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Chapter 22

…In Dreams,

"Mayday, mayday! This is Invader flight six-nine dash zero-zero-one—come in fighter command, come in!"

There was no answer, only the crackle of static. Jackie wiped a palm full of blood and dirt from her right cheek, ignoring the pain. She looked at Steve, who was piloting the aircraft. His expression was grim, and with good reason. The Douglas C-47 was shot to hell, the right engine belching smoke, the rudder shredded. To top it off, they were losing fuel. It was now more a matter of willpower than aerodynamics keeping the plane aloft. Their escort, a pair of P-51 Mustangs, fell fighting off the first of the German pursuit ten minutes earlier. The Nazis still owned the skies over France—and the English Channel was a no-man's land. They would soon have company again.

"Try again," Steve said. "We're not even halfway over the Channel. If we don't get some fighter cover, we aren't going to make it. This was no accident. It was a trap."

"How long do you think we have?"

Steve checked the instrument panel. "They'd have scrambled fighters from Calais. Given our speed, they'll be here in eight minutes. We can't outrun them in this tub."

Jacqueline picked up the headset, adjusting the frequency. "This is Invader flight six-nine dash zero-zero-one calling RAF fighter command. Request immediate fighter cover. We have Jerry's in hot pursuit and have taken heavy fire! Do you copy, fighter command? Come in please."

Again, the only reply was the white hiss of static. She set the apparatus down and turned to Steve. "The transmitter must have been hit."

She undid her safety harness and got out of the co-pilot seat. "Let me take a look at that leg," she said, kneeling next to Steve in the cramped space of the cockpit. His leg was a bloody mess. The makeshift tourniquet she had applied earlier was soaked and the blue of his uniform trousers was now stained red.

"It's all right," he said, undoing the bandage. "The bullet passed straight through. The wound's healed."

Using her sleeve to wipe the blood from his thigh, Jackie could no longer see any sign of the gaping hole she had tended to only thirty minutes earlier. "Quite a handy little talent you have."

"Wish I could share it with you," Steve said, peering at the nasty gash on her cheek. She waved him off.

"Looks worse than it is."

"Liar."

Jackie took her seat again, pressing a compression bandage to her cheek. Her mind went back to the ambush, not an hour earlier. "What in God's name was that…thing? It was like something out of a Karloff movie. Or a nightmare."

"It was Schmidt."

"But how? That ghastly skull…it must have been a mask, surely."

"It was no mask. It was real, somehow. It's like he's become a living skeleton. I don't understand how, but it was real."

"His strength was fantastic."

"Stronger than me," Steve nodded, grimly. "He almost had me."

"Schmidt's obsessed with you," she said. "I never knew what hate was, until I stared into those eyes. Except they weren't eyes, just bottomless pits of hate. What in God's name has he become?"

"Whatever it is, I don't think God had anything to do with it."

Jackie reached out, laying her hand gently on the armored tunic of Steve's shoulder. "I'm sorry we couldn't save her, this friend of yours. Did you know her well?"

"…Yes."

"What was her name?"

"Margaret. But her friends called her Peggy. She transferred to the OSS two years ago, working with the French resistance. She wanted to do more than ride a desk. She wanted to join the fight, make a difference…" Steve trailed off.

"She did, darling. She and her group caused havoc to the Jerry's behind lines. She did make a difference."

Steve nodded again, but distantly, as though he hadn't heard her words. "He knew, somehow. Schmidt knew Peg and I were friends. He orchestrated the entire thing, the phony call for emergency extraction under her code name, the location, the timing…everything. He knew I would take this call."

Steve grew quiet again. Jackie saw that he was replaying in his mind the awful sight of the execution. Margaret Carter and her entire team, ten people in all, cut apart by a hail of machine gun fire. And the horrid sight of the thing that Schmidt now was, laughing at the slaughter.

Her heart ached for Steve. He was the strongest man she knew, he would bear up under this blow, but it would take its toll. She knew better than to try to persuade him he wasn't to blame—though of course it was true. Nor did she seek to comfort him with empty platitudes. Five years of war made such things meaningless, as meaningless as the small pang of jealousy she felt wondering if Steve and this woman had once been more than just friends. It didn't matter now. Steve was her man, and he was in pain.

"He'll pay for this crime," she said. There were no dramatics in her words, this wasn't the time for them. "Peggy hasn't died in vain. Whatever Schmidt's become, he's guilty and he'll answer for his crimes. All of the Nazi bastards will."

Steve smiled. He was about to speak when the radio sputtered to life.

"Invader flight six-nine dash zero-zero one, come in. This is fighter command, over."

Jackie grabbed the set. "Command, this is six-nine dash zero-zero one! Request immediate fighter cover!"

"They're on their way," said the static infused voice over the radio headset. "A squadron of Spitfires, all for Spitfire."

"And one very grateful Yank," Steve said, picking up his own headset. "Tell those fly-boys that Captain America is buying the first round tonight."

