A Thousand Suns

by Alex Scarrow

  He cast a glance at the French couple tied up and gagged, sitting at the kitchen table. They couldn’t be left here on their own. If either of them were to wriggle free, they’d most likely raise the alarm. They couldn’t be left like this. With some reluctance he had begun to reach for his field knife, when Obergefreiter Schöln gently tapped him on the shoulder.

  ‘Sir, the two wounded men, Paul and Felix . . . what are your orders?’

  The two men that had been badly cut during the beach landing last night had been attended to, but neither of them were fit enough to fight. They would be more of a hindrance than a help.

  He looked across the kitchen at them. One of them, Paul, had lost a lot of blood, and was weak and tired. The other was grimacing from the agony of a broken shinbone; at least he was alert.

  ‘They can stay here to watch over our friends.’ Koch nodded towards the man holding his leg and wincing. ‘Tell Felix, if either of them look like they’re going to give him some trouble . . .’ Koch tapped the hilt of his knife. ‘Understand?’

  Schöln nodded and turned to pass the orders on while the rest of Koch’s platoon grabbed their weapons and made ready to exit the kitchen and head swiftly towards the cover of the apple orchard nearby.

  The orchard was small, perhaps only a couple of acres, but the spring blossoms and sprouting leaves would provide a dense enough cover for them to make their way unseen to the perimeter of the airfield.

  Koch kneeled down beside Felix. ‘Did Schöln tell you . . . they give you any grief -?’

  ‘Yes, sir. I don’t think they’ll be any trouble.’

  He turned to look at the French farmer and his wife. Their wide eyes were rolling with fear as they silently watched the men getting ready to move out.

  ‘I’m sorry you couldn’t make it along for this one, Felix. Listen, it’ll all be over in an hour and a half, so let them both go round about ten o’clock. They’ll run into town screaming blue murder, but they’ll be back with American soldiers, and hopefully you’ll both get some treatment then.’

  ‘Yes, sir, an hour and a half.’

  ‘I’ll see you both later,’ he said. He nodded towards the farmer. ‘Oh, and thank him for the food.’

  Koch watched the last few men slip out of the kitchen one after the other.

  The last man darted out quietly into the garden, and Koch followed, slipping on wet paving stones just outside the kitchen door.

  It was drizzling. Not rain, just a fine mist of moisture descending from a sky as bland and featureless as a sheet of writing paper. He followed the man in front of him into the orchard, and despite his best efforts, made a lot of noise swishing through the tall, wet grass under the trees. He heard several men stumble on concealed roots and the cracking of disconcertingly noisy twigs; but within a minute they were all lying in a ditch at the edge of the orchard, breathing hard from the exertion and looking out onto the small airstrip.

  Koch didn’t need field glasses, the cluster of tents and huts were only a few hundred yards away. A single hangar was the only building. Inside the hangar was a Dakota DC3, and outside, parked facing the tarmac runway, were three more; beside them was a fuel truck. He could only see a few men milling between the tents, puffs of steam from their mouths drifting up to the cold, wet, grey sky. He watched the men move lethargically around the camp. A canteen was still serving breakfast by the look of it; he could see a queue of men standing in line holding mess trays.

  Koch turned to smile at one of the men beside him. ‘I can’t see these lads giving us much trouble.’

  ‘No, sir.’

  It struck him, all of a sudden, how peaceful it was here. After the last few days of being trapped within the noisy confines of the U-boat with the ever-present whine of the electric motors or the chug of the diesel engines, listening to the pattering of drizzle on the leaves, and the occasional rustle of feathered wings amongst the branches around them, he was reluctant to disturb the peace and quiet. It would be nice if this morning’s little endeavour could be pulled off without a shot. It really would be a shame to disturb the day’s tranquillity with the brittle crack of gunfire.

  Koch whistled softly to attract the attention of Feldwebel Büller and Obergefreiter Schöln. The two men immediately recognised their CO’s calling sound and shuffled across to join him.

