Rodney. Three cruisers and assorted destroyers.”
Something in Hawthorne’s tone told Bimble that he had more information.
“Well?” Bimble said curtly.
“Our intelligence chaps picked up a transmission from the German vessel and a return message from Group North. Our chaps have finally been able to determine her name. She’s the D.K.M. Sea Lion.”
“Sea Lion?” Bimble said. “She’s not on the registry.”
“She’s not any place, sir. No one has heard of her so we’re left to suppose that she is the vessel that Commander Hamilton’s men happened upon. The H-class.”
“The class that was never built?” Bimble said, his irritation rising. “We know nothing more than her name, do we, Hawthorne? We don’t know where she is or what she intends to do?”
“We do know from the transmissions that it appears that she wants to return home by way of the Bay of Biscay.”
“Brest or St. Nazaire?”
“We don’t know,” Hawthorne said. “But our chaps are on it. They feel that they can determine that and her location from her radio transmissions.”
“For them to do so,” Bimble said, searching through the clutter for a cigarette box, “she must do something that she has not shown a penchant for doing as yet.”
“Sir Joshua?”
“She must fill the airwaves with continued transmissions. She has been maddeningly closemouthed. We can’t count on her becoming talkative now, can we?”
“No.”
“No. Indeed. All right, Hawthorne. Let me get back to this foolishness.”
“There is something else, Sir Joshua.”
Bimble lit a cigarette, took a deep draw, and blew the smoke into the darkness. “Go on.”
Hawthorne stepped aside and motioned into the hallway. A thin figure stood in the doorway. Even in the gloom Bimble could see that it was a Royal Navy officer.
“With your permission, Sir Joshua, this is Lieutenant Anthony. He’s with the Wireless Telegrapher section. Shall I turn on the light?”