A Leaf on the Wind of All Hallows: An Outlander Novella by Diana Gabaldon Page B

stomach tightening. Malan didn’t mean Captain Randall was either humorous or a Freemason. ‘Funny bugger’ in this context meant only one thing. MI6.
    * * *
    Captain Randall
was
from the secret arm of British Intelligence. He made no bones about it, once Malan had deposited them in a vacant office and left them to it.
    ‘We’re wanting a pilot—a good pilot,’ he added with a faint smile, ‘to fly solo reconnaissance. A new project. Very special.’
    ‘Solo? Where?’ Jerry asked warily. Spitfires normally flew in four-plane flights, or in larger configurations, all the way up to an entire squadron, sixteen planes. In formation, they could cover one another to some extent against the heavier Heinkels and Messerschmitts. But they seldom flew alone by choice.
    ‘I’ll tell you that a bit later. First—are you fit, do you think?’
    Jerry reared back a bit at that, stung. What did this bloody boffin think he—Then he caught a glance at his reflection in the windowpane. Eyes red as a mad boar’s, his wet hair sticking up in spikes, a fresh red bruise spreading on his forehead, and his blouson stuck to him in damp patches where he hadn’t bothered to dry off before dressing.
    ‘Extremely fit,’ he snapped. ‘Sir.’
    Randall lifted a hand half an inch, dismissing the need for
sir
s.
    ‘I meant your knee,’ he said mildly.
    ‘Oh,’ Jerry said, disconcerted. ‘That. Aye, it’s fine.’
    He’d taken two bullets through his right knee a year before, when he’d dived after a 109 and neglected to see another one that popped out of nowhere behind him and peppered his arse.
    On fire, but terrified of bailing out into a sky filled with smoke, bullets, and random explosions, he’d ridden his burning plane down, both of them screaming as they fell out of the sky,
Dolly I
’s metal skin so hot it had seared his left forearm through his jacket, his right foot squelching in the blood that filled his boot as he stamped the pedal. Made it, though, and had been on the sick-and-hurtlist for two months. He still limped very noticeably, but he didn’t regret his smashed patella; he’d had his second month’s sick leave at home—and wee Roger had come along nine months later.
    He smiled broadly at the thought of his lad, and Randall smiled back in involuntary response.
    ‘Good,’ he said. ‘You’re all right to fly a long mission, then?’
    Jerry shrugged. ‘How long can it be in a Spitfire? Unless you’ve thought up a way to refuel in the air.’ He’d meant that as a joke, and was further disconcerted to see Randall’s lips purse a little, as though thinking whether to tell him they
had
.
    ‘It is a Spitfire ye mean me to fly?’ he asked, suddenly uncertain. Christ, what if it was one of the experimental birds they heard about now and again? His skin prickled with a combination of fear and excitement. But Randall nodded.
    ‘Oh, yes, certainly. Nothing else is manoeuvrable enough, and there may be a good bit of ducking and dodging. What we’ve done is to take a Spitfire II, remove one pair of wing guns, and refit it with a pair of cameras.’
    ‘One pair?’
    Again, that slight pursing of lips before Randall replied.
    ‘You might need the second pair of guns.’
    ‘Oh. Aye. Well, then …’
    The immediate notion, as Randall explained it, was for Jerry to go to Northumberland, where he’d spend two weeks being trained in the use of the wing cameras, taking pictures of selected bits of landscape at different altitudes. And where he’d work with a support team who were meant to be trained in keeping the cameras functioning in bad weather. They’d teach him how to get the film out without ruining it, just in case he had to. After which …
    ‘I can’t tell you yet exactly where you’ll be going,’ Randall said. His manner through the conversation had been intent, but friendly, joking now and then. Now all trace of joviality had vanished; he was dead serious. ‘Eastern Europe is all I can say just