An Exclusive Preview of Drops of Glass: A Tale of Magic in the Great War
Chapter 1: The Curse
Marcus
Now heaven be praised
That in that hour that most imperiled her,
Menaced her liberty who foremost raised
Europe’s bright flag of freedom, some there were
Who, not unmindful of the antique debt,
Came back the generous path of Lafayette.
-Alan Seeger-
He hadn’t heard me, he hadn’t seen me, and with a squeeze of my finger, he would fall from the sky.
Sweat beaded under my leather flight helmet. I’d trained for these moments. A German single-seat pursuit plane, sitting defenseless under my nose, and the new Vickers twin machine guns rested in front of my cockpit, just offset, begging to be put to use.
Pull the trigger a quarter of an inch—that was all it took—and I’d open my scorecard at long last. The boys on the ground would welcome me back a hero.
But I had never killed a man, even after two years at war. I was cursed.
At first, it was natural. Every soldier enters the war without a kill, and each man looked forward to the day, macabre and twisted as it may sound. Some, the foolish ones, looked forward to it like a birthday or a ballgame. Others looked forward to it with dread like a trip to the dentist, but we all looked forward to it in some way.
Because we all wondered. The questions were relentless: Will I freeze up? How will I do it? What will it feel like when I stick a bayonet through a German and save the world?
Precious few of us wondered whether we’d be the ones left dying slowly in a trench or trying to crawl from a ravaged tank or burning fuselage.
And now, with a pull of my trigger, I could wonder no longer. I only had to bring myself to squeeze my finger a quarter inch.
After a time, it got awkward for those of us still unsullied. New boys coming over to the war would ask how long we’d been out here—then inevitably for our number. This was especially true among pilots, who reveled in their records of downed planes. Every pilot knew two numbers: their confirmed kills and the true number of their kills.
My two numbers were the same. Zero.
I shifted my hands nervously on the joystick. Come on, Marcus. Take the shot, already.
Before long, the other soldiers talked about me as if I had the influenza, and each had their own prescription for me to bag my first Boche. Lead your gun to take distance and speed into account. A swig of bourbon doesn’t do any harm. Wait to shoot until you’re sure your rounds will strike the kill box on the enemy’s fuselage.
As if I didn’t know.
Then the tips melted away, replaced with clumsy explanations that somewhere I’d been cursed. And that belief inspired them to see me with rage-inducing reverence.
Marcus, take the damn shot.
Descending from above as Luf had taught me, cloaking my Nieuport single-seater in the sunlight, I had settled in behind this poor German pilot like a cat in the night.
But like always, my brain would not stop thinking.
Why hadn’t he seen me? The idiot. The foolish idiot. Was he a new pilot? Had he not been trained properly? Didn’t he know that you must always look about you, scan the sky, pay close attention to those terrible blind spots?
My rudder pedals protested against my feet, and the joystick jostled as the wind caught my wings and rudder. Nature tried to pull me off course, tried to stop the violence before it happened.
Just a squeeze, little German. That’s all it will take, and you will die. If you’re lucky, one of the machine gun rounds will hit you, so you don’t fall in flames with your machine. The flames would lick your skin and bubble it and the worst fate you could imagine would be to survive the crash.
A quarter inch. That’s all.
But I had never killed a man, no, not after two years at war.
Suddenly, the pilot shifted his head back and forth. He seemed to mock me. His engine screamed in my direction, taunting me, daring me.
It was all getting dangerous now. Every moment I hesitated, the risk grew. He was unlikely to be the only plane nearby. Even if he didn’t take evasive action, his comrades would find him and open fire on his pursuer.
The German pilot dipped into a gentle bank. He turned his head and must have seen the tip of my wing, because he turned again, fast now, panicked. His eyes met mine. I should have pulled the trigger then, in that moment when our eyes locked across the clouds and he knew I was there.
But I didn’t. For some reason, I couldn’t.
The German Pfalz dove and banked hard, giving me a brief glimpse of the two black crosses on its wings. I had missed the easy shot. If another presented itself, I could not hesitate again, but now it would be different. Now there would be honor in the kill. He had a sporting chance to beat me.
The plane flipped over several times, curving under me, changing direction before making its climb to get above my machine. I jammed hard on the stick and my Nieuport gave chase. The pull of gravity tugged at my face and insides as the diving speed of my aircraft built so I could propel it upward again. The Pfalz darted so quickly without fear, and it had already twisted around to climb beyond the aim of my machine guns.
