Oath Bound - Book V of The Order of the Air (39 page)

Lewis came to join them, running his hands through his hair in a vain attempt to subdue it. The stubble was heavy on his chin, and Alma repressed the urge to rub his cheek. “Any thoughts on how we’re going to make this flight?”

Alma took another bite of the porridge, buying time. She hadn’t made a decision yet — it depended on how full the plane ended up being, and how desperate the wounded were. “This afternoon, if we can, and if Iskinder can get us clearance to land at Khartoum, we might overnight there. Most of the flight would be in daylight that way.” She shrugged. “Or we could leave first thing tomorrow morning, and worry about a night landing in Cairo. They’re set up for that, surely? But mostly I need to hear what Iskinder and Colonel Robinson can do for us.”

“It’s a lot of ifs,” Mitch said, his spoon scraping the bowl, and Lewis looked up.

“I think we should leave today.”

Alma glanced at him, and he shrugged.

“It’s just a feeling, nothing specific, but it’s a strong one.”

“I trust your feelings,” Alma said. “Anyway, from what I saw yesterday, the sooner we get the wounded into a proper hospital, the better.”

They emerged from the tent into the first light of dawn to find that several ox carts had already been loaded, their beds filled with the wounded and supplies, including two big drums of aviation gas. Alma grimaced, seeing them: no matter how much they needed the fuel, it was hard not to think the space should be given up to the wounded.

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Segura, but that’s all we can spare,” Colonel Robinson said, coming up behind her, and she tuned, shaking her head.

“That’s not — I mean, I’ll take whatever you have, don’t get me wrong, it’s just…” The feeling had been just as futile in the last war, and she let out her breath in a long sigh. “I wish there were more wagons, I guess. That’s all.”

Robinson’s expression went bleak for an instant. “Colonel Tedesse is still trying to get the guns away to the main body of the army. He’s giving the civilians as much transport as he can afford to.”

“I know,” Alma said. “Truly I do, I was a nurse in the last war.” She shook herself, hard, focusing on the things she did control. “Do you know how many wounded we’re supposed to carry? We can’t take everyone here.”

“I don’t,” Robinson answered. “Ras Iskinder will know.”

“Parts,” Alma said. “I can send back any spares we’re not going to need —”

Robinson shook his head. “I appreciate it, but nothing’s coming back — there isn’t time. I told the mayor and Father Gedeyon that they could use the drums for floats once you’d emptied them.”

“Floats?”

“They’re going to build rafts, try to get down to Bahir Dar that way, Father Gedeyon said. There are a lot of little islands, plus a couple of monasteries out there in the lake,” Robinson said.

All the way down Lake Tana — half an hour or less in the Cat, but a couple of days, maybe more, on slow-moving rafts, with an entire village and everything they could salvage piled onto the floats… Maybe she could run a shuttle service to Bahir Dar, she thought, take women and children. If the wounded weren’t too bad, and the weather stayed good…

“My radioman raised Khartoum,” Robinson said, “and they’re supposed to be leaving their beacon lit for you overnight. At least we think that’s what they said — reception was mixed. We’ll keep trying to raise them and confirm. Same for the weather, though I’ve got you the best forecast we could pick up. Things are supposed to be pretty calm today and tomorrow, and then there’s a front coming through.”

Another reason to go with Lewis’s instincts, Alma thought. She took the slip of paper, the numbers printed in neat pencil. “Thank you.”

“Colonel!” That was Lieutenant Asha, trotting toward them. He stopped with a rough salute. “The first flight is ready, sir.”

“I have to go,” Robinson said. “Tell Mr. Sorley and your husband again that I appreciate their help yesterday.”

Alma nodded. “I will. Good luck, Colonel.” She stuck out her hand and he hesitated only for an instant before taking it carefully.

“To you, too,” he said, and turned away.

Alma knew she should join the others at the wagons, but she couldn’t bear the thought of leaving without saying goodbye to Iskinder. Not that this would be the last time she saw him, she refused to let herself imagine that, but because it was only right, only fair. She turned on her heel, scanning the busy camp, and finally saw him emerging from one of the tents. “Iskinder!”

He turned with a smile and came toward her, holding out a stack of letters. “Alma. Your husband said you would take these for me.”

“Of course.” Alma tucked the half dozen thin envelopes inside her shirt. “Iskinder…” And suddenly she had nothing to say, not even good wishes. She held out her hands instead and he took them, bowing his head as though they were in circle together.

