The Quest for Zerzura

1

"Suspicious vessel down below, at two o'clock," reported Andy "Ace" McNally from the rear passenger seat.

Rick Montana banked the little plane in a gentle turn to the right. Sure enough, the dark, cigar-shaped vessel didn't look much like a local fishing boat out trawling for flounder off the Virginia coast or tending its lobster pots. More like a surfaced German submarine.

"It's a U-boat, all right," said Montana with a grin as they approached. "Now this is what we joined the Civil Air Patrol for."

Ace readied his camera and leaned out the open right-side window as they passed, his finger working the shutter button for all it was worth.

"Officer on deck," he reported as they flew by. "Leaning against the conning tower. Probably came up for a bit of fresh air and sunshine. He might have glanced up for a second, but I don't think he paid us much mind."

"Which is why the CAP likes the Piper J3 Cub. We don't look much like a spy plane. We just look like a couple of sightseers, out for a Sunday spin."

He brought the plane around in a tight turn and started back. "I'm going around for another pass, a bit lower. And don't forget about that fancy camera they mounted below."

That state-of-the-art camera that was attached to the plane's belly was what made their J3 different from Farmer Joe's over in Punkin' Patch. Since America joined the war, eight months ago, the Civil Air Patrol had enlisted volunteer pilots such as Rick and Ace to guard the home front, keeping our shores safe from clandestine enemy activity.

As they came around again, Ace held the cable that worked the belly camera with one hand, his thumb on the button, and operated his hand-held Leica with the other.

Click-click-click-click.

"He took a lot longer look that time. I think he made us."

"One more time. We want to bring back good evidence that they can use."

They came in low enough to see the glint of the officer's insignia on his uniform. And the glint of the gun in his hand.

"He's made us. Whoa, Nellie, he's shootin' at us!"

In an instant, Rick Montana was back in the Great War, more than twenty years before. Skills and instincts that had lain dormant kicked in. Deftly he maneuvered out of the line of fire. They could tell by the increasing wake of the sub that their adversary was on the move.

"They're getting away!" yelled Ace. "We gotta keep track on 'em as long as we can."

The German officer had time for a few more quick shots before ducking down the hatch. The little Piper Cub shuddered as two of the half-dozen or more found their mark.

"I think we're hit."

"Take note of the heading they're on. They're diving."

"I'll get on the radio to Stratton and ask him if he wants us to pursue."

Montana tried to execute a turn to right, but as the wings banked, the plane sloughed straight ahead. Rick shook his head. "We can't pursue. We lost the right rudder. He must've hit a cable."

He followed the dark form of the German submarine for another several seconds, until it had gone too deep for him to make out. After taking a second note of the U-boat's heading, he began a slow left-hand turn toward home. A glance ahead at the fuel sight gauge revealed another bit of bad news. "He must have hit a fuel line too, or put a hole in the tank. The level is dropping. We'll be lucky to get her in on fumes." If the tank had indeed been hit, he didn't have to add how lucky they were to still be flying. The gas tank was located between the engine firewall and the instrument panel. Another few inches back, and it could have been the pilot.