We circled one another. I tried to match his movements, but I struggled against the hardiness of the nimble German machine. The Pfalz D.III was known for its sturdiness, its reliability in a dive and sharp turns. My Nieuport 28, new at the front, was a model thrown to the Americans because the French didn’t want it. My turns could not be as sharp as his, for fear the linen on my plane would pull away from the wing’s leading edge and fail.
Yet, I could not risk falling too far behind in this contest to get well above the other. Already he had begun firing his Spandau machine gun to prevent me from taking certain maneuvers. They all went wide as I clung to the strategic defense I’d been taught. These fighters could only shoot forward. If I could just stay clear of his nose…
But with every turn, the Pfalz’s heavy wings cut away pieces of my escape route. This couldn’t go on for too long. Though I hadn’t yet shot down a German, I had logged plenty of flying hours. But even experienced pilots could knock themselves unconscious from too much maneuvering.
I spiraled down and dove quickly, trying to sweep beneath him, but he followed me deftly. When I pulled up from the dive he was gone.
Gone?
No. I glanced now at a bank of clouds. He had disappeared into them. A dare and a peace offering. Follow me or go home. I stared at the white plumed wall. I had given this man his chance for a gentleman’s duel. The game was on. To turn back now—
I put a hand to my neck, grasping for a glass marble suspended there on a small chain, but I could hardly feel it through the padding of my flight suit and gloves. The movement was automatic, superstitious. What was it pilots said? When it’s your time, there’s no stopping it. Magic marble or no.
It was time for me to get my first.
I flew into the clouds after him.
When I emerged on the other side, I saw them. My quarry with two other German fighters, death waiting. They seemed to be laughing at me. Greedy American. You could have gone home.
Instinct took the controls, and I squeezed my trigger. But my guns hardly had time to sing before they jammed. I was defenseless.
No, no, no.
The three planes seemed to hang in the air, as if pausing to comprehend my dilemma. Then in a flash, they closed in.
I flipped my nose downward again and spiraled back into the bank of clouds for cover. I didn’t need to check if they were following. I knew they would be.
I only hoped I could get back to my squad mates. But between my chase with the Pfalz and my scramble to escape its reinforcements, I’d lost significant altitude. Unless my boys were searching for me below our assigned patrol, they might not see me. And besides, they might be busy with their own German warbirds.
The terrible sound erupted. The mechanical, uncaring rat-tat-tat of the German guns. Rounds came zipping through the air. I rolled and banked and clutched at the glass marble around my neck.
My hands shook. Gravity and terror assaulted my stomach. The Germans sailed after me, taking turns shooting off rounds. Ten. Twenty. Fifty. One hundred rounds. Any bullet could end my life. I could not stay clear of all their guns, so I crossed their noses in a sporadic pattern of twists and slides. Could I outmaneuver them long enough to exhaust their ammunition? Their fuel?
Psssht.
The sound of a round piercing the canvas of my plane was anti-climactic. There was no explosion. No fanfare. Just a hole now in the wing with air whistling through it.
My gut climbed into my throat, condensation clouding on my flight goggles. I tried to wipe them, but my training was running out my ears. Fear, a recurring and unwelcome guest, evicted the smooth, smart evasive maneuvers I’d been taught, and now I let the animalistic instinct of survival take control. My swerves grew more daring, pushing the Nieuport to its limits, unconcerned about how much the wings could take.
I needed to get back to the Allied line. If I could fly low enough, perhaps our anti-air guns could help me, or even our artillery or infantry machine gunners.
My panicked maneuvering impeded my forward progress, though, and it was slow going, punctuated with the zips of German rounds piercing the howl of the wind.
Two years at war. I could not die here.
A jolt on my right wing. Glancing over revealed the trail of holes in the canvas, not so neat as the first, less graceful. I felt that impact as if the French oak frames in the wings were my own bones.
I noticed the effect on the plane almost immediately. It did not respond as it had before, and now pushing the Nieuport’s limits wasn’t dangerous—it was suicide. But what else could I do? The Germans were competing now, each jockeying for position to claim my death on his scorecard.
The panic was as deadly as the German guns. My number was still zero. I had not yet claimed that hero’s honor I’d left home to achieve.
