The Iron Thorn - Caitlin Kittredge [42]
A whine cut the low growling of the Belle’s fans, the sound of gears brought to life by coiled inertia. A winding engine, used by some jitneys, sleek British beetles that hugged the road, and warplanes.
Cal grabbed for me, but I evaded his hands deliberately and cycled the deck hatch, leaning over the rail to look toward the Belle’s six o’clock. Bouncing in the wake of the big ship like pilot fish, twin chrome gliders swooped like owls in the moonlight, matching the Belle’s speed.
“Buggies!” I shouted at Dean as the wind stole my breath. We were speeding so fast it felt like all of my skin was being stripped away by the wind and cold. “P-51 Mustangs!” The snub-nosed shape and the fixed wing were unmistakable.
The moon showed its face, gibbous as the eye of a Great Old One, and revealed to me twin black wings stamped on the Mustang’s noses.
I froze, caught out in the moonlight. I could even see the pilots, black leather caps and black goggles shielding their faces from the punishing air. I could see the long guns swiveling, coming to bear on the corpulent bulk of the Belle’s gas balloon.
Dean yanked me back through the hatch by my collar as the first line of lead cut loose from the Mustang’s guns. I fell against him, boneless for a moment, shock rendering me deadweight.
“Your buddy got one thing right,” Dean said, righting me. “To Proctors, these cats are pirates. And pirates get shot down.”
The Belle shook. Harry bellowed orders in French. Cal clutched his tie-down harness and squeezed his eyes shut.
“What do we do, Dean?” I grabbed the nearest rail as another volley ripped through the night, bouncing the Belle as if it were a toy.
“Ride it out. Or ride it down.” Dean grabbed my arm and dropped me into the seat next to Cal. “Strap in, miss.”
The Belle dipped and swayed, dancing with the air. I grabbed for Dean’s hand. It was the only solid thing I could reach, and just then I needed something solid very badly.
Cal shuddered as another burst from the Mustang’s guns rattled past the hull like knucklebones. “We shouldn’t be here,” he blurted. “We should land. We should land and turn ourselves in and beg for mercy. They won’t burn me if I give myself up … they won’t …”
I wanted to comfort him, but before I could say anything, Alouette was in front of us, clutching the cargo net. I saw the fury in her face first and then the pistol in her hand.
“The Belle lands for no Proctor.” Her voice was as cold as her eyes.
“Allie”—Dean held up a hand—“put that away. The kid’s just scared.”
“That better be all, or I’ll throw him out the hatch for the Proctors myself. I swear by the gears of this boat.”
“Leave Cal alone!” I snarled. “Maybe if you didn’t hire traitors we wouldn’t be in this mess!”
The pistol bounced toward me, and my next stream of invective died on my lips. Never knew when to leave well enough alone …
“Alouette! Bluebird! I can’t fly this bastard ship alone!” Captain Harry bellowed, and saved us.
Alouette lowered her pistol, spun as if she were dancing ballet on the tilting deck and made her way forward, hand over hand on the cargo nets.
All I could concentrate on was not throwing up all over Dean as we lurched from side to side, shaken like dice in a cup.
The Mustangs rolled in concert and pulled up in front of the Belle’s bow, visible through the cockpit glass. The pilots were good, but one miscalculated his turn, and I saw him close enough to pick out the name stitched into his airman’s leathers. Bowman. The pilot turned his head, agonizingly slow, and stared right into the Belle’s cockpit as we rushed up at his plane.
Absurdly, I wanted to scream a warning to him.
Then time righted itself. The silver sky became a garden of orange fire-flowers, tangled in vines of smoke. The sound of screaming metal stabbed my ears as the prow of the Belle cut the Mustang in half and threw me against my harness, against Dean. His arms closed around me, kept me from falling or snapping my spine. I dug my fingers into