Silver Stars. Майкл Грант

      “You’ll do this?”

      “If my commanding officer orders me to, yes.”

      Rainy disentangles herself and leaves, by way of the pool hall. There’s a new song playing, the bleary, slow-tempo tune with lyrics sung over a mellow sax.

      Rainy is trembling as she reaches fresh air, and the stress catches up with her. Down the street she finds an all-hours diner with a pay phone in one corner. She fumbles in her purse for a nickel and makes a call to Colonel Corelli.

      Ten minutes later an unmarked army staff car picks her up a block away.

8

      RAINY SCHULTERMAN—LAGUARDIA FIELD, NEW YORK, USA

       Amateur.

      That’s what Bayswater said of Corelli and his organization. Amateur. He’s going to get you killed. And it eats at Rainy. From her first days in the army she’s been taught that her first duty is to obey orders. She has latched onto that thought, relied on it, let it shape her thinking about the army and her job in that army.

      It is comforting to be able to shift responsibility, to be able to shrug and say, I’m following orders. But what if the person giving the orders doesn’t know what he’s doing?

      Rainy saw the colonel again, was congratulated, thoroughly debriefed, and sent home for two days. Then she was summoned to see Corelli a third time and given a sealed packet of orders along with instructions not to open it until she is airborne out of New York. She pats it through her overcoat as her car and its driver come to a halt on the bleak tarmac.

      The C-47 is a twin-engine tail-dragger, meaning that it lands on the wheels beneath its wings and lets the tail settle down onto a third, smaller wheel. It is the workhorse of the American air forces with variant versions used to haul supplies, to haul men, to haul VIPs, and to carry airborne troops to drop zones. Its civilian version is known as a DC-3.

      This plane sits tail down, with both engines running, round nose pointed optimistically toward the eastern sky. A light early morning rain falls, slicking the concrete runway and turning the green-painted fuselage almost black. The props are kicking up a horizontal tornado of mist that plucks at Rainy’s cap, so she has to hold it with one hand while hefting her light pack on one shoulder.

      At least she won’t be jumping out of this plane. Hopefully.

      Ground crew lead her from the colonel’s thoughtfully provided car to the doorway abaft the wings, which means passing right through that gale of backwash. She shouts a “thank you” that the ground crewman cannot possibly hear.

      She is helped up the steps by a sergeant, who grabs her bag and with quick, practiced movements whips it into one of the seats and ties it down with a series of cords. The seats run down both sides, facing toward what would be the center aisle on a DC-3. Inside the plane are some crates, one quite large, lashed down with thick straps.

      There is only one other passenger, a civilian, obviously Cisco Camporeale. At first glance he doesn’t look like a gangster, though there is something flash and cheap about him. He’s dark of hair, eye, and complexion, of medium height, solidly built. He’s dressed in an expensive overcoat with an equally expensive and fashionable dark suit beneath. His tie is silk, somewhat flamboyant, and carefully knotted.

      Rainy is shown to a seat beside him and has her seatbelt fastened for her. A second, more careful inspection takes in the way the young gangster looks at her. His eyes are large and moist, framed by girlish lashes. His lips are thin and rest in an ironic smile. It is a handsome face, a very handsome face, but his expression, at first predatory, softens into dismissal.

      Apparently, Rainy is not his type.

      She breathes a sigh of relief at that. She’s been worried he might, over the course of a long mission, get ideas that would make Rainy’s job harder.

      “I’d stand up, you know. I am a gentleman, but I’m strapped in,” Cisco says, and extends his hand with a languid superiority that almost suggests he expects it to be kissed rather than shaken. “Cisco Camporeale.”

      His palm is damp, either with nerves or perhaps just a result of the steam rising from wet clothing.

      “Sergeant Schulterman,” she says.

      “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 that 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 tarmac 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