Could I stomach a crash landing on rough terrain? Perhaps they would count the downed plane and leave me alone. But I could not crash yet. I was still in German territory. The line was visible, but I was flying dangerously low.
My vision soon clouded with the explosive rounds of anti-aircraft fire.
Rounds from behind. Rounds from below.
I had no choice. I had to climb or Archie on the ground would blow the Allied colors on my wings to bits.
I yanked back on the stick and adjusted my angle before banking into a wide turn away from the approaching battery—forty-five degrees to the left and shallow enough so as not to flash the tops of my wings at my pursuers. It’d be an easy target.
A round fizzed by my head, close enough to take my breath away, but soon they had flown straight past. They split in different directions on their re-approach.
Climb, Marcus. Climb. At least enough to give yourself a better chance against the ground fire.
My plane jerked behind me as another burst of fire poked a few holes in my fuselage. My thoughts drifted to my mother. The little stack of my father’s unopened letters in my luggage.
Their boy downed in God-forsaken Toulon without so much as a single victory, not a single bad guy nabbed in all his time away.
Ahead of me, I thought I saw my reflection, my plane climbing into a suspended pool of still water, breaching the veil separating life and death.
But no. It was Campbell!
His propellor dove straight toward me, and I barely had the sense to alter course before the two machine guns mounted in front of his cockpit blazed to life.
I swung my plane around just in time to see Uncle Sam’s top hat painted on the side of Campbell’s plane. I regurgitated a burst of air, sweet relief. I had unknowingly masked his attack, and the Germans scattered. I took advantage of the opportunity to continue gaining altitude and circle back to give him some much-needed help. Surprise or no, one pilot against three weren’t odds anyone liked.
Not that it stopped men like Campbell or Luf from trying.
A flash of light burst to my left, and I glanced over in time to see a Pfalz, my Pfalz, the one I had so thoughtfully refused to engage, catch fire—a terrible and awesome byproduct of Campbell’s enthusiasm. The plane dropped as the pilot panicked. I banked to see it play out, watching the man’s desperate dive unquestionably lose control and spiral to the earth.
A victory for Campbell.
My breath caught in my chest. Ironically, being in the air made it harder to breathe, and the relief hardly had fuel to swell.
Two on two now, and that changed everything. The Germans resorted quickly to evasive team maneuvers. I recognized the patterns we saw in many German pilots. The machine gun fire calmed, the pilots now reserving rounds for sure shots. We didn’t give them any.
As we danced around one another in the sky, a few more of our boys joined the fight from their nearby patrol. In less than a minute, the remaining Huns turned away to retreat.
We lined up to pursue. If we closed the distance quickly, we could count two more German planes out of the Kaiser’s service. But as I settled in between Campbell and Winslow, they glanced over and noticed the state of my aircraft. There was no hesitation. They signaled to turn home immediately.
I flushed bright red but followed.
Service in the air was nothing like what I’d seen on the ground. Each machine, each pilot, was precious, and it wouldn’t do to take unnecessary risks. After all, Campbell had already claimed a victory. Better to bring home the whole squadron and fix up a plane to fight another day under more favorable circumstances.
But no one—not a single pilot I knew—ever liked his comrades to make up for his lack.
I glanced at my guns. Jammed and harmless. My heart still hammered at over a hundred rounds per minute, but I had a good half hour to calm it down before we landed at Gengoult—thirty minutes to convince myself I’d never been afraid.
Chapter 2: Enhanced Repair Measures
Jane
In dreary doubtful waiting hours,
Before the brazen frenzy starts,
The horses show him nobler powers; —
O patient eyes, courageous hearts!
-Julian Grenfell-
No one else wanted my step ladder.
The other mechanics jealously guarded theirs as if they were made of gold. The one left to me, the first woman to work alongside them fixing up planes in Croix de Metz, was said to wobble. In fact, several mechanics had fallen over and earned nasty bumps and bruises that made the physically demanding job of fixing things all the more difficult.
None of them wanted a woman to succeed beside them. It would make them look less proficient, earn them even greater scorn from the pilots who took their projects into the sky.
So they gave me the wobbly step ladder.
But the thing about wobbly step ladders is that they simply need some good advice from someone who cares. So, for the first week I came into possession of my step ladder, I cleaned it for half an hour each night and spoke to it the way no one speaks to step ladders.
Eventually, its confidence grew, and its wobbles decreased until it was mostly reliable.
