Battlefield Earth (55 page)

     Badly shaken and feeling very ill, Jonnie tried to control the plane. There was a thin spot in the storm.

It was extremely hard to think. If he shut off the left balance motor, maybe the stricken ship would stop rolling. He managed it. Then he realized the guns must still be firing. He got a wad of blanket out of his vision and reached up to push the firing button off. And as he did he saw it.

The drone!

Almost straight at him it was tumbling out of the sky. Spent flames were licking out of the doorway and a vast plume of smoke was trailing behind it.

It was going to hit him if he didn’t move.

His hands hit the console. He felt the plane move.

The drone went by so close the plane tumbled again in the air rush.

Abruptly a geyser of water smashed upward into the storm, a column two hundred feet high.

The battle plane spun about under the new impact.

Water? Water!

Jonnie felt a surge of relief. They were not yet over Scotland, still over the sea.

Water! He would hit it. He knew that pressure outside the doors would keep him from opening them. This battle plane would never float.

He brought a fist down on the window openers, both of them.

He looked at the console. What could he press to arrest his own descent?

The battle plane crashed into the sea.

The jolt threw him back into unconsciousness. But in a moment a wave of the coldest water he had ever felt rushed in on him, revived him. Bitterly cold water, colder than ice to the touch. And it was hitting him in a roaring torrent from both sides.

He fought with the huge, ten-pound Psychlo belt release. Everything seemed to be moving in slow motion. He unwound the belt from himself.

The water was getting darker. The battle plane must be sinking very rapidly. Or he was passing out once more?

The incoming rush eased. At least the plane was no longer spinning, he thought vacantly.

A sudden surge of energy. He got to his knees on the seat and thrust a floating blanket out of his way. The futility of it struck him. There was nobody to save him. He couldn’t live in water this cold.

More by reflex than by intention he went out the window and began to rise to the surface. His air mask tanks were lifting him. Water was getting in the air mask, washing dried blood off the inside glass. The sea became lighter and lighter green.

Then a spatter of rain hit his head. Rain! It was welcome.

The sea about him, as he floated face-up, was a panorama of tossing, overwhelming waves, pockmarked with the rain. A wild scene.

The cold was getting to the very center of his being.

He knew he was going into a delusion again. As the waves covered and uncovered his ears he thought he heard a voice. They said dying men often heard angel voices calling them. He knew he was very close to death.

More delusion. Hopeful thinking giving rise to false sights. It was what he would have dearly loved to see, not what was. But the water-blurred vision stayed there.

Something hit him in the face mask. A line?

He became more alert. It looked like Dunneldeen on a cable ladder not four feet away! A Dunneldeen who was being submerged and uncovered by the waves.

Jonnie felt his arms being guided into safety line loops. Tension was being taken up on the line. His ears came free of the water and he could hear. It was Dunneldeen, a Dunneldeen who was smiling even though he was being doused repeatedly as the waves rolled past the cable ladder.

“Come on now, laddie,” Dunneldeen said. “Just hold on and they’ll pull you up to the plane. ‘Tis a wee bit cold for a swim.”

- Part XV -

     Fleeting impressions, half-seen through a wall composed of darkness and pain. Dim consciousness of being in a ship and landing. Of someone spooning broth at him. Of being carried in a stretcher with rain on the blankets. Of a stone-walled room. Of different faces. Of whispered conversations. Of another stretcher. Of another plane. And a pain in his arm. He sank back into darkness. He thought he was in the drone again. He opened his eyes. He saw Dunneldeen’s face. He must still be in the sea. But no, he was not cold, he was warm.

“He’s coming around,” said someone softly. “We’ll be able to operate soon.”

He opened his eyes and saw boots and kilts. A lot of boots and kilts standing beside what he was lying on.

A plane’s motors? He was in a plane.

He turned his head a little and it hurt. But there was Dunneldeen’s face.

Jonnie saw that he was on a sort of table. He was in a plane, a passenger plane. There was a tall gray man in a white coat on his left side. There were a lot of older Scots on his right side. Four young Scots were sitting on a bench. There was another table with some shiny things on it beyond the doctor.

Dunneldeen was sitting beside him and there was a tube and a sort of pump connecting Dunneldeen’s arm with his own.

“What’s this?” whispered Jonnie, indicating the tube or trying to.

“Blood transfusion,” said Dunneldeen. He felt he should be very careful about what he said. He was smiling but he was worried and felt very bad. Keep a bright face on it. “Laddie, you are singularly fortunate. You are getting the royal blood of the Stewarts, no less, which puts you into direct line, after me, of course, to the throne of Scotland.”

The doctor was signaling Dunneldeen to take it easy. They all knew that Jonnie might die, that there wasn’t a thirty percent chance of his recovery, not with those two severe skull fractures and other injuries, as well as shock. His respiration was too shallow.

In the underground hospital where they had operated for centuries, in a land where skull injuries were common, the doctor had seen too many die in less injured condition than this one. He was looking down at the big, handsome lad with something like pity.

“This is Dr. MacKendrick,” said Dunneldeen to Jonnie. “He’ll handle you all right. You always overdo things, Jonnie. Most would be content with one skull fracture. But not you, laddie, you’ve got two!” Dunneldeen smiled. “You’ll be right as rain in no time.” He wished he could believe it; Jonnie’s face bore the gray of death.

“Maybe I should have waited for you in the drone if you were so close,” whispered Jonnie.

The older Scots let out an incredulous gasp. Chief of Clanfearghus stepped forward. “Naw, naw, MacTyler. The foul thing crashed just a mile north of Cape Wrath! ‘Twas almost upon us!”

