by Nick Cook
Kruze’s gaze was drawn to a picture of Fleming on the table by the window. He was sitting in the cockpit of a Spitfire, posing easily for the camera, a smile creasing his eyes in the hot Italian sun.
Kruze heard Penny starting back and put the picture down. Only then did it strike him that it was the only time he had seen Fleming really happy.
Penny came into the room holding a tea tray. Then the phone rang.
Penny jumped at the sound. She looked at Kruze for a moment and he could see the anxiety etched on her face.
She put the tray down, lifted the receiver slowly and listened. Kruze saw her features soften.
“It’s for you,” she said. “Somebody called Marlowe.”
Kruze went to the phone. Marlowe was barely recognizable, but the crackle could not hide the urgency in his voice.
“You’d better get your arse back down here fast; Mulvaney’s holding a briefing for all aircrew at eight. You were right; something is up.”
Kruze knew better than to ask for details over an open line.
“I’ll be there in two hours,” he said, and hung up.
Penny had stopped slicing the bread.
“When will I see you?” she asked.
“I don’t know. There’s a flap on at base. It could be days, more ...”
“But. . .”
He reached for his cap and coat, still damp from their walk.
“When there’s a flap on it means that the Old Man wants answers quickly. That can take days or it can go on longer. Now listen, I’m not telling you what today has meant to me. You know all that.”
He moved over to the door. “I’ll call you.”
“But I may not be here, darling. I’m expected back at work. Leave’s almost over.” She felt almost frantic. There had been so much she, too, had wanted to say.
“Then I’ll leave a message for you. You’ll be getting up to London to see Billy, won’t you? Somehow I’ll see to it that word’s left there.” He smiled and winked at her. “Sorry about the bread. Make sure they keep some back for next time.”
And then he was gone.
CHAPTER ONE
The eleven pilots on secondment to the EAEU at the Royal Aircraft Establishment at Farnborough were in the briefing room a few minutes before eight o’clock. All were present except Kruze, but only Marlowe noticed he was missing. The others attempted to second-guess Mulvaney’s announcement. After days of bad weather, all the talk was now about getting back into the air.
Marlowe looked up from the second hand of his watch just as Kruze walked in. He was followed almost immediately by Mulvaney. As they rose for the station commander, Kruze took his place next to Marlowe.
“Christ,” Marlowe whispered, “you cut that a bit fine.”
“Got stuck behind a bloody armoured convoy just outside Camberley.” Kruze fought to control his breathing. “What’s up?”
“No idea. Mulvaney’s been looking like the cat that got the cream most of the afternoon. He’s been busting to tell us what this is all about.”
Mulvaney gestured for them to sit down and cleared his throat.
“Gentlemen,” he began, “in just under an hour, two Yorks will land here with a rather special cargo. As you know, up to now we have concentrated on testing aircraft which have more or less fallen into our hands. But the one now on its way to us was packed up into crates and flown here from the enemy’s secret rocket research establishment at Rostock.”
He paused, waiting for the whispering to subside.
“I’m also pleased to tell you that it was the EAEU which masterminded and carried out the entire operation - with a bit of help from the Army.”
There was an outbreak of spontaneous cheering from the back of the room. Mulvaney beamed with pleasure.
“Now I expect you’re all itching to know how and why this operation came about.” Mulvaney scanned the faces before him once again. “Gentlemen, I haven’t even been told all the details myself, such is the high level of classification on this one. Suffice to say this. We managed to snatch a new version of the Me 163, the 163C, while Rostock was still in enemy-occupied territory. A special military operation was mounted to allow an EAEU team in to dismantle the aircraft, pack it up and fly it out.”
Kruze let out a low whistle. Mulvaney held up his hands to silence the burst of voices in the room.
“I don’t think I need to tell you gentlemen that Rostock has, with Peenemunde up the coast, been the home of the Messerschmitt 163 Komet for the past few years. We are now going to take over that research where the Germans left off.”
There was more muttered approval from the pilots.
“That’s all I can tell you, at the moment,” Mulvaney said, winding up his speech. “The Bunker wants answers fast on this one, so testing is due to start early next week. The bad news, gentlemen, is that all leave has been suspended until we get the job done. That’ll be all.”
Chairs scraped across the floor as they all rose to leave. Mulvaney watched over them, something akin to pride in his eyes. The station commander called Kruze over as he made to go.
“Piet, I want to give you first refusal for the 163’s maiden flight. You have had more experience in high speed flight than any other pilot in the unit and it could well be invaluable when it comes to flying the Komet.”
Kruze walked over to the window and looked out over the blacked-out airfield. With uncanny timing, the last vestiges of the mist had cleared, leaving only a light drizzle sweeping across the runway. He thought about Penny for a moment, about their day together, her face, the smell of her body, the colour of her hair. He tried to hang onto the image, but it slipped away from him.