But as I worked away under the cowling of one the 94th Squadron’s Nieuport 28 single seat fighters, my step ladder regressed into bad habits.
“Steady now, Beatrice,” I said calmly. “At times, we’re all tempted to revert to old ways. But we cannot fit into past flaws any better than we can wear worn out boots.”
And with my comments, I either balanced myself better, or my step ladder stopped wobbling of its own accord. It’s difficult to say which happened.
“Hey, Jane! How’s it going over there?” A voice drifted from the ground behind me up and into my work. I took a steadying breath.
“Just fine, thank you,” I called back without turning.
“Will you be much longer?” The voice belonged to another new mechanic: given name Steve, surname A-Perpetual-Pain-in-My-Side.
“I’m working on the fuel line. This one has cracked, so it might be some time still while I fix it.”
“How do you plan to fix a cracked fuel line? Magic powder?” That was Steve’s friend, Brady. His ugly laugh was a testament to his facial features.
“Hey, now,” Steve replied, “she’s not going to use magic powder. She’ll probably just ask the fuel line to stop being cracked, please.” Steve tried to adopt an accent older than the American state he hailed from. It sounded like a drunk Welsh teenager doing his best at first year of preparatory school. But they both laughed all the same.
“If you could move along, I would appreciate it. I have a lot to do here.” I turned on them with a glare.
“Aw, come on, Steve. You’ve got her all upset.” Brady ran a hand through his wavy hair. There wasn’t much to like about his face, but his hair was his pride and joy. He kept it a little longer than he was allowed and took every opportunity to show it off.
“She’s only sore because her boy is up in the air,” Steve replied. My face flushed. Beatrice wobbled in anger.
“She sure knows how to pick a fella. Who knows? Maybe Gun-shy Markie will finally get a kill—or maybe he’ll finally be a kill. Hard to say.”
I clenched my jaw and descended from Beatrice, wrench grasped firmly in one fist. I approached them with all the menace I could muster.
“Marcus will come back,” I said with rigid jaw. I stared directly up into Brady’s shrewish face. “And he has more courage flying up there than you will ever have.”
Brady’s lips twisted into a smile.
“You see how riled up you gotta get to give me a lick of attention?” he asked with a mischievous grin. He nodded. “Tell me, now. You and Marcus, you got something there of a romantical sort?”
“Of course not,” I replied, still considering how I might use the wrench to worsen his knobby cheekbones.
“Then why not come into town with me this weekend? I’d love to take you for a spin. I’m about tired of all the weepy-eyed widows waiting for us over there.”
“How dare you,” I growled.
“Watch it now, Brady. She might cast a spell on you,” Steve said with a chuckle.
I let the comment sink in, watched his eyes as he slowly worked himself up into believing I might. It had taken me some time to embrace the benefits of my reputation, but they were there. After many long seconds, Brady lost his courage.
“Invitation stands, Jane,” he muttered. He gave a not-so-subtle thumbs up to Steve, and they started off toward the mess. Then, he called over his shoulder, “Maybe a little loving would solve that frowny face.”
I dropped the wrench and satisfied myself with pulling out a clump of his beautiful hair.
I was late to lunch. When I walked in, I ignored Brady, Steve, and their cohorts scowling in the corner and collected my food quickly before looking for a spot to eat by myself. I was used to eating alone, at least when Marcus was on duty. My mother would be surprised to learn that the seclusion didn’t bother me. I had come to the aerodrome on request of Major Raoul Lufbery as a specially skilled mechanic, arriving with eyes wide open to how I would be received.
Still, I found the social groups that naturally formed around the airbase amusing. Mechanics tended to eat with other mechanics. Pilots ate with pilots. But today, the women at a table in the corner beckoned me over to join them.
For me, solitude was expected. This invitation was not.
I paused before heading in their direction. I was friendly with the girls that worked at the base, but rarely had it earned me an invitation to sit with them. There weren’t scores of us at the aerodrome—only a handful. Some worked as cleaners, some as cooks, the petulant one with the raised nose worked in intelligence.
I was the only mechanic of my gender, at least here.
“Jane, sit down,” said the hen. Flora was her name, from Cornwall. “We women must stick together.”
I swallowed a snort. Seldom had I seen women truly stick together. And seeing as this was one of Flora’s rare, irregular attempts at any interaction between us, her comment did nothing to warm me.
“That’s very kind of you,” I managed as I sat down.