  ‘Okay, Büller, take nine men and head straight for the guard hut. I reckon the lads over there are probably the only ones even close to putting up a fight. Schöln, you take nine and check out the hangar and get the truck and fuel to the side of the airstrip. I’ll take whoever’s left and do the canteen. We’ll rally the prisoners in the hangar. We should do this quietly and quickly; hopefully we can do it with no shots fired. But if any of them look like doing a runner, bring them down. No one is to leave the airfield, you understand?’

  Both men nodded.

  ‘Right . . . pick your men and wait for my command.’

  Büller and Schöln shuffled off across the ground, wordlessly tapping the shoulders of those men they wanted as they moved down the line. There was little deliberation in their selection; all of the men here were handpicked from Koch’s company, all of them good men. He watched as both men gathered their squads in little clusters away from the edge of the orchard and briefly relayed the objectives to them. Koch summoned the men still lying in the ditch, and they gathered around him.

  ‘Lads, this should be easy. We’re taking the canteen. I see about thirty men there. None of them is carrying a weapon.’ He looked up at the queue of men under the canteen awning waiting tiredly in line for their breakfast. ‘Fuck it, some of them aren’t even fully dressed!’

  The men laughed under their breath.

  ‘We go in, quietly, no shots if you can help it. Once we’ve got them all, we’ll take them to the hangar. Any questions?’

  None of his squad could think of any, and they all shook their heads in silence.

  ‘Right, on my command, we’re all moving out.’

  Koch looked up at his two other squad leaders; they were finished with their briefings and looking at him for the signal.

  Here we go.

  He nodded, and instantly they were off their knees en masse and sprinting through the long, wet grass of the orchard, out from under the small, squat apple trees and across the shorter grass of the airfield. As they ran the only sound was the grass-softened rustle of boots on the ground and the metallic chatter of buckles and ammo.

  Büller and his men veered to the right, towards the guard hut and barricade. Schöln bore left, towards the hangar. Koch and his men continued forward, towards the canteen tent, now only a hundred yards away. Most of the Americans there having breakfast seemed half asleep, and it appeared like none of them had spotted anything yet.

  My God, can’t they see us?

  They were now only thirty feet away and a few of the men sitting down to eat, looked up and seemed to notice the approaching Germans. The initial response didn’t seem to be alarm, it looked like curiosity; he could imagine them lazily wondering, ‘Who are these guys? Some of ours . . . practising manoeuvres or something?’

  Koch sprinted the last few yards and ducked as he entered underneath the awning, MP-40 raised to his shoulder and pointed at the Americans, now it seemed, finally aware that something was amiss.

  ‘Down! Now!’ Koch shouted using his limited knowledge of English and gesturing towards the ground with the barrel of his gun. The rest of Koch’s squad fanned out around the men in the canteen.

  ‘Andreas, get those over here in the middle of the floor,’ he called out.

  One of his squad approached the men still standing in line, still holding mess trays, motionless and all staring uncomprehendingly at Koch and his men. He pulled them away from the steaming urns and shoved them towards the middle of the canteen.

  ‘Down!’ he hissed.

  They finally seemed to wake up and comprehend the situation that had suddenly altered their day. A few moments later they were all ly
ing compliantly on the floor, Koch’s men hastily shaking them down for any concealed weapons.

  So far so good.

  In the meantime, Schöln and his men crossed two hundred yards of open field towards the hangar. It was a relatively small structure, only large enough to house a single transport plane. Outside, parked facing away from the building, were the three DC3s and beside them the fuel truck. As he jogged, he pointed at four of his men and indicated the planes and the fuel truck, they peeled off towards them, weapons at the ready. One of them climbed swiftly into the truck and had it immediately rolling across the field towards the grass landing strip. The other three began checking the planes for anyone hiding inside.

  Schöln led the rest of them over towards the hangar and they came to a halt outside the sliding corrugated doors. Schöln took a few seconds to catch his breath.

  ‘Ernst, Dieter, stay here and guard this doorway,’ he whispered between ragged gasps. He took the other three men of his squad with him inside the hangar. They fanned out and quickly circled the plane but found no one.

