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“What do I call you?”
“Sergeant Schulterman.” She wants to set the tone of their relationship at the start.
“Okay, Sarge, have it your way,” he says, smirking and then dismissing her.
It amazes Rainy that the uniform she wears and the stripes on her shoulder do such a very good job of transforming her from a teenaged young woman into someone who can shut down a mobster. For the very first time she has the fleeting thought that military life might be something to extend even after the war is over. For all its incessant hostility toward women soldiers, the army is one place t
hat a bright but uneducated young woman can do important work.
But as soon as that thought pops into her head she quashes it. Good grief, become a career soldier? She’d thought of becoming a lawyer or a teacher or starting a business. None of those careers involve risking life and limb.
To which another part of her mind, using a very different tone, answers, Exactly: none of those careers involve risking life and limb. And damned if she doesn’t sort of enjoy the danger. She’s jumped out of a plane and survived a firefight without turning tail. Having walked so close to danger, some part of her wants to return, to see whether she has the courage to take it further still.
Within minutes the plane is trundling down the runway, tail rising to level, and the noise from the wheels rushing down the pavement gives way to the whine of electric motors raising the wheels into the underbelly of the plane.
The sergeant, who explains that he is the “loadmaster,” a term Rainy has not heard before, shouts the itinerary and the rules.
“Okay, folks, here’s the deal. First stop is St. John’s, Newfoundland. That’s 1,130 miles. We’ll be cruising at about 180 miles an hour, so figure six, six hours and change, depending on tailwinds. We top off the fuel tanks—our range is just 1,600 miles, so we top off in Newfoundland and then head to Lajes base in the Azores, which is 1,420 miles. It’s within range, but there’s some weather up north, so we’ll assess things when we approach the point of no return.”
“The point of no return?” Cisco says, skeptical.
“Halfway. It’s the place where it takes the same amount of fuel to get back as it does to continue,” the loadmaster replies seriously. “Our motto is, ‘Don’t get cocky.’ The Atlantic is a big ocean, and I’m not that good a swimmer.”
“Point of no return,” Cisco repeats in a more serious tone. “That’s good. I’ll have to remember that.”
“We’ve rigged a chemical toilet behind that draw curtain back there. It’s awkward, but at least you get a little privacy. I’ll bring you a thermos of coffee and some sandwiches in a while, and once we’re at cruising altitude you can unbuckle and sack out on the floor if you want, but it’ll be plenty cold.”
“Thanks,” Rainy says.
The vibration and engine noise make it necessary to concentrate in order to make out what’s being said, but Rainy has taken note of the flight times and the mention of coffee. She pulls her orders from her pocket. Three typewritten pages, though the last page is only a paragraph.
She reads it quickly. Reaches the end. Frowns.
She goes back and reads it more carefully, certain that she has missed something. Missed more than a few things, actually.
By the time she’s done with her second reading, her hands are trembling and her breath is short. This can’t possibly be all there is. She checks the envelope again in case she’s overlooked a sheet. Nothing.
She is ordered to appear at the airfield, to take the flight to the Azores, there to rendezvous with a Royal Navy submarine, which is to take her to Italy. She is to deliver Cisco to his uncle and receive in return a map of enemy emplacements around Salerno. She is to deliver the packet to a certain person working at the Swedish Embassy in Rome.
And then?
Her orders are silent about then.
She swallows past a rising lump in her throat and barely stops herself reading through one more time. Nothing about then. Nothing about where she is to go, what she is to do, how she is to escape.
She wants to throw up. Her face feels like it’s burning. Surely this can’t be it. Surely even an amateur would have a plan? But of course there is a plan for getting what Corelli wants, just no plan for keeping her alive and out of the hands of the Gestapo or Italian counterintelligence.
The Swede. He must have the next set of instructions, the ones explaining how she is not simply being forgotten in the middle of enemy territory.
The Swede. Sure. That’s it. He’ll help her.
But try as she might, she cannot make herself believe it, not all the way.
There’s a difference between taking risks and committing suicide.
The six hours and twenty minutes pass in relative silence. Cisco leans back and dozes, eyes half-shut. Rainy’s mind races in circles. This isn’t a plan, this is a sketch. This is espionage through rose-colored lenses. It is impossible to avoid the conclusion that if she were an officer more attention would have been paid to her survival.
I’m a nobody, a buck sergeant, a GI. Expendable, like any other GI.