“Oh, it’s nothing. Isn’t it, ladies?” The gaggle beside her nodded and clucked. Lunch with ladies meant questions and talking. Under different circumstances, I’d hesitate to accept this invitation. But Marcus was still on patrol in the sky, and I’d welcome any distraction. Gently, I touched the glass marble hanging around my neck beneath my jumpsuit.
“They don’t do you any favors in the wardrobe department, do they?” Flora said. The other women returned to their sets of private conversations.
“Blouses, skirts, and grease don’t get along well,” I replied, dropping my hand to pick up my spoon.
“I can’t imagine they do,” Flora replied. “I have to commend you, Jane. I’m embarrassed at my luxury working in the intelligence office when I see the muck under your fingernails.”
My mucky fingernails brought soup to my mouth before I replied.
“Well, sadly, not all of us can help the war effort by talking on the telephone.”
Flora smiled tartly.
“No, some of us have to go about servicing the planes and the men that fly them.”
I tried to ignore Flora’s comment. Inside, I knew what women were capable of—how quickly we could turn on each other when threatened. I tried to turn this cynicism into a shield. But Flora lived to sit atop the social ladder, and her opinion reflected the belief to which the others likely subscribed.
So despite myself, her quips pierced my defenses. It was too much. Every time Marcus went into the air (and he did so often) it was too much. But not for the reasons everyone assumed. I stared down at my bowl, unwilling to give Flora the satisfaction of seeing me cry.
“Oh, don’t be like that,” Flora said. “I didn’t mean to get nasty. You don’t do yourself any favors, you know. Rumors circulate that you’ve taken to witchcraft. And being attached at the hip with one of the pilots isn’t an endearing look, either. The truth is most of these women are afraid of you. They wouldn’t know what to say at all if they found themselves alone with you for a stretch of five minutes.”
“I see,” I replied. “It must be your responsibility as an intelligence operative that has gifted you the social savvy to speak with me so freely.”
She scowled, and we fell into uneasy silence. I wasn’t the only one that experienced the stress of war. We all struggled with fear when a pilot went up. Dread. Anxiety. A whole patrol had been gone since late that morning. We mourned even the pilots we disliked.
People like Flora used this pain as a motivator to distance herself from everyone. Part of me envied her that wisdom.
I clutched the glass marble around my neck.
“Turner!”
A voice called to me across the mess. The compacted figure of Major Lufbery beckoned to me, hand ever at an acute angle, holding a phantom cigarette when a real one was unavailable.
“Excuse me,” I said, happy to have a reason to leave Flora and her flock for a real distraction. Without glancing backward, I knew they stared as I walked away.
“Yes, Major?” I asked when within earshot. He turned with an invitation to follow him out of the mess.
“Do you have that fuel line fixed?” he asked.
“Not yet, sir. It will likely need to be replaced. Do we have a spare?”
He grimaced. “Jane, if we had a spare, I’d have asked another mechanic to look at it.”
“I see, sir. You are hoping I can…”
“Come up with something creative,” Lufbery finished.
I turned the idea over in my head.
“You may overestimate my abilities, Major. I can’t simply conjure up magical weldings.”
He smiled, his eyes squinting.
“You can’t, huh?”
“You know I can’t. Whose plane is it?” I asked.
“Huffer.”
I paused. Most of my time went to patching up Marcus’s plane. Lufbery had officially assigned me to him. But occasionally, he requested that I work on other discreet repair jobs. It didn’t endear me to the assigned mechanics. But Lufbery had discovered my peculiar aptitude and method for repairs back at Villeneuve-les-Vertus aerodrome, the training base for the 94th.
Major Huffer was the official commander of the unit, but Lufbery was a war hero, having flown with the Lafayette Escadrille since the early days of wartime aviation. Most of the pilots looked to him for leadership.
“I see. And the commander being without a plane is never a nice thing,” I said carefully.
“Well, I’m not giving him mine. If he’s not going to be careful about how he uses his switch to control his engine, let him be grounded.”
“You think the fuel line cracked because of misuse?” I asked.
“Don’t make me say it out loud, Jane. But if one of the younger pilots cracked his line by switching cylinders the way he does, I’d have a serious conversation with him.”
We stopped as we neared my motorcycle, a Royal Enfield that I used to get around the base quickly. It made me grateful that I was assigned a jumpsuit and not a skirt.
“Well, as I’ve told you, magic—”
“Enhanced repair measures.”
