“Virgilio,” shouted Miro over the revving engines, “take us home.”
Thomas North counted the men as they went past. Many were wounded; Paul Maczka of the Wrecking crew was dead, along with two of the Hibernians, and one of the Wild Geese-little Dillon. Their gear had been carried out, but their bodies would be buried here, beneath the rubble of the storeroom that North now closed behind him.
He locked the storeroom door-mostly to intensify the effects of the impending internal blast-and checked the fuse on the two kegs of powder he had placed beside the trapdoor into the tunnel. It would burn down in four minutes, give or take.
North lit the fuse, blew out the match, dropped down into the secret passage, and closed the trapdoor behind him.
Virgilio had just completed a sweeping turn to the west, which would put them among the southernmost hills of the Tramuntana mountain range, thereby screening them from eyes in Palma. But as they slipped behind the crest of the Serra de Portopi, the passengers and crew of the dirigible heard a long, dull roar behind them.
Turning to look, Frank and Giovanna watched a column of white-yellow flame shoot up from the broad maw of the Castell de Bellver into the night sky. Large explosions pockmarked the blinding plume: those were powder kegs blown high before they, too detonated in mid air. “So long, fairy-tale prison,” whispered Frank.
“And saluti freedom,” sighed Giovanna.
The explosive jet settled down into a sullen orange glow; pretty at this range, it betokened an inferno trapped within the sandstone cauldron that were the walls of the Castell de Bellver.
Then they were behind the crest of Serra de Portopi, and both the flame and the sound of the bells was gone.
CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX
Thomas North tapped the Hibernian beside him, who left his position at the ruined windmill and fell back toward the black-hulled llaut that had raised its black sail. Back there, North also heard the sound he had been waiting for: the cough and steady growl of the extra motor that they had brought as an emergency back-up for the dirigible, now reverted to its original function: a small outboard motor.
A little more than half a mile to the northwest, the initially angry flames marking the Castell de Bellver had died down to occasional gutterings. From north and south, Spanish units were converging on the roads that led to the lanes that devolved into the cart tracks that wound up the slopes upon which the burning fortress was perched. What they would find when they got there was hard to estimate. On the one hand, there hadn’t been that many flammables on hand, even counting the containers of fuel jettisoned by the dirigible. But, on the other hand, the castle was sealed and the Spanish had no way to get in to fight the conflagration. Given time, the wooden floors and beams and fixtures would catch fire, too-if they hadn’t already.
“Colonel North, we’re ready.” It was Grogan’s voice.
“Very well, Grogan. Back aboard, now.” North followed the Irishman closely, and together they waded out to the llaut. They were hip-deep when they pushed it off the sandbar that its keel was barely kissing. As Ohde opened the throttle of the outboard slightly, North and Grogan hauled themselves over the side, receiving a hand from the waiting crowd hunkered low in the boat.
“No oars?” wondered Jeffrey, shivering.
“No, lad,” muttered O’Neill, his leg out straight and stiff. “It takes a trained rower not to splash like a jumping fish-and if there’s any light to be caught, you can be sure the Spanish would see it shining off the blades of the oars. And I think you’ll agree that, just now, silence is all important.”
Jeffrey bit his lip and nodded, looking over the bows.
The rest of them followed his eyes to the squat, blunt outlines of Fort San Carlos. Still under construction, this was a fortification in the modern style: low, sloped, thick walls, modern gun mounts-a far more ugly, and far more dangerous, structure than Castell de Bellver.
They stared at it as they approached, passing within four hundred yards. Everything was in their favor at this point: the almost lightless night, the black of the hull and the sail, the sound of the waves drowning out the persistent low growl of the engine-a sound which, whatever else the local down-time ears might make of it, would not signify “escaping boat.” But they knew right enough that Dame Luck was a bitch goddess who refused to play favorites-because she didn’t have any. So until they had passed out from beneath the cannons of the fort…
A musket fired into the night. They saw the flash, but could not tell, so far away, if it had been aimed at them, or just more generally out into the bay. After a few seconds, there were two other shots, one of which plippshh ’ed into the swells twenty yards astern. But after that nothing.
Had it been a nervous new recruit firing at shadows? Had someone seen them, but not in time to bring any of the fort’s impressive cannons to bear? Had it been a trial shot-meant to excite the response of suspected amphibious infiltrators who might fear themselves discovered? Or was there some other explanation?
They could not tell, and they would never know.
Which was, of course, the very fiber of uncertainty that comprised the bulk of all war, and was even more characteristic of it than the death and destruction for which it was rightly infamous.
Using the lee of mountains to cover their long, altitude-sustaining burns, Virgilio brought the balloon under the clouds once they were safe in the uninhabited uplands north of the valley lake known as the Torrent de son Boronat, where they dumped half a dozen empty fuel containers overboard. Then they wound a bit farther to the north, staying high, often in the clouds, and estimating their progress and position by maintaining close running estimates of airspeed, heading, and wind.
After thirty minutes at twenty-two miles per hour, Miro ordered the burner be left alone and began to watch for the ground as the airship slowly lost lift. After five minutes, they came down through the lowest tier of clouds and discovered they were slightly lower than they thought, and only three miles away from the west coast of Mallorca. Which meant they were only six miles away from their ultimate destination: the oddly sloped island called Dragonera.
As they continued to lose altitude, it became evident to the occupants of the gondola why this island was called the Dragon. Although they were approaching its relatively smooth, southern side, its northern extents soared up dramatically. Creating a combined cliff top and crest that did invoke scenes of a sinuous dragon arising from the depths.
Virgilio conferred closely with Miro, now, whose experienced local eye guided them toward the level ground a few hundred yards north of the accessible part of Dragonera’s coast, the inlet known as Es Llado. If the nearby watchtower had seen the airship, there was no sign of it; not even Harry’s keen eyes could determine if the tower was occupied at all.
The landing was rough, the gondola scraping along the ground before enough of the heated air could be vented and the envelope began settling. Under Miro’s and Virgilio’s supervision, and with Harry’s and Connal’s trained assistance, those passengers that could began the process of breaking down the airship. The nosecone and partial back spine were separated and removed from the envelope, which was then hastily folded. The engines were dismounted, the rest of the gear packed and distributed to individuals. Miro was constantly checking his watch; the Atropos ’s away boats were due within ninety minutes, and they had to have the entirety of the airship broken down and ready to move.
In order to ensure that they had not, and would not, be spotted, Miro dispatched two of the group to keep an eye on the dark-windowed watchtower and the half dozen cottages of seasonal fishermen who worked the local waters. He chose Harry Lefferts for his extraordinary senses-including the sixth sense that always seemed to warn him of danger a moment before it became manifest-and, with some reservation, Don Vincente Jose-Maria de Castro y Papas, whose knowledge of Spanish military protocol was just as great as his ability to possibly deflect or at least confuse inquiries, if they were discovered by locals.
Sitting in the scrub only seventy yards from the cottages and fifty yards inland from the rocky southern shore, Harry was wondering how to start a conversation with a recent mortal enemy when Castro y Papas solved the problem for him-but in a most unconventional and unexpected fashion.
“I owe you an apology, Harry Lefferts.”
“You do? I don’t even know you.”
