The White Knight (6 page)

“It's something I have to do, Streak.”

“Look. Colonel Valdez told me that the war's over. He said he'd help you and me get away.”

“Yes. He told me that too.”

“Well, let's do it.”

“It's not over yet. Somebody said a thing ain't over until the fat lady sings.”

“That fat lady's already sung!” Streak exclaimed. “Franco has won. We've lost. Get that in your head! Let's get out of here and get back home.”

“I'll think about it. You may be right. But I sure would like to get one shot at Ritter.”

“Stay away from him.”

“I can't promise that.”

“You'd better!”

Luke pulled his arm away, climbed into the plane, and five minutes later was pulling up into a steep climb. Wind whistled past and the sky was an ominous gray. The little fly trembled as Luke pushed the throttle forward to the ultimate. He gained maximum altitude and then began patrolling. There was not much point looking down at the earth. Franco's armies were victorious there, so he searched the sky for planes. For over an hour he saw nothing, and then as he banked, a tiny movement caught his eye. He had the sun at his back, so he
knew they could not see him, and he descended slowly to get a better look. He practically jumped in his seat when he could finally distinguish that there were three planes directly below, and the one on the left was jet black! As far as he knew there was only one black plane in the Condor Legion, and that was Erich Ritter's.

“I got him!” Luke whispered.

He would get only one chance at Ritter. The 109s could easily outrun him, as Ritter had already shown, so Luke knew he had to get him on the first pass. Ignoring the other two planes, he pushed the stick forward and put the black airplane in his sights. The plane screamed, dropping at full speed in a sharp dive. Luke knew he had to get as close as possible—if the bullets didn't knock Ritter out of the sky, he would ram him. It was a thought that would never have occurred to him earlier, but in his present state of mind, it seemed perfectly logical.

I don't care if it kills me!
He had barely slept since finding the bodies of the Chavez family. His despair had turned to a deep seething hatred—all of which was now aimed at Erich Ritter.

The black 109 became large in his sights, and he was confident that none of the German pilots had spotted him. He was coming from their rear and out of the sun.

When Ritter's plane seemed to fill the windshield, he pushed the button, and the I-16 began to tremble and shake as if caught in a wind. Even with the shaking, at this distance it was almost impossible to miss. He raked the plane from tail to nose cone. He saw the bullets striking and tearing fabric, and he hoped he had nailed the pilot. When he saw the engine begin to pour out white smoke, he knew he had hit the plane hard. He turned sharply, missing by only a few feet, and then pulled away. He knew the other two 109s would be all over him immediately, but he just didn't care.

He did a loop and saw at once that the canopy had opened on Ritter's plane. The plane flipped over on its back and
the pilot dropped out. He watched as the man fell and the parachute opened.

Luke had heard of pilots shooting men down who were parachuting, and he had never thought he would be tempted. But everything was different now. He flipped his plane over and dived straight toward the figure floating down. He slowed his plane, ignoring the approaching enemy planes. He got a good look at the man falling under the white canopy. It was Erich Ritter, all right. Ritter was facing him, and in the brief moment that Luke closed in on him, he saw no fear on Ritter's face. The hatred Luke felt was oddly mingled with a sense of admiration for the man's courage. Ritter knew he was dead, but he still seemed to have no fear. The German actually smiled at him!

Luke's finger was on the trigger, an inch away from sending the slugs into the man's helpless body. But somehow the smile changed that. At the last possible moment, Luke flipped his plane over and missed Ritter's body by no more than a few feet. He pulled up out of a dive, filled with anger. “Why did I do that!” He knew he would regret his actions. He would have had no qualms about killing Ritter in a dogfight, but somehow the thought of killing a helpless man caused something in him to rebel.

Suddenly the windshield shattered in front of Luke's eyes, and he felt his plane jerk as bullets struck it. He took one wild look over his shoulder and saw the two 109s coming after him.

I gotta get out of here!

