Empire of Sand (2008) by Robert Ryan

Author:Robert Ryan [Ryan, Robert]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781480477650
Publisher: Open Road Media
Published: 2014-02-25T20:31:00+00:00

Twenty-two

Farnborough, England, 1915

CAPTAIN HAROLD QUINN did not consider himself a feeble man. He had faced battle-hardened Boers, enraged water buffalo, armed Fenians and truculent Persian tribesmen—not to mention the time his wife jokingly tried to stab him with a letter opener and tripped, nearly piercing his heart—but already his stomach had cramped so hard he thought he might soil his underlinen. His bladder felt the size of a Zeppelin and he knew that if he spoke, his voice would sound more like one of those musical saws they played at the Gaiety, rather than anything recognisably human. He was very, very scared. Which was causing his companions no end of mirth.

The strange morning fog was long gone and it was a sparklingly clear day, the sky dotted with clouds that looked like fluffy scones. Quinn was standing with Miss Bell and Farid, the manservant, who stood five paces back from his mistress. Behind them were the hangars of the Royal Flying Corps, each containing a collection of biplanes and monoplanes, a jumble of various types, from antique Bleriots to a tattered Voisin. On the concrete stand next to the hangars stood a proud row of six of the new Scout Ds, ready for dispatch to the front.

But all eyes were on the plane already in the sky, which was twisting and turning like a startled gnat, the daredevil—another word for insane, Quinn thought—pilot almost standing it on its wing edge. It was a strange beast, a ‘pusher’, that is with the propeller at the rear of the fuselage, behind wings held together by a cat’s cradle of wires.

‘Marvellous. Marvellous.’ A tall, lean man with his gaze fixed firmly on the sky walked around the perimeter towards them, commentating as if it were a cricket match. ‘Very sharp there. Oh, well done. Well, done.’

Miss Bell held on to her hat as the plane twisted on its axis and dived towards the group, roaring over their heads in a stream of hot gas and fumes. Quinn was nonplussed to discover he was the only one who had ducked.

The newcomer, whose face seemed to be a mass of nervous ticks, announced himself in a high, fluting voice. ‘Geoffrey DeHavilland.’

‘It’s quite splendid, DeHavilland,’ said Miss Bell. ‘Well done.’

‘It’ll have to be to last more than five minutes against the Fokkers,’ said DeHavilland to her. ‘And not everyone can fly an aircraft like that. Precious few, in fact.’

Quinn had been told by Miss Bell that the Airco BE2 currently acting like a circus tumbler was the great hope for the air battles to come, the match for the increasingly mythic ‘interrupter’ Fokkers that were blasting the RFC from the skies over France.

‘Who is going up?’ asked DeHavilland.

‘Me,’ Quinn croaked and he could see Miss Bell laughing at his untypical trepidation.

‘It’s great fun,’ he said. ‘You’ll see things you wouldn’t believe.’

Like my insides, Quinn thought glumly. Why was he there? When it became clear what was expected of him, he’d asked if this was really, really necessary and had been told it was.

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