  Schöln nodded at one of his men. ‘Jan, check inside.’

  The soldier slung his MP-40 over one shoulder and pulled himself up inside the cargo hold of the plane. Schöln heard a muffled shout of surprise and a moment later a solitary mechanic emerged from the plane with his hands in the air; behind him Jan emerged intently studying a deck of playing cards. He jogged over to Schöln and showed him the deck.

  ‘Nice . . . very nice,’ he nodded appreciatively. The women on this deck weren’t just topless. He cast a glance at the American mechanic, who looked as embarrassed as he was frightened. ‘I presume he was playing solitaire?’

  Jan grinned.

  Schöln looked down at the deck. ‘When we’re done today, I think I’ll have another look through these.’ He passed the deck back to Jan, who pocketed them quickly.

  ‘Shit,’ said Büller as he studied the men twenty yards away, outside the guard hut. There were two of them that he could see, both had rifles slung over their shoulders. There might possibly be a third inside the hut; one of the men seemed to be having a conversation with someone inside. He turned to face his squad, all of them kneeling with him behind a stack of crates and awaiting instructions.

  It looked like they were going to have to go in shooting. Büller wasn’t so much concerned about any bullets that might whistle towards them, but if the guards weren’t taken totally by surprise there was a chance one of them might slip away out of the front entrance and down the dirt track into town.

  He cast a glance over his shoulder towards the hangar. He could see several men walking with raised arms away from the parked-up DC3s towards the building, escorted by another, which even at this distance could clearly be seen to be holding a gun. He turned to check out Koch’s progress and saw men being pulled unceremoniously to the floor at gunpoint. If either of the guards were to turn towards them, they would see something was wrong.

  ‘Büller?’ prompted one of his men. ‘What do we do?’

  Whatever it is, it’s got to be quick.

  Büller turned back to study the guards just in time to see one of them pace casually along the length of the barricade and turn round to pace back. He saw the guard look up from his feet tiredly towards the hangar and stop. The guard cocked his head, and then they heard him call out to the other one.

  Fuck it, decision’s made for me.

  ‘Let’s get ’em!’ Büller rose from behind the stack of crates and fired a volley from the hip as he ran. His men emerged behind him, quickly spreading out and racing towards the two guards who now were beginning to sluggishly react to the alarming sight of ten German soldiers only a few dozen yards away and rapidly approaching them. One of them was swifter than the others in coming to his senses and swung his rifle down, firing in rapid succession four unaimed shots towards them. All of them missed wildly, thudding harmlessly into the wet ground. The other guard seemed to have woken up now and dived for cover behind a small sandbag bunker beside the barricade. The first guard dropped to his knee and prepared to fire some aimed shots this time. Büller found himself feeling a fleeting instant of sympathy for the guard as he aimed his sub-machine gun at the young man. It seemed like he’d been the only American on the airfield with his wits about him. He squeezed off half a dozen rounds in a short burst. Three puffs of crimson appeared in front of his chest and the young American was pushed backwards off his feet. Büller’s men covered the ground quickly and no more than three or four seconds later they were vaulting over the sandbag bunker. The other guard instantly dropped his weapon and threw his arms up quickly.

  The hut.

  Büller looked towards the open door of the hut and saw a flash of movement from within. The door to the hut slammed shut with a bang.

  ‘Someone inside!’ he shouted.

  One of his squad, Bergin, rushed the door and kicked it violently open. From inside Büller heard several shots being fired and Bergin dived back out of the doorway.

  There were another three shots that followed the direction Bergin had thrown himself in and ragged holes appeared in the flimsy wooden wall of the hut, one of them inches above his head.

  Screw this.

  ‘Down!’ Büller shouted at Bergin and swung his MP-40 towards the hut. He emptied his magazine at the wall at about waist height. The rest of the squad followed suit while Bergin hugged the ground as a shower of wood splinters fluttered down onto him.

