A Trail of Fire Read Online Free PDF Page A

got round to asking him which he wanted, it had been too late in the day to fix it straight off. So he’d been given a couple of hours’ extra flying time today, to mess about with the new fix-up.
    Right, there it was. The bumpy grey line that cut through the yellowing fields of Northumberland like a perforation, same as you might tear the countryside along it, separating north from south as neat as tearing a piece of paper. Bet the emperor Hadrian wished it was that easy, he thought, grinning as he swooped down along the line of the ancient wall.
    The cameras made a loud clunk-clunk noise when they fired. Clunk-clunk, clunk-clunk ! OK, sashay out, bank over, come down . . . clunk-clunk, clunk-clunk . . . he didn’t like the noise, not the same satisfaction as the vicious short Brrpt ! of his wing-guns. Made him feel wrong, like something gone with the engine . . . aye, there it was coming up, his goal for the moment.
    Mile-castle 37.
    A stone rectangle, attached to Hadrian’s Wall like a snail on a leaf. The old Roman legions had made these small, neat forts to house the garrisons that guarded the wall. Nothing left now but the outline of the foundation, but it made a good target.
    He circled once, calculating, then dived and roared over it at an altitude of maybe fifty feet, cameras clunking like an army of stampeding robots. Pulled up sharp and hared off, circling high and fast, pulling out to run for the imagined border, circling up again . . . and all the time his heart thumped and the sweat ran down his sides, imagining what it would be like when the real day came.
    Mid-afternoon, it would be, like this. The winter light just going, but still enough to see clearly. He’d circle, find an angle that would let him cross the whole camp and please God, one that would let him come out of the sun. And then he’d go in.
    One pass, Randall had said. Don’t risk more than one, unless the cameras malfunction.
    The bloody things did malfunction, roughly every third pass. The buttons were slippery under his fingers. Sometimes they worked on the next try, sometimes they didn’t.
    If they didn’t work on the first pass over the camp, or didn’t work often enough, he’d have to try again.
    ‘ Niech to szlag ,’ he muttered, Fuck the Devil, and pressed the buttons again, one-two, one-two. ‘Gentle but firm, like you’d do it to a lady’s privates,’ the boffin had told him, illustrating a brisk twiddle. He’d never thought of doing that . . . would Dolly like it? he wondered. And where exactly did you do it? Aye, well, women did come with a button, maybe that was it – but then, two fingers? . . . Clunk-clunk. Clunk-clunk. Crunch .
    He reverted to English profanity, and smashed both buttons with his fist. One camera answered with a startled clunk ! but the other was silent.
    He poked the button again and again, to no effect. ‘Bloody fucking arse-buggering . . .’ He thought vaguely that he’d have to stop swearing once this was over and he was home again – bad example for the lad.
    ‘FUCK!’ he bellowed, and ripping the strap free of his leg, he picked up the box and hammered it on the edge of the seat, then slammed it back onto his thigh – visibly dented, he saw with grim satisfaction – and pressed the balky button.
    Clunk , the camera answered meekly.
    ‘Aye, well, then, just you remember that!’ he said, and puffing in righteous indignation, gave the buttons a good jabbing.
    He’d not been paying attention during this small temper-tantrum, but had been circling upward – standard default for a Spitfire flier. He started back down for a fresh pass at the mile-castle, but within a minute or two, began to hear a knocking sound from the engine.
    ‘No!’ he said, and gave it more throttle. The knocking got louder; he could feel it vibrating through the fuselage. Then there was a loud clang! from the engine compartment right by his knee, and with horror he saw tiny droplets of oil spatter on the Perspex