Vespers Rising (The 39 Clues #11)(36)

Drago had an idea. “We go around it, of course. We do not want to tangle with one of your American — how do you say — hotshot pilots.” He veered back out to sea, flying parallel to the coast, avoiding the thick of the battle. The strategy was to come ashore well south of the city. They would approach Casablanca’s airfield from the east, away from the fighting.

They were close enough that Grace could make out the minarets of Casablanca through the smoke. She wondered which of the American fleet was the heavy cruiser USS Augusta, Patton’s ship.

“There is problem,” Drago said suddenly.

It all seemed like a problem to Grace — bombs dropping, cannons firing, bullets flying, shells bursting. Even from afar, it was the utmost in chaos and insanity.

“What’s wrong?”

“Our fuel is low,” Drago replied.

“How low?”

His expression was grim. “We must land now.”

“What — in the middle of all that?”

“Now!”

He turned Olga toward the city and began to descend, veering closer to the teeth of the clash. “Airfield is just beyond town. I can make it!”

“But you’re heading straight into the war!” she cried. “It’s not safe!”

“Safer than crashing into the ocean!”

Her eyes were riveted to the canopy, watching as they edged nearer to the smoke of the battle. Fifty yards … twenty … ten …

Stay out of it … she prayed, twisting her shoulders as if her body language could alter the plane’s inevitable course.

And then the conflict surrounded them like a fatal fog. The aircraft began to vibrate as Drago cut speed.

Grace could feel the concussion of exploding artillery shells. The fighting was no longer silent. Bursts of flak bloomed all around them.

With a sharp crack, a stray fragment of antiaircraft fire tore through the fuselage.

Drago turned to Grace. “Now you will land Olga yourself.” “Me? Why?”

“Because I will very shortly be dead.”

And then she saw the blood pooling on the moth-eaten fur of his coat where the shrapnel had pierced his chest.

Horror surged through her. “You’re hit!”

“We must change seats” — his voice was strained — “while I can still move.”

“We have to get you to a doctor!” she shrilled.

“Do it! There is very little time.” He leaned forward, literally stuffing her into the seat behind him. At last, he collapsed into the passenger chair.

Grace took hold of the yoke and throttle, fighting to steady her trembling hands. “You have to tell me what to do!”

The sight of him terrified her. The whole front of his coat was now saturated with blood. His face was chalk-white, his lips blue.

“You will do it,” he promised in a thready voice.

“How can you know that?”

He stared at her as if memorizing her face. “I lied about Olga. She is not my gun. She is my daughter.”

Grace struggled to control the shuddering craft.

“I have not seen her since she was small child,” Drago whispered hoarsely. “But it is my hope” — he coughed — “that she is growing up to be like you.”

Grace tore her eyes from the horizon for just a second. It was long enough for her to realize that the pilot was gone from her. Drago was dead.

Not even at her mother’s funeral had Grace wept with such intensity. She had dragged him here on her mad mission, and it had cost him his life. It was her fault as surely as if she had shot him herself.

But there was no time for regret. Below her was the beach — American troops shooting up at defenders on higher ground. Olga was now low enough to be in the thick of the fight. Rifle fire whined all around her like deadly mosquitoes. A stray bullet tore through the fuselage inches from her elbow and exited through the canopy.

I will not die here! Grace gritted her teeth, wrestling with the controls as the biplane crossed over the shore. I will live on and have children and grandchildren who will never have to go through terrors like this just because they’re Cahills!

She eased up on the throttle, gentling Olga lower and lower until the highest buildings of the city were passing mere feet beneath the landing wheels.

Where was the airfield?

A sputter from the engine told her that she did not have the time to find it. Drago had been right. The fuel tank was running dry. She was soon going to be on the ground one way or another.

Beyond Casablanca, the vast desert loomed. All right — if she couldn’t locate the airfield, she was going to have to set down on one of the roads that led out of the city. She could see ribbons of pavement crisscrossing the sand.

Her flight instructor had been James Cahill, which meant that she had not had a lesson in more than a year. It was a bad time to be rusty, but there was no point in lamenting that now.

Speed equals altitude had been Father’s motto. Less throttle meant more descent. The biplane swooped low over windswept dunes. The road was directly in front of Olga‘s nose. Grace went for it, all focus.

With a cough, the engine burned its last drop of gasoline. The propeller stopped, and Olga was falling. The crash was jarring. One tire blew, and the struts on the other collapsed. Sparks flew as metal parts scraped against the pavement at high speed. The plane spun off the road into the sand.