Page 20 of Clive Cussler The Iron Storm (An Isaac Bell Adventure #15)

Two doors down, Baskers opened up another room.

It was empty and smelled faintly of naphthalene and gun oil.

As Bell stepped across the threshold and looked at the bare mattress with a bundle of sheets and blankets ready for use, he wondered how many deceased airmen had called this room home, if only for a short while.

Baskers grabbed a folded towel off the pile of bedding.

“There’s a bath at the end of the building to the right, I’ll have the bed made by the time you’re done cleaning up. ”

“Best offer I’ve had all day. I had half a helmet of tepid water to rinse with this morning.” Bell pulled his dopp kit and his last pairs of clean drawers and socks from his bag and headed out to find the bathroom.

He was back in his room twenty minutes later, the skin of his face tight from a straight-razor shave, his mustache neatly combed out, and his hair slicked back with a touch of a custom pomade Marion had made for him at a Fifth Avenue apothecary.

His jacket had been hung over the back of the chair and he noted Baskers had sponged it clean.

The adjutant was sitting on a ladder-back chair leaning against the side of the barn, his hat pulled low and soft whispers of snoring coming with each breath.

When Bell got closer he noticed the man’s eyes darting like mad behind his closed lids.

Like nearly everyone he’d met since his arrival in France, Baskers, too, was haunted by demons called up from hell on these battlefields.

Bell knew and understood that the decision to join the war in Europe was Wilson’s alone, but he couldn’t help feeling that his report put some of that burden on his shoulders, too.

He would not claim any responsibility per se, but he was the type of man to accept the consequences of his actions, and for this mission they were the most dire he could ever imagine.

Baskers harrumphed awake and lowered his chair back to its four legs. “If you don’t mind my saying, you clean up like a proper gentleman, Mr. Bell.”

“That was my first shower in days,” Bell remarked before adding, “I have great respect for those soldiers stuck in the trenches.”

“They’re why my boys take the risks they do,” Baskers said as they started walking in the direction of the airstrip.

“How do you mean?”

“The air war is all about preventing reconnaissance aircraft from reporting back to the German command our troop disposition and movements. The first planes back in ’fourteen were unarmed and used solely for observation, but soon enough pilots started carrying pistols and taking potshots at each other.

From there the modern purpose-built fighter was born.

The men of this, or any other squadron, go after the Hun at every opportunity in order to prevent them from telling their artillery where to fire to do the most damage to our lines. ”

“They’re willing to sacrifice themselves in the air—”

“To save those on the ground,” Baskers said.

“It’s doubly true when the Huns put up observation balloons.

They pop up and down as quickly as a vole coming out of his hole and give the enemy real-time intelligence on our troops’ whereabouts.

They usually have fifty or more big guns ready to fire as soon as the observer telegraphs our position and range down from his tethered basket. Devilish business.”

They reached a split-rail fence that separated the base from the runway.

There were eight planes taking part in the patrol.

Mechanics were clucking around them like mother hens—tightening wires, lubricating parts, checking for any damage they’d missed from the morning sortie.

The pilots were approaching. They were so swaddled in flight suits and heavy jackets that the cocky walk they all tried to affect came off as a comical waddle.

Bell spotted Crabbe. His face remained boyish, but his mouth was cast in a grim straight line. The young airman still managed to throw him a jaunty salute as he hoisted himself into the cockpit of a plane Bell didn’t recognize. He asked Baskers about it.

“That’s to replace the Sopwith Pups everyone else is flying.

Called the S.E.5a. Single Vickers gun firing through the prop, and a separate Lewis gun on a Foster mount over the top wing.

Captain Crabbe said she can out-turn and outclimb anything the Germans have in the air right now.

We only wish we’d have more before the big blowup in Arras to the north gets into full swing. ”

“And the two-seater still in the hangar? It looks like a B.E.2,” Bell said, thinking it was a reconnaissance aircraft put into service before the war.

“Actually that’s a new kite to replace the B.E.

2. Bristol F.2, she’s called. She’s a big beast of a plane, but I’m told she’s nearly as nimble as the S.E.

She can fly fifty miles per hour faster than the old B.E.

2 and is doubly armed. She’s a fighter more than an observation platform.

We should be getting more of each over the next few weeks. ”

Bell thought back to some of the planes he’d flown, delicate things more suited for children’s toys than actually flying.

It was just seven years ago that he’d raced across America in an Italian monoplane that looked ready to fall apart without notice.

It was laughable to compare that aircraft to these modern fighting machines, with their hundred-and-fifty-plus-horsepower engines and responsive flight controls.

His pulse quickened at the thought of going up in the Bristol the next day.

The sun was sinking toward the western horizon when Bell heard the pilots shout, “Contact” to their mechanics and the propellers were thrown and the engines bellowed to life.

The roar of the eight power plants sent another jolt through Bell’s system.

Soon the smell of raw unburnt gas and the planes’ mildly familiar-smelling lubricant wafted over the two men.

Once the engines had sufficiently warmed, the mechanics pulled the wheel chocks, and the planes began jouncing their way from the apron to the grass landing strip.

Geoffrey Crabbe led the procession of fighters, and as soon as he turned his plane onto the runway, he pushed the throttle to its stop and the plane picked up speed remarkably fast. The tail came up after only a moment and then the whole aircraft was in the air, climbing as swiftly as a hawk, shrinking into the sky as he gained altitude.

The rest of the squadron followed suit, although their planes took far more of the runway to achieve flight and lacked the S.E. 5’s stupendous rate of climb.

The squad quickly maneuvered into a tight formation and turned eastward in pursuit of enemy planes.

“Well, that’s the show,” Baskers said around his pipe. “They’ll be back in forty-five minutes, give or take.”