He twisted the mosca into a tight turn, but even as he did so, he felt the controls loosen and knew that something vital had been hit.

There was no way to outrun the two, for they were faster than the mosca and obviously quite determined, so he would have to outmaneuver them.

Luke put his plane into a screaming dive straight toward the earth. He spotted a plowed field below, and he did not even bother to lower his landing gear as he headed for it. The
109s followed until it got too dangerous to continue. Luke pulled up at the last possible moment to avoid crashing into the earth. His plane struck with a ripping, tearing sound. He braced his hands against the instrument panel as the plane skidded across the earth and hit a fence that tore the cowling off. Then his right wing crashed into an ancient shed and sent the plane into a wild careen. The sound of metal bending and crunching filled Luke's ears.

It'll be a miracle if I come out of this alive!

Even as the plane screeched and tumbled, Luke could not help thinking,
I could have killed him, but I let him go.

Finally the plane came to a stop, and Luke hung there upside down, held by his safety belt. He shoved the canopy back, released the catch, and fell to the ground flat on his back. He lay motionless, the wind knocked out of him, then slowly got to his feet as he got his breath back.

He smelled fire and then noticed that a flame was coming out of the engine, and he ran. When he was barely twenty yards away, an explosion knocked him flat. The plane had burst into a ball of fire, and Luke lay there covering his head. After he realized he was okay, he rolled over onto his elbow so he could see what was going on. Flames danced across what remained of the aircraft, and finally they seemed to be dying down.

Getting to his feet, he staggered away from the wreckage and started in the direction he thought the airfield might be.

He studied the sky and saw no sign of Erich Ritter or his parachute. The 109s were still circling over the wreck of his own plane. He felt strange and disoriented by what had happened and wondered how in the world he would find his way back to his base.

He had not walked more than five minutes when suddenly two vehicles filled with soldiers appeared over the crest of a hill. They pulled up on either side of him, and the soldiers boiled out, laughing gleefully and keeping their rifles trained on him.

“Put your hands in the air!”

A lieutenant got out and was pointing a pistol at Luke. “You are a prisoner of Generalissimo Franco,” he said in Spanish. “Do not try to get away or you will be killed. And that would give me great pleasure!”

Since there was nowhere to run to, Luke simply stood there while two of the soldiers came closer and began prodding him with their guns. They forced him to get into one of the trucks. As he climbed in he turned around, and one of them struck him in the forehead with the butt of his rifle. His world was filled with glittering stars of the most brilliant colors Luke had ever seen, but they soon faded to a soft, dull blackness.

CHAPTER FIVE

The Prisoner's Fate

Luke was jerked out of a semiconscious state by rough hands and a voice shouting, “Get up, gringo!”

He managed to open one eye, but the other was swollen shut. He reached up and felt dried blood caked over his left eye. He winced, and the pain was sharp enough to pull him up straight. Someone shoved him off the back of the truck, and he fell sprawling and once again felt a kick in his side that took his breath.

“Get up!”

The soldiers were grinning as they stood around him, and the lieutenant once again had a pistol pointed at him. At the man's gesture, Luke slowly got up.

“So, you are a norteamericano.”

“Yes.”

“You came over to interfere in my country's fight for freedom. You will be shot.”

“I'm a prisoner of war.”

“You are a filthy spy!”

“No, I'm not a spy.”

“Shut your mouth!”

Luke did as he was told, which seemed to anger the lieutenant even more. He slapped Luke in the face and then again with the back of his hand, and the pain bore through Luke's head.

“You will have a fair trial,” the man said with a wolfish
grin, “and then you will be shot. Lock him up. And you do not have to treat him with gentleness.”

The soldiers all laughed, and two of them dragged him toward a shed. One of them yanked open the door and shoved Luke inside. He sprawled full-length, and the stench of the place almost gagged him. It had obviously been used as a pen for animals, and the odor was overpowering.

The lieutenant followed the other soldier inside. “Light the lamp so he can see his home until we shoot him.”

