Alan Evans - Thunder at Dawn

Smith said, “I haven’t much time, Mr. Bradley. I think you can fly it, I think you know you can fly it. I think you are still in the service of the United States Government. I think that if you really wanted Richter’s job at any time then he would have a nasty fall or get caught up in some brawl so that the position would become vacant.”

Bradley laughed then looked serious. “You’re not thinking at all, Admiral. Plenty of people are saying you’re off your nut and I’m starting to agree with them.”

Sarah said quietly, harshly, “Jim!”

Bradley gripped her hand. “It happens, girl. Loneliness of command and all that.”

Smith said, “Take me up. You’re here to find out why that seaplane is here. Take me up and I’ll tell you.”

“How do you know?”

“I know.”

Bradley stared at him.

Sarah said, “You could do it, Jim. You said no one was there.”

He snapped at her, “That makes no difference. As soon as she takes off everybody in town will see her, and before that they’ll hear her. And you know one reason why nobody will be out there now? Because nobody in his right mind would take off in this weather.” And he thought that wasn’t half of it and Smith did not know the rest.

Smith said, “You mean Richter wouldn’t.”

Bradley replied grudgingly, “He would if he had to. Give the devil his due.”

“So it could be done.”

Sarah put in impatiently, “You’re not scared of a little bad weather!”

Smith swore under his breath. That was a dirty blow and if Bradley reacted and ditched them —

Bradley did not. He stared down at his hands that were clasped between his knees, fingers tight. “It’s not just a ‘little bad weather’. Maybe that’s what it is for the Admiral in his ship but that isn’t made out of plywood and canvas.” He paused, staring at Smith.

Smith asked again, “Take me up.”

Bradley muttered, “I’ll say one thing for you, Admiral: you never give up.” He was being driven into a corner and he was proud that he was so cool about it but he wondered how long he could keep that up. He backed further into the corner: “You were going to tell me why.”

Smith nodded. “Two German armoured cruisers have slipped the blockade in the North Sea and are heading for this coast. The seaplane is to scout for them.”

Bradley sat still. He said softly, “Jesus.” And then: “But why ship it out here? Why couldn’t these cruisers carry their own seaplanes?”

“There are numerous hazards in flying off and recovering seaplanes at sea. Whereas with a land-based aircraft?” He put it as a question and left it to Bradley to answer for himself. He finished with another: “And has Medina set up other bases as part of this proposed mail contract, like dumps of fuel and mooring facilities?”

Bradley nodded slowly. “That he has. Plenty.”

Smith went on, “There was a collier at Guaya that called herself neutral but was a tender for the cruisers.”

Bradley put in wryly: “I heard about her.”

“Another collier, the Maria , sailed from this port a little over nine hours ago. She’s gone to a rendezvous with the cruisers. She may have sailed south or west and I need to know which before I start to chase her. I need to know. Badly.” He did not say that he had offered Bradley a bargain and Bradley had taken his share. Bradley had not accepted the bargain, he was not even bound by his word. There was only an unspoken understanding between them.

A ghost of the grin returned to Bradley. “That Richter. Oh, boy!” He leaned out of the window of the cab, and Smith realised that all the time he had been noting with a part of his mind that the cab had walked steadily around the same four streets, around and around the block. But now as Bradley yelled up at the driver the whip cracked and the cab rocked as the horse broke into a trot. Bradley hung there for a moment, head and shoulders out of the window, feeling the wind on his face and not having to smile. He thought he had taken a step forward. Toward the edge of the plank.

Five minutes later the cab halted and they climbed down. Bradley paid the driver and told him to wait. They stood on a dirt road lined with trees but Bradley led them on a path into the trees and they followed its windings. In less than a minute they came to the little inlet. A large shed stood at the water’s edge. The sea broke gently in this inlet and washed in little ripples around their boots as they walked around to the front of the shed. The big doors were locked with two massive padlocks but Bradley fished a bunch of keys from his pocket, selected two and opened each lock and tossed it aside. He said solemnly, “Fitted myself up with the keys a coupla weeks back. Good idea to check up on your competitors’ stock once in a while.”

Smith replied equally seriously, “It does no harm. I believe the farm tool trade is very competitive.”

Bradley guffawed.

They pushed back the doors that concertinaed on themselves.

Bradley said, “And there she is. Single-engined biplane made of fabric an’ wood. Curtiss engine of one hundred and fifty horses, maximum speed ninety knots — but I told you that.” He rattled on but as he talked he swung up on a staging beside the engine, looking it over then checking the fuel. He dropped down and pushed the staging aside, hesitated a moment then said, “As I thought. She’s all ready to go.” One more step.

He glanced around, moved to one wall where two long, leather Flying coats hung from nails with leather flying helmets and goggles. He tossed one set at Smith who stood peering up at the flimsy aircraft where it stood on its bogey. They both dressed, took off their boots and pulled on the waders that lay by the wall, dropped the boots in the cockpits of the seaplane. Bradley said, “It’ll be cold up there.” And he shivered despite the coat and the closeness of the air in the shed. Smith noticed but said nothing.

The seaplane stood on a wide-wheeled bogey. As they shoved the bogey forward out of the shed and across the narrow strip of sand, a line attached to the float-struts snaked out behind them. Its other end was anchored in the shed. The bogey disappeared under the ripples that washed the beach. They pushed it another foot and the seaplane floated, lifted clear of the bogey and rose and fell gently to the wash of the waves under the floats and, under the wind’s urging tugged impatiently at the mooring line.

Bradley beckoned Sarah Benson and showed her the loop in the line where it was made fast to the float-strut. “When I lift my hand you pull that loop, the line comes free and she goes. Right?”

She nodded, eyes watching his face and worried now.

He turned away from that look and waded out to climb on to a float. Smith waded out after him. Bradley felt the wind thrusting at the seaplane and thrumming through the fabric. Little waves chased across the inlet. Beyond its mouth he could see the bay and the ships anchored there, a tramp and a liner and far out the ugly shape of a warship. The cloud ceiling was low and dark and clouds ran in on the wind. There was rain in the wind that touched cold on his face. He wondered if Smith really had any idea —?

Smith asked, “I have to swing the propeller?”

“That’s right.”

“I can do that.”

“Yeah?” Bradley reached up and clamped his hands on the side of the cockpit, staring at the fuselage inches before his face. Smith saw sweat standing on his face but Smith himself was sweating in the leather coat. Bradley said thickly, “I think in fairness I should tell you I flew one of these things into the sea a while back and I couldn’t face flying after that. So they sent me down on this job, where all I had to do was talk about it and know about it.” He licked his lips and went on: “I got as far as this because I thought I should fight it, give it another try; and because you’re in one hell of a mess. And because Sarah asked me.” He paused, then said, “I can’t do it.”