Another memory flashed through his mind. The first time he’d ever seen Sharon, when he’d thought she was the angel of death come to claim him—only to discover that she was an angel of life, who had saved him, instead. But this time, close as she was, she was too far away. He felt his strength flooding away with his blood, carried on the crest of anguish, and there was no way he could last long enough to return to Wismar and land. Not with that wound.
He wasn’t the only target the musketeers had hit, either. The controls felt heavy, stiff—heavier and stiffer than his own injuries alone could explain. He didn’t have as much control of the aircraft as he would have liked, but it would have to do.
“Hans! Hans, damn it—talk to me!” Jesse half-shouted into the microphone as he pushed his own aircraft as hard as he could toward the clouds of smoke rising from the sea.
There was no answer, and Jesse’s jaw clenched tight.
He didn’t have a complete picture of what was happening, but the radioed reports from Louie Tillman had told him enough. Eddie and Larry’s initial strike had been far more successful than Jesse had ever allowed himself to hope . . . only to disintegrate into disaster. The Outlaw was gone—that much Tillman knew for certain—and with it both of the boys. But that wasn’t what frightened Jesse, because there was nothing he could do about it. It was too late for that. But Louie had also reported Hans’ insane, low-level attack on the Danish ship which had destroyed the Outlaw. Hans hadn’t reported. In fact, he had yet to transmit a single word.
“Hans, I know you can fucking well hear me!” Jesse snapped. “Now answer me!”
Silence. But he was close enough now to see the smoke and wreckage to which the invasion force had been reduced. Some of the Danes had already put about, clawing back toward Luebeck and away from the demons which had ravaged them. Others looked as if they were trying to continue toward Wismar, and a few of them were engaged in frantic rescue operations, trying to snatch men from the icy waters before hypothermia killed them. But most of them seemed to be milling around in confusion, still shocked and confused by what had happened. He could see the remaining speedboats hovering between the invaders and Wismar, and even as he watched one of the brigs which had been holding its course turned away rather than face them.
But Hans. Where was Hans?
Jesse searched desperately for the other Belle. It had to be here somewhere, but where—?
Then he saw it. Saw it crabbing back around in a wide, awkward circle. One rocket still hung on its hard point under the port wing. Obviously, the firing mechanism had malfunctioned—not surprisingly, given the crude nature of the jury-rigged installation—but that wasn’t what brought Jesse’s heart into his throat. That was left to the thin streamer of vapor trailing behind it, and he bit his lip. That silvery skein of blood could only be gasoline . . . which meant Hans had been hit at least once.
Jesse held his heading, racing to meet the other plane, then swung in to match Hans’ course.
“Hans?” he tried the radio again. Again, no response. Carefully positioned off the other’s left wing and looking at the half-dozen holes punched through the formica skin of Hans’ aircraft, he felt chillingly certain why.
He edged in as close as he dared, and he bit his lip harder as he saw Hans. The boy’s head hung forward wearily, and he seemed unaware Jesse was even there for at least a minute and a half. But then, slowly, his head turned. He was too far away for Jesse to see his expression, but everything about the way he sat, how slowly he turned his head, told Jesse he was badly hurt.
Jesse frantically gestured the hand signal to land, pointing vigorously back toward Wismar in an order to return. Hans stared at him across the emptiness between their aircraft, and then, slowly, he shook his head.
Jesse pointed again, even harder, and Hans altered course. But not toward Wismar. Instead, he slowly rolled to the right, turning back out to sea, and Jesse knew what he intended to do.