All set.

He reached out for the gun controls and put them on “Full Barrage,”

“Flame,” and “Ready.” They were aimed at that box of blasting caps.

Was the drone tilting or was he just dizzy? He couldn't tell with his dazed senses. He looked at the climb indicator of the plane. Yes! The drone was tilting, the door behind him lower now. Something had upset the coordinates. The magnetic fields of the limpet mines? But whatever it was trying correct, it was pointing its door down!

That meant if he shot backward and fired he would be shooting himself toward the sea or the mountains.

He better not delay.

He kicked off the magnetic grips. The plane started to slide backward to the door.

Hastily he hit his starter buttons. The plane was sliding backward faster.

He slammed his fist into the gun-firing button.

The battle plane fired full blast.

But the result was far more than just gun recoil.

Before his eyes the whole interior of the drone flashed a violent orange and green.

The battle plane was catapulted backward into space like a projectile!

The shock of sudden motion almost tore his head apart.

He could still see, still register. The drone looked like an old rocket missile must have looked. It was soaring upward as though the door was the jet!

Jonnie's hands fumbled over the battle plane console.

He punched in coordinates to arrest his backward descent.

With a jolt the plane slowed its rocketing, downward plunge.

But something else was happening. There was no response from the right balance motor.

In a slow roll, the plane began to rotate in the sky. The roll became faster.

The left balance motor could not hold it by itself.

Jonnie frantically battered the console keys.

The plane was now cartwheeling through the storm!

Badly shaken and feeling very ill, Jonnie tried to control the plane. There was a thin spot in the storm.

It was extremely hard to think. If he shut off the left balance motor, maybe the stricken ship would stop rolling. He managed it. Then he realized the guns must still be firing. He got a wad of blanket out of his vision and reached up to push the firing button off. And as he did he saw it.

The drone!

Almost straight at him it was tumbling out of the sky. Spent flames were licking out of the doorway and a vast plume of smoke was trailing behind it.

It was going to hit him if he didn't move.

His hands hit the console. He felt the plane move.

The drone went by so close the plane tumbled again in the air rush.

Abruptly a geyser of water smashed upward into the storm, a column two hundred feet high.

The battle plane spun about under the new impact.

Water? Water!

Jonnie felt a surge of relief. They were not yet over Scotland, still over the sea.

Water! He would hit it. He knew that pressure outside the doors would keep him from opening them. This battle plane would never float.

He brought a fist down on the window openers, both of them.

He looked at the console. What could he press to arrest his own descent?

The battle plane crashed into the sea.

The jolt threw him back into unconsciousness. But in a moment a wave of the coldest water he had ever felt rushed in on him, revived him. Bitterly cold water, colder than ice to the touch. And it was hitting him in a roaring torrent from both sides.

He fought with the huge, ten-pound Psychlo belt release. Everything seemed to be moving in slow motion. He unwound the belt from himself.

The water was getting darker. The battle plane must be sinking very rapidly. Or he was passing out once more?

The incoming rush eased. At least the plane was no longer spinning, he thought vacantly.

A sudden surge of energy. He got to his knees on the seat and thrust a floating blanket out of his way. The futility of it struck him. There was nobody to save him. He couldn't live in water this cold.

More by reflex than by intention he went out the window and began to rise to the surface. His air mask tanks were lifting him. Water was getting in the air mask, washing dried blood off the inside glass. The sea became lighter and lighter green.

Then a spatter of rain hit his head. Rain! It was welcome.

The sea about him, as he floated face-up, was a panorama of tossing, overwhelming waves, pockmarked with the rain. A wild scene.

The cold was getting to the very center of his being.

He knew he was going into a delusion again. As the waves covered and uncovered his ears he thought he heard a voice. They said dying men often heard angel voices calling them. He knew he was very close to death.

More delusion. Hopeful thinking giving rise to false sights. It was what he would have dearly loved to see, not what was. But the water-blurred vision stayed there.

Something hit him in the face mask. A line?

He became more alert. It looked like Dunneldeen on a cable ladder not four feet away! A Dunneldeen who was being submerged and uncovered by the waves.

Jonnie felt his arms being guided into safety line loops. Tension was being taken up on the line. His ears came free of the water and he could hear. It was Dunneldeen, a Dunneldeen who was smiling even though he was being doused repeatedly as the waves rolled past the cable ladder.

“Come on now, laddie,” Dunneldeen said. “Just hold on and they'll pull you up to the plane. 'Tis a wee bit cold for a swim.”

Fleeting impressions, half-seen through a wall composed of darkness and pain. Dim consciousness of being in a ship and landing. Of someone spooning broth at him. Of being carried in a stretcher with rain on the blankets. Of a stone-walled room. Of different faces. Of whispered conversations. Of another stretcher. Of another plane. And a pain in his arm. He sank back into darkness. He thought he was in the drone again. He opened his eyes. He saw Dunneldeen's face. He must still be in the sea. But no, he was not cold, he was warm.

“He's coming around,” said someone softly. “We'll be able to operate soon.”

He opened his eyes and saw boots and kilts. A lot of boots and kilts standing beside what he was lying on.

A plane's motors? He was in a plane.

He turned his head a little and it hurt. But there was Dunneldeen's face.

Jonnie saw that he was on a sort of table. He was in a plane, a passenger plane. There was a tall gray man in a white coat on his left side. There were a lot of older Scots on his right side. Four young Scots were sitting on a bench. There was another table with some shiny things on it beyond the doctor.

Dunneldeen was sitting beside him and there was a tube and a sort of pump connecting Dunneldeen's arm with his own.

“What's this?” whispered Jonnie, indicating the tube or trying to.

“Blood transfusion,” said Dunneldeen. He felt he should be very careful about what he said. He was smiling but he was worried and felt very bad. Keep a bright face on it. “Laddie, you are singularly fortunate. You are getting the royal blood of the Stewarts, no less, which puts you into direct line, after me, of course, to the throne of Scotland.”

The doctor was signaling Dunneldeen to take it easy. They all knew that Jonnie might die, that there wasn't a thirty percent chance of his recovery, not with those two severe skull fractures and other injuries, as well as shock. His respiration was too shallow.

In the underground hospital where they had operated for centuries, in a land where skull injuries were common, the doctor had seen too many die in less injured condition than this one. He was looking down at the big, handsome lad with something like pity.