“Pray for us all,” he said, and she nodded.

“You know we will.”

He turned away, and she joined the others at the side of the straggling convoy, telling herself she would not look back.

They walked on into the morning’s rising heat, surrounded by dust and the thud of the oxen’s feet and the murmur of voices. Now and then a child cried, and was quieted; the carts creaked and complained, jostling the wounded who lay ominously silent. She was beginning to get a sense of how many people she would have to carry, and revolved the loading plans in her head as she walked. The worst hurt would need to go toward the tail, where there were mounts that could take the stretchers and keep them relatively comfortable; the children could go forward, in the navigation compartment with their mothers — those that had mothers, she wasn’t yet sure how many of them that would be — and the rest sorted in where they would fit. The stretcher cases would risk making things tail heavy; any baggage would need to be shifted forward to keep the center of gravity where it should be. Fifteen adults, Iskinder had said. That would make it about 2600 pounds — call it 2650 to be on the safe side — plus another 700 pounds for the children, plus fuel, plus food and supplies and at least some baggage. It would be very close to the maximum load, maybe a hair over…

The air smelled of dust and oxen and dung, and her feet hurt already. She remembered Sultan under her, lithe and strong and full of spirit — yesterday, only yesterday, but it seemed a lifetime ago. She remembered that from the war, the way that an attack could draw a line between one day and the next that could never again be crossed. She had seen enough of war for one lifetime.

The track had been following a little stream for some distance, she realized, and as the scrubby trees thinned out, she could see the brilliant blue of the lake ahead, the sun glinting from its placid surface. She could see the Cat, too, still tied up at the end of the long pier, and she allowed herself a sigh of relief. She hadn’t let herself admit how afraid she was until she saw it safe and sound. Not that there had been any reason to worry, the bombers had concentrated their attention on the village, but even so. She quickened her pace, in spite of her sore muscles, and saw Tiny step out of the fuselage, shading his eyes to study the oncoming convoy.

He came down the pier to meet them, waving as they came within earshot. “Mrs. Segura! Mr. Sorley! Are you all right? I saw the planes, but I didn’t want to leave the Cat —”

He stopped then, as though he’d just realized what he was seeing, and Mitch said, “None of us are hurt. But we’ve got some wounded to take to the hospitals in Cairo.”

Tiny’s eyes were wide. “Yes, sir. Who are we taking?”

Mitch looked at Alma.

“Let me find the priest,” she said.

He was hard to miss, a tall man with grizzled gray hair and beard, walking beside the cart that carried the most severely injured. He nodded gravely at her approach, saying something in Amharic that she hoped was a greeting.

“Father — Gedeyon, is it?”

He nodded again.

“Can you tell me who we’ll be taking to Cairo? Which ones and how many?”

“Everyone in this cart,” he said, shaping the words carefully. “And the next. And one more. But it is not yet here.”

Alma stood on tiptoe to look into the cart, wincing as she recognized the three men on the narrow stretchers. They were the ones Dr. Biniam had been treating before the attack; she had helped change their bandages and wash the skin beneath, and she thought they would all survive if they were treated in a good hospital. Though the one with part of his jaw shot away might wish he hadn’t… She put the treacherous thought aside, and moved to the next cart. It also held three stretchers, civilians this time, including the woman who had lost her son. The gas had hit her hard, her eyes swollen shut and her exposed arms covered with yellow blisters. There would be more on her legs and torso, and Alma guessed they had given her a good dose of morphine before they moved her. Mustard burns were if anything more painful than burns from open flame. She doubted she had enough morphine in the Cat’s first aid to keep them all comfortable for the duration of the flight, and she turned, looking for the priest again

“Father Gedeyon?”

He had moved away, directing villagers toward the water and into the brush, and she hesitated, not wanting to interrupt. She couldn’t start loading until the rest of the wounded were here — she would need to balance the plane, and put the worst wounded where they could be most easily reached — and then there was the question of who else was coming with them… She hoped to hell that had been decided before they left the village; the thought of a panicked stampede, overrunning the pier and risking damage to the Cat’s floats, didn’t bear thinking of.

“Mrs. Segura?” That was a thin woman in a faded European dress and a broad-brimmed hat, a little boy in her arms and an older girl hovering warily behind her.

“Yes?”

