ENEMY WITHIN

by Mick Bose

  Before he got to the crest of the hill he dismounted. He tied Lucky to a stone. He touched his wound and his hand came back red with blood. He tied the makeshift bandage tighter and set off at a brisk pace. He spread-eagled himself at the top and looked with his binoculars. Two Curtiss JN-4 planes stood on each landing strip. That was good. The hangars were empty. He couldn’t see anyone. The gate at the far left was shut. He shifted his binoculars to the office.

  He caught the glimpse of a uniform in the window. How many? He had seen two last time. He looked at the planes. They must be ready for a sortie or they wouldn’t be out. Planes needing refuelling or maintenance tended to stay in the hangars. Still, to take off unaided wasn’t easy. He had to prime the engine from the cockpit, jump down and rotate the blades. It might take a few revolutions before the engine caught on. They would attack him. He had the rifle, but if they shot back the plane might get damaged. Too risky. He had to neutralise them first.

  Stealthily, he crept down the hill. The slope was gentle, but he was careful. He took care of where he put his feet, careful not to dislodge any rocks that might give him away. He was glad of the brown uniform. Bright colours tended to get noticed quicker. He got to the lowest edge, then the slope fell off sharply to a vertical drop of almost five feet. Becker jumped and landed on the balls of his feet. He flattened himself on the ground. The log cabin office was in front of him. The hangars lay beyond that. He couldn’t see any movement in the dark opening of the hangars. But that didn’t mean no one was there.

  The office door was still shut. He raised himself up and unhooked the Remington from his back. He brushed down his uniform and pulled his cap down low to cover his face. He paused for a second in front of the door, then pushed it open. Two men were inside. One was leaning against a filing cabinet and the other sat at the table. The room was small, the men close together. He kept his head down, the cap covering his face as he walked in.

  “Alfred, is that you?” A voice asked him.

  Becker stood in front of the man who was standing. He put the rifle against the filing cabinet. His head was still bent low, but he knew the man seated at the table could see him. From the corner of his eye, he saw the man put his hands on the table, beginning to stand up. Becker reached behind, unsheathed the kukri and held it in front of the man standing.

  Shock and fear appeared in the man`s eyes. He stared at the glinting edge of the kukri, and then at Becker`s eyes. With a start he came off the filing cabinet and that was his last movement. Becker stabbed the kukri into his neck, going up from below his chin, bending the man backwards with the force. He took the weapon out instantly, blood spurting from the arteries. The man jerked and shook, then crumpled to the floor.

  Becker spun and jumped over the table. The other man was on his feet. He fumbled with a belt holster and managed to get a pistol in his hand as Becker crashed into him. The man was knocked back, shattering the glass window behind him. He clawed at Becker`s face, then grabbed his neck. He kicked with his leg and the blow caught Becker on the wound. Becker grunted in pain and plunged the kukri into the man`s midriff, but the thick khaki tunic took most of the force. The man bucked and heaved below Becker and managed to get his knee between them. He pushed hard and Becker could feel the pressure on his wound, now unbearable. His eyes swam with pain. He cried out and swung the kukri blindly into the man`s face. The blade hit just below the eye socket. The man screamed and kicked Becker harder, dislodging him. Becker scrambled for position. The man lifted his hands to cover his face. Blood streamed out between his fingers. Becker grabbed his hands, separated them, for an instant staring at the ghoulish image of an eyeball hanging from its nerve and blood vessels from the socket. Then he stabbed the kukri into the man`s neck. The man whimpered, his hands falling useless to his side, and collapsed.

  Panting, Becker wiped the kukri on the dead man`s tunic.

  He glanced at the door and froze. Someone was standing there, gaping at him. He was dressed in pilot`s gear, the goggles pushed up on his forehead. He wore gloves, a heavy black leather jacket with fur lining and tall black boots. Becker took a step towards him and the man turned and fled. Becker picked up the Remington rifle and rushed after him. The man was running towards the nearest hangar. Becker crouched down and took aim. Weighed down by his clothes, the pilot hadn’t got far when the first bullet hit him in the back, sending him sprawling to the ground. Becker went over, stood over the pilot, and fired again.