“How did you find me?” whispered Jonnie.

“Laddie,” said Dunneldeen, “when you light a beacon fire to gather the clans, you don’t do it halfway! The drone went up to ten thousand feet like a flaming rocket and like to have lit the whole of Scotland. That’s how we spotted you.”

The Chief of the Argylls grumbled, “That wasn’t what your companion told us, Dunneldeen. They said your what-you-call-it detected a small object in the water and then got a look on a plane and then saw the fire.”

Dunneldeen was very composed. “It makes a better story that way and that’s the way the historian will write it. He lit a beacon fire in the sky!”

The other Chiefs nodded firmly. That was the way it should be.

“What day is this?” whispered Jonnie.

“Day 95.”

Jonnie felt a bit confused. He had lost a day, two days? Where had he been? Where was he? Why?

The doctor saw the puzzlement. He had seen it before in head injuries. This young man had lost track of time. “They had to wait for me,” he said. “I was not in Aberdeen at the moment. And then we had to type your blood and find someone with the same type. I’m sorry it took long. But we also had to bring you out of shock, get you warm.” He shook his head sadly. “I should have gone with you all along. I’ll help the others when we get there.”

This upset Jonnie a little bit. “Were there a lot of Scots hurt? You shouldn’t have delayed for me if you had a doctor.”

“No, no,” said the Chief of the Camerons. “Dr. Allen, who’s so expert with burns, was sent two days gone.

“Twenty-one hurt,” said Dunneldeen. “The one being you. Only two died. Very light casualties. The others will all recover.”

“Who are they?” whispered Jonnie, making a slight motion with his hand to the four young men on the bench.

“Why, those,” said Dunneldeen, “are four members of the World Federation for the Unification of the Human Race. The first one is a MacDonald and he speaks Russian now. The second is an Argyll and he speaks German….” That wasn’t why they were there at all. They were the others they’d found of Jonnie’s blood type, waiting in case more transfusions were needed.

“And why am I in a plane?” whispered Jonnie.

That was the question they didn’t want to answer. The doctor had told them not to worry this young man. They had him in a plane and were rushing him to the huge underground defense base in the mountains. There was some chance of a Psychlo counterattack. They had no idea at all whether the bombs sent to Psychlo had succeeded or failed. The Chamco brothers had told them about the force screen on Psychlo’s transshipment area and that the early recoil had shown evidence of the screen’s closing. The Chamcos had also told them that common salt neutralized the kill-gas completely. Angus had gotten mine ventilation fans into the old base and they’d found salt for filters of air. A group of excited, imported, awed Russians were at that very moment cleaning up the old base and the parson was burying the dead there. And they were not about to leave Jonnie MacTyler anywhere but safe in that base!

Dunneldeen answered, “What? Why not in the plane? You want to miss the victory celebration? We can’t have that!”

A Scot helping Dwight up in the cockpit area came back and whispered in Dunneldeen’s ear. He was dragging a mike on a long cord. They had it on the planetary band.

Dunneldeen turned to Jonnie. “They want to hear your voice so they can believe you’re alive.”

“Who?” said Jonnie.

“The compound, the people. Just say something about how you are.”

Dunneldeen put the mike very close to Jonnie’s mouth.

“I’m fine,” Jonnie whispered. Then something told him he should try harder. He tried to speak louder. “I’m just fine.”

Dunneldeen gave the mike back to the Scot who hesitated, not sure the message had gone out. Dunneldeen waved him away.

“I hear other planes,” whispered Jonnie.

With a glance at the doctor for permission, Dunneldeen helped him turn his head. Jonnie looked through the plane ports.

There were five planes out there, stacked in a long echelon. He turned his eyes and looked out the other port. There were five planes out there in another echelon.

“It’s your escort,” said Dunneldeen.

“My escort?” whispered Jonnie. “But why? Everybody helped.”

“Aye, laddie,” said the Chief of Clanfearghus. “But you were the one. You were the bonnie one!”

The doctor disconnected the tube. He felt Jonnie’s pulse. He nodded and motioned the others to silence. He had let this go on too long. The plane was not vibrating; the flight was very smooth. He had his patient out of shock. He wished he were in his own operating cave. But the others would not leave this young man there. And he himself, having heard but a small part of it, could share their awe and respect for what he had done.

“If you’ll just drink this,” said the doctor, “it will make things easier.”

They held the cup to Jonnie’s mouth.

It was whiskey and it had heavy herbs in it. He managed to drink it. Shortly the pain grew less and he seemed to be floating.

The doctor signaled them all to be quiet. He had a trephine in his hand. The brain was being pressed upon in three places, not two, and the pressure must be relieved.

Dunneldeen went up to the cockpit to help Dwight. He glanced at their escort. Most of them were flying with one pilot. They had each smashed their minesites and come hammering back here when he put out the call for a massive patrol to the north of Scotland. They all should have gone home, but they wouldn’t hear of it when they knew about Jonnie. They’d gone down with a Scot war party and gotten more planes from the Cornwall minesite after shooting the few Psychlos staggering around, and those not ordered back for urgent duty had been sitting, waiting for news about Jonnie. Now they were escorting him home.

“You better tell them he’s all right,” said Dwight. “They keep calling in every two or three minutes for news. And so does Robert the Fox. Takes one man just to handle the radio!”

“He’s not all right,” said Dunneldeen. And he looked down the long corridor to where the doctor had begun the operation.

Dwight glanced at Dunneldeen. Was the young prince crying? He felt like it himself.