“Very well, enhanced repair measures have a great deal more to do with the relationship between the pilot and his machine than some silly words one might say to try and fuse a cracked copper tubing.”
Lufbery nodded and searched for a cigarette. I waited for him to dismiss me. He didn’t.
“But you already knew that,” I said.
He lit his cigarette and took a leisurely drag. “I may remember you saying something about it.”
I smiled. “And you know that Major Huffer’s capacity to effectuate any enhanced repair measures is… limited.”
“I suspected as much.” He shrugged.
I swung a leg over the Enfield. “Thank you for the assignment,” I said. “It was an effective distraction while Marcus was out. Officially, I know that is beyond the scope of your concern and had nothing to do with why you assigned it to me.”
“Nothing at all.” Lufbery’s smile was contagious. There was no doubt as to why his pilots liked him. He cared about his friends and wasn’t afraid to turn protocol on its head to ensure safety, efficacy, and respect.
I went to start my engine, but the major put a hand on my arm.
“You and Marcus are close,” he said.
I nodded. Since Vertus, I’d been afraid that command would separate Marcus and me. The romantic rumors that circulated about us did very little to ease that anxiety.
“He’s important to me, too. He’s different, you know, from the others.”
“I know.”
“He doesn’t go into town. He doesn’t talk about the Germans the way the others do. He still hasn’t opened his scorecard.”
“There are plenty of pilots who haven’t yet downed a plane,” I retorted, unaccustomed to having to defend Marcus from Lufbery.
“I’m not critiquing him,” the major said. “The opposite. You know, Jane, this war has cost so much. Taken the lives of so many men. Some of them were never meant to be soldiers, and there’s nothing wrong with that. In fact, it’s something worth protecting.”
I furrowed my brows.
“May I speak candidly?” I asked.
“I have. You can, too.”
“That notion is ridiculous. You can’t protect anyone at war, and you know that much better than I do.”
Lufbery’s slack lips tightened across his face.
“Still, it might be worth trying,” he said. I must have rolled my eyes because he continued in a hurry. “How old do you think I am?”
“What kind of question—”
“How old?”
I studied his features and puzzled. He had creases in his face. His eyes sat deeply, and they cast themselves about lazily the way my father’s did in the morning before tea. His body moved sluggishly, fatigued even when rested.
“Perhaps high thirties. Maybe forty,” I said.
“I just had my thirtieth birthday.”
I blushed.
“War ages people differently than during peace time,” I stammered, trying to correct myself. “You’ve been at combat for years.”
He watched me scramble to recover before responding, “I met Marcus when he was nineteen years old. Before he joined up with the Lafayette, they had him driving ambulances at the front where he saw things that’ll peel the skin from your eyes.”
He put his cigarette to his lips, perhaps pushing away similar horrors. I ignored the smoke, even though it had always made my eyes burn. Marcus was only three years my junior.
“He wants to be the next great combat pilot. He was a teenager when the war started, and I don’t have to tell you what the stories newspaper men write can do to young kids who don’t know any better.”
I fanned the smoke gently away from my face.
“You don’t want him to be the next great combat ace?” I asked. He dropped the rest of his cigarette on the ground and ground it into the dirt with a crunch.
“Maybe I’m just tired of seeing the war have its way with the boys it seduced,” he said. “If something deep inside of Marcus won’t let him shoot another man—now wouldn’t there be something strangely pretty about that? If he went the whole war and never had to take a life?”
“If you feel that way, why did you recruit him for America’s first pursuit squadron?”
“Because he’s a good pilot, and he deserves to become a combat ace if he wants to. We need combat aces, and for the sake of the war, I have to put my personal feelings aside and treat him like I would anyone else. It might cost him his life. It might cost him something more. That’s the price of leadership. But if it were possible to protect him, I think there might be something in that.”
If anyone in the world understood my friendship with Marcus, it was Lufbery. But he’d never spoken about his understanding so openly. I found a great relief flooding into my chest on hearing his words.
“Why are you telling me this?” I asked.
“There’s something rumbling from command. Something’s coming. I just wanted to warn you.” He squeezed my arm. “Better see what you can do about Huffer’s plane. At least let me tell him we’ve tried to fix his fuel line. And don’t worry. Marcus will be down within the hour. I’m sure of it.”
He turned and walked off, puffs of smoke from a newly lit cigarette marking his path in the air behind him.