  Becker undressed quickly and put the pilot’s jacket, headgear and goggles on. Carrying the gun and his shoulder bag he ran for the nearest plane, clambering aboard. He searched for the ignition and found it after a second. The switch made a whirring noise and lights flashed on the dashboard. He checked the fuel tank, altitude meter, compass. It was all working.

  He jumped down, ran to the front and heaved on the propeller blades. The motor spluttered, the blades knifed in the air, once, twice, then with a catch and jerk, the engine roared to life. Becker pulled away the wheel blocks and jumped back into the cockpit as the plane began to move.

  CHAPTER 32

  “Faster, damn it, faster,” Tunney roared.

  The driver, a young man of barely twenty, was sweating profusely, and he wiped his eyes with his hand. His face was a mask of concentration. Maggie sat next to Tunney in the front—Tunney assured her that she didn’t want to sit in the back with the soldiers. Maggie had grudgingly agreed.

  Tunney`s mind was racing with scenarios. It was possible that Becker would be on a plane by the time they got there. The airstrip wasn’t secret, and not manned by the Military Police. There would be two or three men at the most, and he knew what fate awaited them. If Becker was in the cockpit of a plane already, then they could try to shoot him down, or ram the plane with the truck if he hadn’t left the ground. The plane was heavy, but so was the truck. But Becker would see them coming and possibly use his explosives. If the plane was accelerating down the runway, Tunney knew he had no chance of stopping it. But he couldn’t allow this man to get airborne.

  “There it is!” The shout from Maggie caught him unawares. They were swerving around a corner and the black metal gates of the air strip were in front.

  “The gate`s locked,” the driver shouted. Tunney looked. Yes, the damn thing had two gates, and in the middle there was a chain with a padlock. Tunney cursed. He thought of the distance. They were about fifty yards away, advancing at thirty miles per hour.

  “Is this your stop speed?” he yelled. Dust flew in through the open window, choking him.

  “Almost,” the driver gave him a desperate look.

  “Well, go as fast as you can, damn it. We have to ram the gate.”

  Maggie and the driver both looked at him.

  “Yes, hold on tight.” The Rolls Royce engine was pushed to its limit. The truck shook and rattled. The gate was barely twenty yards away now, rushing towards them.

  “Hold on,” Tunney shouted again needlessly. He put his feet up on the dashboard and braced himself.

  “This better work or it`s us who will go flying,” the driver shouted. Tunney and the driver both bared their teeth and everyone screamed as the truck hit the gates.

  Five tons of metal, wood and rubber smashed into the centre of the iron gates. The padlock broke instantly and the dead force in the centre burst the gates aside. The truck skidded to a stop, kicking up a huge cloud of dust. Tunney was the first one out. He ran to the back of the truck and shouted at one of the soldiers, who threw him his Springfield rifle.

  Then Tunney saw the plane. It was moving, beginning to taxi down the runway towards them, but still only slowly. If the plane gathered speed nothing could stop it. Something had to happen now. He couldn’t recognise the figure in the cockpit. But it was the shape was of a large man. The head turned, and the eyes, invisible behind the goggles, focused on him for a second.

  Tunney had one chance.

  One shot.

  Maybe two, if he could slide the bolt, eject, feed the next ro
und in the chamber, aim and fire in four, maybe five seconds.

  Tunney crouched down on his knee and peered down the sights. Becker was moving, which made the shot difficult, but moving slowly. Not fast like a hare, or a deer. Not running like the radio operator he had to kill in Long Island. He could negate that low speed with his tracking. He had never missed a target from this distance.

  His finger felt the trigger. All sounds faded around him. The screams and thud of boots on the ground. His breath was smooth, an ocean of calm. It was only him, and the head of Paul Becker.

  Tunney pulled the trigger. The bullet smashed into its target—but not quite. It hit Becker below the neck, on the shoulder. Tunney saw him slump sideways, then straighten himself slowly. The plane kept moving and began to accelerate.

  Tunney fed a new round into the chamber. He was closer now and could see Becker more clearly. Tunney took aim again. He paused for a second, breathing slowly. Then he fired.