"Roger that, Cap. But be advised: your escort is six minutes from rendezvous. Radar shows that you have six Jerry's on your tail—they'll be on you in less than two minutes. You'll have to hold them off as best you can until help arrives. Over."

Steve and Jackie both turned their heads, looking towards the rear of the plane. This was a transport, not a fighter. It was modified, outfitted with a tail-gun turret, but it had been shattered during their first encounter with the Luftwaffe. It was an empty hole now, useless. Steve cupped the mic to his mouth, a grim set to his jaw.

"Roger, command. Tell those pilots to pour it on. Invader six-nine dash zero-zero one, over and out."

Steve turned to see Jackie unfastening her harness. "Where do you think you're going?"

"Out," she said, grabbing her pistol, loading a full magazine.

"Like hell you are. Didn't you hear the man? There are six enemy birds on our tail. Sit down."

"Did you hear him?" Jackie retorted. "They'll be on us any second now. Hand me those two grenades on your belt, would you?"

"Damn it Jackie, sit down! You'll never make it if you go out there."

"We'll never make it if I don't," she said, grabbing the flare gun. "I thought we had settled this argument a long time ago. I am not some mascot, some junior associate. I'm a full member of this team."

"Yes, and I'm your commanding officer. I order you to sit down."

"Commanding officer, is it?" Jackie glared at him, the duchess now, the Lady of the Manor, accustomed to giving orders, not taking them. She reached out and grabbed the grenades from Steve's belt. "Well commander, you may kiss my ass, because I'm going."

She turned and ran out of the cabin doorway.

"Jackie!"

She ignored Steve and dashed toward the cargo door at the rear of the plane, pulling open the hatch. The icy wind stabbed like needles. Closing her eyes, Jacqueline Falsworth spoke to herself words more ancient than any in all of human language. Words of enchantment and power. Instantly the cold vanished, replaced by a glowing flare from within her very bones. A sparkling like a million fireflies erupted around her. Even her hair seemed to catch alight, a cascade of something between flame and starlight. She was Spitfire now and the power of elvish fire was hers to command. She leapt from the plane, blazing into flight.

Even in times of danger like this, her power was a breathtaking thing, as magic is. But this was not the time to indulge in it. She hurtled through the Atlantic sky, just now growing dark with the setting sun. She quickly spotted the six German Fokker-Wolfs, flying in tight formation. She increased her velocity. At top speed, she was faster than any aircraft, outside of the new jet propelled designs. She would need all of that speed now to stay one step ahead of the hail of gunfire being sprayed her way. Her only chance—and Steve's as well—was to flank them, using hit and run tactics. If she could just take down one of the German planes, the others would have to engage her, break off pursuit. This might give Steve enough time, if the British squadron was fast enough. If the C-47 would hold together long enough to make England. And if its fuel held out. A great many ifs. She wove through the crossfire, and went after the lead plane, praying for a little luck. So began four of the most harrowing minutes of her life.

After she took down the first fighter, the others broke off pursuit and trained their sights on her. Jackie was soon in a bad spot. The German pilots were employing a circular attack pattern, pinning her into a narrowing spiral. Their numbers were neutralizing her speed advantage. Just as all seemed lost, the spearhead of the British squadron arrived. They quickly took down one, then two enemy aircraft. Jackie pulled up, out of danger. A quick wave to her countrymen, and she was off. They outnumbered the remaining Jerry's two to one; they did not need her assistance. But Steve might. She poured on the speed. Within seconds, she was able to spy the famed cliffs of Dover, their chalky whiteness bright even in the scant light. A small tendril of smoke was drifting up from the narrow strip of beach and Jackie's heart froze. She flew on, pushing her top speed. She landed next to the wreck of the C-47. Her power dimmed, then faded entirely as she ran to the fuselage. The door would not budge, so she beat her fists on the side.

"Steve!"

There was no answer. Panic rose in her breast. The fire was minimal, too little fuel, she might be able to make her way in through the cargo doors. That was when she heard a voice from behind.

"What took you so long?"

She turned, seeing the man the world knew as the indomitable Captain America. To her it was Steve Roger, the man she loved. He was standing at the gaping rent in the rear of the plane, towing an inflatable life raft. Jackie spoke in a daze.

"I thought you were—"

"Dead? Not a chance. You're not getting rid of me that easily."

She looked at the raft in his hand. "Where were you going?"

"Back there," he motioned, gesturing towards the ocean. "To get you."

"I was forty miles away."

"Then I was going to have to paddle fast." Steve dropped the raft onto the sand as the ocean lapped his boots. He walked towards her. "If I had to cross the entire ocean, I'd get to you."

She ran to him, wrapping her arms around him, pressing her lips to his cheeks, to his mouth, saying again and again: "I love you, I love you."

They took shelter beneath the shattered hull of the aircraft. They made love, the way young people do in such desperate times, with fierce tenderness, and with a longing for the promise of a better day to come. This would be the last time she and Steve would ever be together and had she known it, she would never have let him go.

In her dreams, she never did.