speed but still came on, blocking the runway. “Get out of the way, you idiot!” Blok shouted, and drew his Luger again. “You damned fool, get off the runway!” Behind him the engines of Iron Fist were revving to a thunderous roar. Blok’s cap whirled off his head, and went into one of the props where it was shredded to dust. The air shimmered with oily heat as the B-17’s engines built power. Blok held his Luger at arm’s length as the Dornier rolled toward him. The pilot was insane! German or not, the man had to be forced off the run-
Through the Dornier’s windshield he saw that the co-pilot had golden hair.
The pilot was bearded. He recognized both their faces: Chesna van Dorne and the man who’d been with her and the baron. He had no idea how they’d gotten here, but he knew why they’d come and that must not be allowed.
With a shout of rage, Blok began firing the Luger.
A bullet cracked the windshield in front of Chesna’s face. A second ricocheted off the fuselage, and a third punched through the glass and hit Lazaris in the collarbone. The Russian cried out in pain, glass fragments flying around Michael, who sat behind the cockpit. As Blok kept firing at the windshield, Michael reached for the entry hatch’s handle and turned it. He leaped out onto the runway’s pavement and sprinted beneath the Dornier’s wing toward Colonel Blok, the propellers of the night fighter and the B-17 whirling up roaring windstorms.
He was on the man before Blok knew he was there. Blok gasped, tried to get a shot off into Michael’s face, but Michael grabbed his wrist and uptilted the Luger’s barrel as the bullet fired. They grappled between the propellers, Blok trying to dig his fingers into Michael’s eyes. Michael struck his fist into Blok’s jaw, snapping the man’s head back. Blok held on to the Luger, and Michael held on to the colonel’s wrist. Blok shifted his weight violently in an effort to throw Michael into the Dornier’s prop, but Michael had read the move seconds before it came and he was ready to resist it. Blok shouted something-a curse, lost in the engine noise-and chopped the flat of his free hand at Michael’s nose. Michael was able to dodge the full power of it, but the blow hit the side of his head and stunned him. Still, he gripped on to Blok’s wrist, bending the arm back at the elbow in an effort to snap it. Blok’s trigger finger spasmed with the pain, and two bullets left the Luger. They pierced one of the B-17’s engine cowlings, almost overhead, and the black smoke of burning oil bloomed from the wounds.
Michael and Blok battled between the propellers, the wind screaming around them, threatening to throw them both into the spinning blades. In Iron Fist’s cockpit, Van Hoven saw the trails of burning oil from one of the four engines. He released the brakes, and the aircraft began to lurch forward. Boots, still working in the bomb bay, looked up as he realized they were moving and roared, “What the hell are you doing?”
Blok slammed his elbow into Michael’s chin and wrenched the Luger free. He lifted it to blow the false baron’s skull apart. He grinned in triumph: his last grin, a fleeting triumph.
Because in the next second Michael hurtled forward in a burst of power, catching Blok at the knees and lifting him up and backward. The Luger’s bullet passed over Michael’s back, but the blades of Iron Fist’s propeller bit true.
They carved Jerek Blok into red streamers of blood and bone from the waist up, as Michael gripped the legs and dove to the pavement beneath the props. In an eyeblink, there was nothing left of Blok but those legs, and a mist of blood staining the concrete. Silver teeth clinked down, and that was all.
Michael rolled beneath the blades, Blok’s disembodied legs still twitching where they lay. In the bomber’s cockpit, Van Hoven veered Iron Fist off the runway into the grass to avoid the Dornier, and as he passed the black night fighter he failed to note the figure that was following.
The bomber was picking up speed, moving back onto the pavement. Michael Gallatin reached up, past the bleeding body that lay over the rectangular gunport, and locked his hands around the machine-gun barrel. In the next second the B-17 was hurtling forward, and Michael lifted his feet up and winnowed into the plane, shoving the dead man aside with his shoulder.
Iron Fist reached the runway’s end and nosed up. Its wheels left the ground, and Van Hoven turned the plane-one of its engines leaving a scrawl of black smoke-toward England.