A blue spurt, a lighted match, and then the lantern was lit and hung on a nail. The faint yellow beams revealed the squalid interior. There was no furniture, only remnants of straw along the walls and dried mud on the floor.

“Enjoy yourself, Yankee.”

“I'll do my best.”

“Don't worry about the accommodations. You will not be here long.” The lieutenant laughed again and kicked Luke in the thigh. “Come. Let him think about standing in front of a firing squad. The gringos are all godless. We'll send him straight to the pit—where all filthy traitors go!”

“Lieutenant Garcia, let me have a few minutes with him.” The guard, a burly man with a cruel, wolfish face, obviously wanted to have a go at the prisoner.

“No. That's enough for now.” He grinned. “But maybe we'll come back later and have some fun.”

The lieutenant waved the guards out, and Luke heard the door close. His ribs ached and his head was killing him. There was nothing to sit on except the filthy floor, so he simply pulled himself over to the wall and sat up, leaning against it. Closing his eyes, he knew a moment of despair.
Well, at least it'll be quick,
he thought.
It doesn't take long for a firing squad to do its work.

****

General Wolfram von Richthofen was listening as Erich Ritter told about his harrowing afternoon. Ritter had landed
safely and been picked up by a patrol. He had immediately reported to the commanding officer of the Condor Legion. The general was a full-faced man, heavy in body and feature, his cleverness revealed by intelligent eyes. Some had suggested he had achieved his rank because he was related to Manfred von Richthofen, the Red Baron of the Great War, but this was not true. He was intelligent and had learned his trade well. He was now studying Erich Ritter carefully, his eyes hooded.

“I'm surprised that he managed to get you, Major. You don't usually have much trouble with the enemy. How did he get the best of you?”

“He came from behind and above me—out of the sun. I didn't know there was a plane within a hundred kilometers until the bullets started hitting. It was too late then.”

“It's a wonder he didn't kill you immediately.”

Erich Ritter shrugged. He was a handsome man, no more than five ten but with a strong, lithe figure. He could have served as a poster boy for Adolf Hitler's ideal of a true Aryan. He had startling blue eyes, and his blond hair lay in a slight wave off his forehead. “I suppose it was a miracle. But you haven't heard the rest of the story.”

“What happened?”

“I was lucky enough to get out of the plane and my parachute opened. That's always a miracle to me.” Ritter smiled slightly. “But as soon as it opened, I looked up and there he came. I was as helpless as a man can be.”

“That must have given you quite a shock.”

“I was a dead man, General. Winslow was coming straight at me. Of course, my men were getting after him as quick as they could, but there was no time. I hung there and knew that I was dead. I was certain it was all over for me.”

General von Richthofen smiled. “Did your whole life flash before your eyes, Erich?”

“As it happens in books?”

“Yes.”

“You know, it really did. I thought about when I was a boy
shooting my first stag in the Black Forest. I thought about growing up, about things I did when I was just a young boy, you know?”

“You didn't have that much time.”

“No, I didn't, General. And I could see him. The muzzles of those guns . . . They looked as big as eighty-eights!”

“I've often wondered what I would do if I knew I was going to die in the next few seconds.”

“There's nothing to do,” Ritter said simply. “I gave it up and then I think I even smiled to think it would end like this. I always thought I'd die in a dogfight, and here I was as helpless as a rag doll. Not at all what I had expected.”

“How did he miss you?”

“He didn't miss me.”

“What's that?”

“No, sir,
that's
the miracle. Winslow didn't even fire. He turned the plane over and missed me by a few feet. I just hung there, shocked to be alive.”

“Why did he do that?”

“I have no idea, General. No idea whatsoever.”

“What happened then?”

“The two pilots with me shot him down. I assume he had a crash landing, but of course, I didn't see it. I landed in the branches of a tree and got hung up. I had to cut myself down, but I was pleased to find that I didn't have a scratch.”

The pilot sat back in his chair. “Too bad about Winslow. He was a brave man. I would like to meet him.”