  The firing ceased a few seconds later, their ears rung from the noise. The wall of the hut looked like a cheese grater.

  Büller took a few steps forward and kicked at the door. It swung in quickly and bounced off a desk inside with a flimsy rattle. Büller raised his weapon and sidestepped into the hut.

  As the acrid smoke cleared he could see the body of the third guard slumped over the crackling, hissing remains of a radio. The body slowly slid to the floor with a thump. One hand still holding tightly to the radio receiver.

  ‘Shit . . . I think we’re in for some company.’

  Chapter 40

  Leaving Town

  It was a good five miles along the coast road before Mark eased his foot off the pedal and another one before he was happy enough to slow down and pull over. He brought the Cherokee to a standstill down a slip road hidden from the main coastal interstate and applied the handbrake. He left the engine running, though.

  ‘You going to tell me what’s going on?’ he managed to calmly ask after a while.

  ‘Jesus, Mark. Those bastards were going to kill me!’

  ‘I noticed.’

  Chris shook his head. ‘My God, if you hadn’t come in when you did . . . Jesus.’

  ‘Yup,’ Mark answered drily. There was anger bubbling up in his voice. ‘You sure you’re telling me everything, Chris? Because all of a sudden, this has escalated from being an interesting find to being, well . . . I’ll be honest here, a fucking hazardous situation!’ He took a deep breath to compose himself once more.

  ‘You’re right, there’s a little more that’s gone on, Mark. I’m sorry, I should’ve kept you in the picture. But then, I honestly didn’t expect something like this to happen. I mean, for crying out loud, whatever happened with that plane out there, it was over half a century ago! Why the fuck does someone want to kill us for finding it?’

  ‘This is America, Chris . . . not good old England. The goons over here don’t box by the Marquis of Queensberry rules, if you know what I mean.’

  ‘Shit, yeah, I noticed already.’

  Both men sat in silence for a moment, both still recovering from the experience.

  ‘So you going to tell me what’s been happening, then?’ said Mark finally.

  Chris told him as quickly as he could about the call from Wallace, the old man on the beach, McGuire, and then the two men he’d seen down by the jetty. The disjointed events over the last few days, each on their own, had seemed much less disturbing in isolation, but putting them together now for Mark’s ben
efit, they tied together in a chilling way.

  ‘Jesus, Chris, it sounds like we’ve stumbled on something we probably shouldn’t have.’

  ‘I know, and I’ll be honest, this is really making me shit myself. Who do you think those guys were working for?’

  Mark scratched his beard. ‘I dunno. CIA? Some other government agency?’

  Chris looked out of the window at the blackness of the night, trying in his mind to colour the whole picture in. But there were so many gaps. It seemed they knew just enough to present a threat to somebody out there, but not enough to know what to do next.

  ‘There’s something in that wreck down there that opens a whole can of worms for . . . for someone. And it’s that very same someone who’s sent in these fucking psychotic hitmen.’

  ‘That’s great, Chris, but that isn’t telling us a whole lot.’

  Mark was right. They were going to need to find out more than they already knew if they were going to walk away from this in one piece. For a start, they needed to know what was in that plane wreck that was so damned important, and maybe then, if they could find that out, they’d have an idea of who the hell had released the rottweilers on them.

  He realised there was only one thing they could do right now. ‘We have to go back for this guy Wallace,’ said Chris.

  ‘No way am I heading back down that road to Port Lawrence. No fucking way,’ Mark answered adamantly.

  ‘It’s the only way we’re going to find out who’s after us. I know that wily old bastard knows far more than he let on this evening. I mean, he was really twitchy, like he knew someone was closing in on us. He knows who those guys work for, Mark, I’m sure of that. He knows who they work for, and what’s out there under the water.’

  Mark drummed his thumbs on the steering wheel. ‘So what do you suggest we do?’

  ‘I know where he’s staying. We drive right back in and grab him, and then we run like hell.’

  ‘I see. And we happen to run into these guys again?’

  ‘I’ll kill them both with my death-ray eyes.’