  Becker`s head jerked back. Blood and bone fragments erupted at the cheekbone. His head drooped forward. The plane veered off to the right.

  Tunney put the rifle down and ran after the plane. He could hear footsteps running alongside him, but he focused on the plane, its huge wings wobbling, the roaring engine carrying it forward despite the dead man in the cockpit.

  Straight for the lake.

  Maggie watched as Tunney ran hard, and caught up with the plane, and she saw him clawing at the fuselage, trying to climb onto the wing as he ran. He was trying to get to the cockpit. Maggie saw the danger. If Tunney fell, the tail skid of the plane could crush him.

  Maggie realised what Tunney wanted to do—get hold of the explosives before they ended up in the lake.

  She saw Tunney hanging from a wing strut as the machine plunged into Lake Erie. It didn’t sink and Maggie watched astonished as the plane forged into the lake, its propellers still slicing water.

  Tunney was having trouble staying on the wing. That was the last she saw of him, arms out at his side, wobbling, standing up to lower himself into the cockpit. Then the water rushed up to his chest and with the plane, he disappeared into the lake.

  “No!” Maggie was running past the soldiers now. How could Tunney swim with his clothing and heavy boots on? The tail of the plane rose above the lake, but it was sinking fast and soon disappeared. She came to the edge of the water and stopped herself just in time. Ahead of her the surface bubbled and gushed with air rushing from below. Maggie scanned the waters, hoping to see a cap, a coat, any semblance of Tunney. Next to her, a man was ripping his uniform off.

  It was Lindquist. He said, “I`m jumping in, see if I can find him, and the rest of it.”

  Maggie nodded. Lindquist, stripped to his underwear, jumped into the lake. Another soldier dived in. The two men swam towards the plane, but they were slow. Too slow. In an instant, Maggie made her mind up.

  She kicked off her shoes, lowered the gown from her shoulders and slithered out of it. She was wearing a flimsy corset underneath. She ran forward then dived into the cool waters of Lake Erie. Maggie was a strong swimmer. She had spent many afternoons swimming in the farm lake. The men were no match for her and she overtook them easily. When she got closer to the maelstrom of bubbles she took a deep breath and went underwater. She could see the hulking shadow of the plane, slowly descending beneath her into the depths of the lake. There was no sign of Tunney.

  Maggie pushed with her legs and descended rapidly. She was closer to the plane now and could make out the cockpit. Then she saw Tunney. He had Becker`s bag around his shoulders now, but he was struggling. For some reason, he couldn’t get to the surface. Maggie swam closer to him. Tunney`s eyes widened when he saw her.

  Tunney was in trouble and almost out of breath. He was still wearing his uniform, but had managed to get rid of his boots.

  She didn’t hesitate. Tunney was close to taking water in, and if that happened, he would become more disorientated. She clutched his face and pushed her lips against his. Tunney understood. He opened his mouth, trying to make a tight seal around Maggie`s. Some water flowed in, but Maggie was able to breathe into Tunney`s mouth, giving him some much-needed air.

  It worked, but not very well. Tunney still took some water in and he gagged. Desperately, Maggie grabbed his hair and started to pull him up. He couldn’t move. The end of his tunic had snagged on something in the cockpit. Maggie hooked her finger around the tunic and pulled. It wouldn’t budge. Tunney tried to shift his weight and she pulled harder. The tunic came loose. Maggie grabbed him again and pulled him up towards the surface. They had sunk further now and the water was darker, colder. It had all happened in the blink of an eye, but Maggie felt her lungs close to bursting. She needed to breathe. She kicked with her legs, but Tunney was a dead weight. Maggie`s sight started growing dim. Above, she could faintly see the shafts of sunlight piercing the water.

  They were not far, but she didn’t have the strength any more. She felt looseness in her limbs, a laxity that stopped her muscles from contracting. She was desperate to open her mouth and without realising, she did. She choked and gagged as the water went into her lungs and everything went black. Then she felt strong arms circled her waist and she was propelled her upwards. In the dim light, she could make out Tunney`s face, inches from hers, his eyes wide. She let her head rest against his chest.