Two minutes later the Dornier followed. Chesna had taken the controls as Lazaris pressed his hand to his broken collarbone and fought off unconsciousness. She looked at the fuel gauges; the needles had fallen past their red lines, and the warning lights of both wing tanks were blinking. She powered the plane after the trail of smoke as the wind shrilled through the windshield cracks in front of her face.
The B-17 climbed to about five thousand feet before it leveled off over the gray Channel. In the waist section, as wind whipped through the gun ports, Michael looked out at the smoking engine. The prop had ceased turning, and small sputters of fire shot from the blackened cowling. The damage wouldn’t stop Iron Fist; in fact, it only made the masquerade more convincing. He searched the dead men for weapons, but found nothing. And as he stood up from his search he felt the B-17 pick up speed and there was a whoosh as something flew past the starboard gun portal.
Michael peered out. It was the Dornier. Chesna circled, about five hundred feet above. Fire! he thought. Shoot the bastard down! But she didn’t, and he knew why. She feared hitting him. The die was cast. If Iron Fist was to be stopped, it was up to him.
He would have to kill the pilot and co-pilot, with his bare hands if necessary. Every passing second took them closer to England. He looked around for a weapon. The machine guns were loaded with belts of ammunition, but they were bolted to their mounts. The plane’s interior had been stripped bare except for a red fire extinguisher.
He was about to go forward when he saw another plane through the portal. No, two more. They were diving on the Dornier. His blood went cold. They were British Spitfire fighters, and he saw the bright orange streaks of their tracer bullets as they opened fire on Chesna. Blok’s camouflage was successful; the Spitfires’ pilots thought they were protecting a crippled American Fortress.
In the Dornier Chesna jinked the plane violently to one side as tracers zipped past. She wobbled the wings and flashed the landing lights, but of course the Spitfires didn’t turn away. They came in for the kill. Chesna felt the plane shudder and heard bullets crash into the port-side wing. And then the alarm buzzers went off, and that was the end of the fuel. She dove for the sea, a Spitfire on her tail. It sent a stream of bullets into the Dornier’s fuselage, and they ricocheted off the metal ribs of the plane like a storm of hailstones. The Dornier was almost down on the water. She said, “Hang on!” to Lazaris, and wrenched the yoke back to lift the nose an instant before the plane smacked down. There was a bone-jerking impact, the seat belt cutting into Chesna’s body as she was thrown forward. Her head slammed against the yoke, knocking her almost senseless. She tasted blood in her mouth, her tongue bitten. The Dornier was floating, and the Spitfires circled overhead and flew off after the Fortress.
Good shooting, she thought grimly.
Lazaris got his seat belt off while Chesna unsnapped her own. Water was flooding into the cockpit. Chesna stood up, her ribs throbbing with pain, and went back to the rack where a life raft was stored. The escape hatch was nearby, and together she and Lazaris forced it open.
Michael saw the orange life raft bloom on the Channel’s surface. A British destroyer was already moving toward the downed Dornier. The two Spitfires circled Iron Fist, then took up positions on either side and slightly behind. Escorting us home, Michael thought. He leaned out the starboard portal, into the wail of the wind, and frantically waved his arms. The Spitfire on that side wobbled its wings in a sign of greeting. Damn it! Michael raged as he pulled back in. He smelled blood, and saw it all over his hands. It had come from the corpse that had been leaning out of the plane. Blood had streamed down the bomber’s side.
He leaned out again, smeared more blood on his hands, and began to paint a Nazi swastika on the olive- green metal.
There was no response from the Spitfires. They held their position.
Desperate, Michael knew he had only one remaining option.
He found the safety on the starboard waist gun. He unlatched it and trained the barrel on the slow-flying Spitfire. Then he squeezed the trigger.
Bullets ripped holes along the plane’s side. Michael saw the amazed expression of the pilot, staring right at him. He swung the gun back and kept shooting, and an instant later the Spitfire’s engine belched smoke and fire. The aircraft dove away, still under the pilot’s control but heading for the drink.
Sorry, old chap, Michael thought.
He went to the opposite portal and started to open fire with the gun there, but the second Spitfire zoomed to a higher altitude, its pilot having seen what had happened to his companion. Michael gave a few bursts to drive
