First, she’d have to deal with the injury. Sweat rolled from her brow into her eyes, and Dash ran her hand carefully along the stick poking out of her arm, checking to see how strong it was. It didn’t bend; it was an old, dead branch. A thick twig, really, and it was long enough that it could catch on something as she fell. It needed to be shortened. It would snap, given enough pressure. She grit her teeth, then pushed down on it. Painexploded up her arm as she broke off the excess, and she stifled a cry. Her injured arm screamed in protest when she hugged it against her chest, and she froze, waiting for the shock to lessen. She had no time to waste on feeling sorry for herself.
When she felt a little more under control, she reached for the knife she kept strapped to her leg, then she moved the blade toward the suspension lines tethering her to the parachute.
Let’s see if I can fly without either plane or parachute, she thought.
Then her mother’s voice again:Be smart.
She drew her hand back, thinking. There had to be a different way.
Dot’s favourite words whispered in her ear:It’s a puzzle.
Dash just had to solve it. She pointed her toes, stretching down as far as she could, seeking a branch that could hold her weight. There. She felt it knock against her boots. Next, she considered the parachute. Its suspension lines hung slackly around her, and when she tugged on one, it came to her willingly, to a point. An idea swirled in her mind. Every suspension line on a parachute was twenty feet long. She remembered that from her classes with the ATA. With that in mind, she reached up and sawed one-handed through the rope at her back. There was a disconcerting release, but she landed safely on the branch below, and she could breathe more easily once the pressure around her ribs was gone. A little braver, she looped the twenty feet of rope over the branch so ten feet hung on either side. She wrapped the ends around her then carefully used both hands to secure them onto her harness. Moving very slowly, she lowered herself so one leg hung on either side of the branch, like she was riding bareback. Then she cut all the remaining lines.
Nothing happened.
She exhaled. She’d been right about that, at least. Now it was up to the branch, the rope, and her sweaty, shaking hands.
She held the handle of her knife between her teeth while she lifted one leg over the branch to join the other. For a couple of heartbeats, she sat perfectly still, sick with fear. The next step was terrifying, but she reminded herself that she could die just as easily up here as she could getting down, it would just take longer. She couldn’t wait.
Twisting so her stomach was on the branch, she let her legs dangle over one side, and she clutched the rope with her good arm. Hanging tight, she began to descend. The forest seemed to get darker the lower she went, sheltered from the sky by so many trees, but her vision adjusted. She could see the outlines of the trees now, though still not the ground.
Quite suddenly, she ran out of rope. That meant she had been right; her initial position was about fifteen feet above the ground. The parachute cord was twenty, but she had folded it in half, making ten feet of climbing. If her math was even close to being correct, she’d only fall about five or six feet from here. She could do that. With her entire body shaking from stress, she took the knife handle out of her mouth and sawed at the strap until it snapped.
The fall was immediate, and a sharp flash of pain shot through her on impact. She cried out then bit back the noise, allowing herself only a whimper. Had anyone heard her?
When she could manage, she edged backward to lean against the tree. The air burned her injury, seeping into the torn nerves. When she reached for the source, her hand came back slick with blood, as black as the night itself. She could only hope the bleeding would stop on its own. There was nothing she could do.
She couldn’t stay here. Whether she was in France or Belgium, she was not safe. Someone would spot either her plane, her parachute, or her. Gingerly, she peeled off what remained of her harness and stuffed as much as she could under a mound of shrubs next to the tree. Her kit was still slung over her back, and she pulled it around so she could fish inside for her father’s compass. Since she’d come to England, Dash had never flown without it. It was too dark to see which way the needle pointed, but she needed to feel her father with her.
Something touched her, and she flinched. Rain. It was starting up again and building fast. She had to find shelter. Before long she was caught in a deluge, but she had no idea which way to turn. Then lightning flashed, and she caught a glimpse of her surroundings. When it happenedagain, she spotted a pine tree, large enough to provide an umbrella. The tree could be struck, but she had to bank on the odds. It had made it this long, so it should last through the night. She staggered to the tree then curled in tight beneath its branches, her chin tucked in the top of her flight suit. She’d hide until the sun rose. Maybe then she could figure out what to do.
fifty-fiveDOT— Camp X —
Dot stared at the ringing phone, paralyzed. Was it him? What if this man was not who she hoped? What if, by doing this, she was somehow betraying Camp X?
But she was doing this for Dash. She had to try. She picked up the headset. “Petty Officer Wren Wilson.”
“DotWilson?”
“Yes?”
“Ah. Brilliant. You received my message.” She heard the relief in his voice. And the urgency. “I’m very sorry, but Dash is missing.”
Her hand was tight on the handset. “Who are you? Why are you contacting me directly?”
“I’m—I’m sorry. Of course you wouldn’t know about me.” His voice was deep, with a charming accent. She tried to imagine the face behind it. “You and Dash aren’t in regular communication, I gather. My name’s Pete. I am, well, I suppose in Canada you would call me Dash’s boyfriend. She told me that if anything were to ever happen to her, I should find you.”
“You’re him,” Dot said softly, loosening her grip on the telephone.
“I beg your pardon? I’m afraid this isn’t the best connection.”
“How did you find me?”
“Frankly, I went a little mad, trying to think what to do. I am about tofly on assignment, and I wanted to see her first, so I went against orders to Hamble, the airfield where she’s based. They told me they hadn’t seen her in two days, and that she hadn’t reached her destination. They were quite frantic, but with everything going on, they had no way to search for her.” He exhaled. “I want to believe she’s all right, but I simply have no idea, and I cannot go to look for her.”
Maybe you can’t, Dot was thinking, but I can. “Tell me what you know, Pete. Her destination? The code for the airfield?”
“There’s a Mrs. Farnham at Hamble,” he said, sounding a little more positive. “She told me Dash was headed to B-21, a temporary airfield in Sainte-Honorine, France. That was two days ago, but with the terrible weather I was unable to get there. I’m fairly certain the airfield’s no longer there.”
