“No, Hans,” he whispered. “Please. It’s just a fucking battle, and we’ve already won it anyway.” But even as he uttered the plea, he knew it was useless. Even if Hans’ radio wasn’t damaged at all, he wouldn’t have listened. Not now.
There was nothing Jesse could do to stop him. Nothing anyone could do. For Hans Richter, it wasn’t just a battle. It wasn’t even just a war.
They fought wars, for whatever remote purposes seemed good to them, sitting in their palaces. Fought them atop the broken bones of German families; trampling their way through the entrails of German mothers; slaughtering fathers in their little shops. Hans Richter was fighting a crusade.
Just an orphaned brother, in the end, flesh of his sister’s flesh. She had been his steel angel, often enough. Now, he would be hers.
Jesse watched the other plane as its nose dropped. Watched Hans adjust his course with all the assurance and skill he had learned so well. Watched the aircraft accelerate.
“It’s coming back!”
Vadgaard turned away from the fire fighters at the shout. The flames were almost under control, but if the flying machine hit them with still more missiles . . .
Only it wasn’t a flying machine this time. There were two of them now, and Vadgaard’s heart plummeted. How many of those devil machines did the Americans have? And what was he supposed to do with them and two more of their accursed naval vessels between him and his objective?
Then he realized that one of the flying machines was diving.
It wasn’t quite like its first attack. This dive was steeper, faster. And it wasn’t headed for Christiana this time. This time it was headed for Lossen, one of his two remaining warships.
He held his breath, waiting for the deadly rain of missiles to begin once more.
But it didn’t. And it only took Vadgaard a moment to understand the reason.
Hans wished his radio had been working.
It wouldn’t have mattered, in one sense. He already knew what Jesse had been ordering him to do, and there would have been no point in obeying the command. Not as badly as he was bleeding. His thoughts were growing wobbly with shock and blood loss, but he knew that much. Still, he would have liked to say good-bye. To Jesse . . . most of all, to Sharon.
He watched the thirty-gun ship growing before him, but he didn’t really see it. Not any more. All he saw was a dark-skinned face, smiling at him, and he smiled back.