Vespers Rising (The 39 Clues #11)(37)

Grace’s world turned upside down, and she reached out a hand to brace herself against the control panel.

Impact. Blinding pain.

Darkness.

It began as a general ache all over her body. But as Grace awoke, it localized. Her arm was in agony. She struggled out of her coat and examined the damage. Swollen, misshapen, and black and blue to the elbow. She must have broken her wrist in the crash.

The pain was awful, but not nearly as awful as the sight of Drago’s lifeless body tossed like a rag doll in the seat beside her.

She looked up and instantly regretted it. The sun was overpowering — and very high in the sky. She must have been unconscious for hours.

Using her good hand and her teeth, she ripped out the lining of her overpriced coat and fashioned a sling for her left arm. It still hurt like mad, but at least it was supported. She popped open the canopy, swung a leg over the side, and dropped to the ground.

The plane was a total loss. The collision with the sand had torn one of the wings, and the tail was broken off. Smoke billowed from a spot behind the propeller.

“Drago —” she whimpered. How could she abandon him to the desert? Yet she could do nothing for her pilot now. A dead man had no use for company. To the money in the briefcase she gave not a single thought. Its sole purpose had been to buy her way to Casablanca. And here she was. In the general vicinity, anyway.

In the process of landing she had overshot the city by several miles. It was going to be a long hike, and she had best get started.

She began to trudge along the road in the direction of the distant spires and minarets.

It grew hotter. She took back everything she’d ever said about Boston winters. A snowdrift would have been heavenly for both cooling and drinking purposes. Her thirst was beginning to occupy all her thoughts.

Time passed — at least a couple of hours. The sun was well past its zenith in the cloudless sky. She could feel the skin on the back of her neck roasting. Dressing in black had been a good idea for sneaking through the night at the Monaco airfield. Yet here in the desert, it was practically suicide, absorbing the solar heat as it did.

Her broken wrist throbbed with the jolt of every step. Still she soldiered on, driven by a mixture of courage and stubbornness. Perhaps she had not fully understood what it meant to be a Cahill when she embarked on this adventure. But each sizzling foot of sizzling sand brought that truth home to her: There was no pain. There was no heat. There was no exhaustion. There was only the task at hand.

The sun pounded down on her unprotected head. All around her, the baking desert shimmered. She could barely make out Casablanca, although she had to be a lot closer to it now. And the smoke plume from the battle — it had moved! It was off to her right. Low and trailing across the dunes like a long snake all the way to the horizon.

Oh, no! Was she starting to lose her mind? Everyone knew about desert mirages.

She heard the growl of an engine — many engines. An army jeep appeared in the midst of the dust cloud. And another, followed by a truck. An entire convoy of military vehicles veering toward her on an intersecting road.

This was no cloud! It was an army!

The Vichy French? How would Casablanca’s defenders treat a US citizen — even a young girl — after the terrible bloodshed in the harbor and on the beach?

And then she spotted the star insignia on the side of a half-track.

Americans! The battle was over. These were the conquerors — Operation Torch’s Western Task Force — rolling triumphantly into the city.

An instant before, Grace was convinced that she had not a single ounce of energy left. She was wrong. The sight of the military column lent wings to her feet. She sprinted right into the middle of all that roaring machinery, waved her good arm, and yelled, “Stop!”

Out of the heat haze of dust and sand lumbered a Sherman tank, its gun turret pointed directly at her. The caterpillar treads clattered to a halt. The hatch opened, and a helmeted head emerged.

“Are you crazy? Get out of the way!”

“I’m an American!” Grace shouted through dry, cracked lips. “I have to see General Patton!”

The soldier laughed harshly. “I’ll check his calendar. Get out of the way!”

Grace drew herself up to her full height, which barely cleared the top of the tank tracks. “Tell the general that Grace Cahill has an urgent message for him!”

“Hold it!” came a shout.

A jeep swerved around the tank and pulled up beside Grace. A young captain jumped to the road. “Did you say your name is Cahill?”

“Grace Cahill. I’ve come a long way to see the general.”

The man looked her up and down. “I’ll say.”

He loaded her into the jeep, wheeled off the pavement, and began to plow through the sand, passing a procession of soldiers, tanks, and equipment that easily stretched back thirty miles. The BBC broadcast had estimated that the Western Task Force numbered 34,000 troops. Grace was not surprised. The jeep’s spinning tires must have kicked dust and dirt over at least that many.

After what seemed like an endless ride, they pulled back onto the road, blocking the path of a very large staff car.

The driver stuck his head out the open window. “What’s the holdup?”

The captain snapped a rigid salute. “Grace Cahill to see the general!”

“Cahill?” echoed a gruff voice.