  They burst onto the surface, spluttering and heaving, drawing in huge gulps of air. They trod water for a while, panting, staring at each other with a wild wonder on their faces. Two more faces broke water alongside them and swam over. Maggie felt a pair of arms supporting her back, and another did the same to Tunney. Together, they swam back for the shore.

  EPILOGUE

  Maggie held her father`s hand and sat by his hospital bedside. Opposite, Miranda sat looking at her husband`s face. Miranda still had the bruise on her forehead, but she was alright apart from that. Karl Myer`s eyes were open and he looked at both of them with a smile.

  “I’m fine, don’t worry,” he said in a strong voice. Maggie squeezed his hand. There was a bandage around Karl`s head. He was lucky to be alive, according to the doctors.

  “One thing I don’t understand.” Karl said. “Why didn’t he kill me?”

  Maggie believed perhaps there was no need. Karl was an old man and one blow was all it took to render him unconscious. She told her father.

  Karl nodded. “Yes, maybe.”

  There was the sound of a throat clearing behind them. Tunney stood in the doorway of the room. He had his hat in his hand. The brass buttons of the new uniform gleamed and the leather strap across the chest was shining black. His boots were brand new.

  “Good evening, Mrs and Mr Myers,” Tunney said with a nod. He had been to see Karl before. Tunney approached Karl`s bedside. He put his hat underneath his left armpit. Maggie saw a thick brown envelope in his hand. It had previously been behind the hat. Tunney looked at Karl, then at the two women. Solemnly, he extended the envelope towards Miranda. She raised her eyebrows, but took the envelope from Tunney`s outstretched hand. She opened it, and then gasped. Maggie leaned and looked over her mother`s shoulder. Her heart beat faster as Miranda took out the bundle of hundred dollar bills, tied by a rubber hand.

  “Found inside the bag we rescued from the plane. Underneath the explosives,” Tunney explained. “It is now the property of the US Government. The Government would like you to have it. Please regard this as compensation for the damage the farm has sustained at the hands of the agent.”

  Miranda had a look of awe in her face. “How much is in here?”

  “Five thousand dollars, ma`am. I would also like to inform you that the State Department has spoken to Mr Bennett, the banker. The rest of the loan on the farm has been paid back.”

  All three members of the Myers family looked at Tunney, thunderstruck. Miranda spoke first, and Maggie noted her nose was red, and her voice shook as she spoke.

  “We cannot accept this, Mr Tunney.”

  “Please, Mrs Myers. Acc
ept this on behalf of a grateful nation.”

  Karl was silent. His eyes were shut. Maggie saw her father sigh, but he remained quiet.

  “May I have a word with Maggie please?”, Tunney asked.

  Cleveland Hospital was busy, war casualties arrived on a daily basis. Maggie and Tunney walked through the busy atrium and out into the open gardens at the back. It was quieter there.

  They stopped next to a small pond with water lilies, bees buzzing round the flowers. The early August sun was warm and fresh on their backs. Maggie was aware of Tunney looking at her, and she made a pretence of staring at the flowers for a while, then lifted her gaze up to him. His grey eyes were frank with something of a wonder in them, as though he still couldn’t believe what he had seen her do. His skin was deeply tanned and he was dark anyway, which made him look almost exotic. She thought he looked very handsome.

  Tunney said gravely, “The second battle of Somme has started. Our department lost no time in letting Berlin know what happened.” He looked away from her and ran his hand through his hair. Maggie thought it faintly ridiculous, despite what they had just been through, that they were already talking of the war, surrounded by the peacefulness of the garden.

  “The Allied advance in Somme is going well,” Tunney continued. “The plane is still at the bottom of the lake.” He struggled to say something more. Maggie watched him silently. Finally, he spoke and his voice sounded strange. “We couldn’t have done it without you. Everyone in Washington, from General March, the chief of Army Staff, to Colonel Walsingham, my boss, sends their thanks.” He carried on, as if he had a lot to say, but very little time to say it in.

  “You saved my life,” he said, and there was a quiver of emotion in his voice. He looked away, as if embarrassed, then turned back. “I can never thank you enough,” he said quietly.