“My name is Filagot. I’m Tedesse’s wife. He told me I should help you any way I can.”

Alma gave a sigh of pure relief. That solved her language problem and — she hoped — the problem of who would go with them. “Pleased to meet you. I assume you and your children are coming with you?”

She nodded, her mouth twisting in a wry smile. “Yes. Understand, I would go with my husband, but — I’m related to the imperial family.”

Alma nodded, and Filagot shifted the boy on her hip.

“And there are the children to think of.”

“Do you know how many children in all?” Alma glanced back at the Cat, where Tiny and Lewis were manhandling the first of the fuel drums down the pier.

“Ten.”

Well, one more wouldn’t make that much difference. Alma looked back up the road, at the line of villagers still moving slowly toward the shore. “Thanks. Will you collect the people who are going with us? I’m going to take a look at our stowage plan.”

“Of course,” Filagot answered, and Alma turned away.

It was past four in the afternoon by the time they had the wounded safely loaded and could let the rest of the civilians aboard. Filagot produced a vial of morphine to go with the one in the Cat’s first aid kit, and added that two of the other women had also had basic Red Cross training. They were glad to help tend the wounded in flight. Alma accepted gladly, and turned her attention to balancing the plane. There were eleven children all told, ranging in age from a baby in arms to a pair of listless toddlers who legs were swathed in bandages to a girl in her teens with a bandaged arm who still kept a close eye on three younger children, and as Alma arranged them in the engineering compartment and moved their scant baggage into the navigation station, her heart sank. What if it were Dora, or Merilee and Douglas and Jimmy, fleeing their country for an entirely uncertain future? Who would take them in, when no one wanted to admit that their war even existed? She glanced sideways at Filagot, who lifted her chin.

“My uncle is at the embassy. He will care for us.”

Alma nodded. “There aren’t nearly enough seats. When we take off, everyone needs to brace themselves, make sure they don’t go sliding around. Especially the children.”

“I can do that, I think.”

“Once we’re up, everyone needs to stay still as much as possible. The kids can’t go running to the windows to try and see things.”

“I will make sure everyone understands,” Filagot said. “I couldn’t help hearing. Are we — how badly are we overloaded?”

Alma hesitated, but there was no point in lying. “Some. But we’ve got a lot of room for the takeoff, and we’ll burn off fuel as we go. We’ll be all right.”

“And the Italians?” Filagot’s voice was bleak.

“I don’t know.” They’d been in contact with Bahir Dar by radio, and Bahir Dar had contacted Khartoum; the good news was that they’d have a beacon to follow to find the Nile, but it was certainly possible that the Italians had picked up the transmission, and could be waiting for the Cat if they chose. Alma shoved the thought aside. “I don’t think they’ll bother.”

“Let us hope not,” Filagot answered, with a quick smile, and Alma climbed out onto the pier.

Mitch was waiting by the cat’s nose, a cigarette cupped in his hand, and Tiny and Lewis had just handed over the last of the empty fuel drums to one of Father Gedeyon’s people. Alma waved, and they hurried back down the pier.

“What’s the verdict?” Mitch asked, once they were in earshot.

Alma straightened her shoulders. It was her choice, of course: her plane, her call, her idea. “I say we go as soon as we make the final checks. We’ll have almost two hours of light left, and by then with a bit of luck we’ll be able to pick up Khartoum. After that…” She shrugged. “The weather’s supposed to be good all the way to Cairo, just a few high clouds, and with the moon almost full we shouldn’t have any trouble following the Nile. We’ll make Cairo mid-morning, in full daylight.”

Lewis nodded. “We’re heavy.”

“I know. But we’ve got fifty miles of lake to get us airborne.”

Mitch grinned at that, as she’d hoped he would. “Sounds good to me.”

They finished the walk-around in silence, and Alma and Mitch made their way carefully through the piled baggage to take their seats in the cockpit. At her orders, Lewis fired up the engines, adjusting the cowls to let them warm up thoroughly. On the shore, the villagers had built fires and set up tents while some of the men worked on rafts, but as the engines came to life, most of them straightened, shading their eyes to watch the plane. We ought to stay, Alma thought, but there was nothing useful she could do here. Maybe once she got back to the States she could tell people what was going on, get people to pay attention — except who would listen to her? It had been a long time since the Great Passenger Derby, and this was news nobody wanted to hear.