He turned round to face Mulvaney.
“I’m ready to go.”
“Good man,” Mulvaney said, in his stiffest public school voice. “I want you to work up a high speed flight programme before you take the Komet up. Use the Meteor. She’s not as fast as the Komet, but at least she should have some of the same flight characteristics.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Excellent, excellent,” Mulvaney said, rubbing his hands. It was a mannerism that always irritated Kruze. “More details tomorrow. In the meantime, I’d like you to get down to the flight line and take a look at the merchandise when it comes in on the Yorks.” He looked at his watch. “Any moment now and they’ll be here. We’d better get cracking.”
Kruze followed Mulvaney out to his car. The EAEU’s secure hangar, used for all its most sensitive work, was over on the far side of the airfield.
* * * * * * * *
The Yorks’ propellers were windmilling to a halt in front of them, their landing lights cutting a swathe through the darkness and the drizzle that still blew in light squalls across the secure area of the RAE. One of the aircraft was heavily battle scarred and judging by the number of shining metal plates that had been welded over the bigger holes on the brown and green camouflaged body, some poor crew chief and his team must have been up all night patching her up.
As Kruze got out of the car in which he and the station commander had been sheltering from the rain, Mulvaney was already striding over to greet the aircraft. Groundcrew swarmed around the two transports. The freight doors were pulled open and a gantry was wheeled into place. Inside, Kruze could see the large wooden crates that held the 163’s principal components. He was surprised to see four dazed-looking characters in scuffed civilian suits wandering around the tarmac beside the aircraft. They looked incongruous amongst the blue uniforms and frenetic activity of the groundcrew.
“Who are they?” Kruze asked as he walked over to Mulvaney.
“They’re some 163 project scientists who chose to come back on the Yorks rather than get captured by the Russians.”
“Uncle Joe was that close?”
“The Russians were practically breathing down the necks of our paras towards the end of the operation,” Mulvaney said. “I think there’s going to be a hell of a row in diplomatic circles about the way we moved
in there.” He coughed. “Keep that to yourself, by the way.”
“How long do you think it will take to get the 163 reassembled?”
“I don’t know. Why don’t we go and get some answers from the man who pulled this whole thing off? He should be around here somewhere.”
Kruze followed Mulvaney over to the nearer of the two Yorks and crawled into the forward access hatch after the station commander. Mulvaney peered through the darkness and the throng of people milling around the oily interior of the cargo hold. Outside, a tractor and trailer drove past, the engine noise deafening in the confines of the fuselage. Mulvaney spotted Fleming, but Kruze, that much further behind, could only see the silhouette of a lean man with a gaunt, yet good looking face, who was sitting on a crate and watching the comings and goings of the groundcrew. Mulvaney walked briskly over to him, his hand outstretched, his voice lost to Kruze in the din.
“Robert, my dear chap, congratulations. I could scarcely believe it when the Air Vice Marshal told me about the operation. It’s an outstanding success for you and, I might say, the EAEU as well.”
At that moment the headlights of the tractor lit the interior of the fuselage and Kruze saw it was Fleming.
Then the tractor motored on past and the cargo hold was plunged into darkness once more. Kruze had a few seconds to compose himself, but he could not stop the questions that tumbled through his mind. Fleming was finished, wasn’t he? Staverton knew he was washed up; the AVM had as good as said it the day of the airtest on the Junkers. It was then that Penny’s words came back to him. If Fleming had really cared, she’d said, he would have called her from the Bunker. Jesus Christ, he’d been behind enemy lines for the past two days.
Fleming seemed to be embarrassed at the brashness of Mulvaney’s approach. He rose and shook hands a little self-consciously.
“Thank you, Paddy. I had excellent back-up from our men, and the army. The paratroopers were the real heroes.”
“I look forward to hearing all about it, especially the way you handled that booby trap,” Mulvaney said, turning round to find Kruze. “Meanwhile, it’s been decided that Kruze, here, will be first to fly this thing.” He patted the top of the crate.
Fleming smiled, something Kruze couldn’t remember him doing in all the months that he’d known him.
“That’s one job I don’t envy you,” Fleming said. He held out his hand. “How are you, Piet?”
Kruze flinched, then took the hand and shook it.
“Fine, thanks. Congratulations.” The handshake was firm, Kruze noticed, and the smile was warm and friendly. This was not the Robert Fleming that Penny had described, the one he had always known, the bitter, introspective person who couldn’t come to terms with the world after his ordeal in the cockpit of a tumbling, burning Spitfire.
Fleming got to his feet and stretched.
“If you’ll both excuse me, I’m going to get some shut-eye. I’ll catch up with you tomorrow.”
Kruze watched him stroll easily across the hangar floor, his coat slung over his shoulder, and out through a door on the other side.
“There goes quite a chap,” Mulvaney said. “Cool as a bloody cucumber.” Mulvaney was rubbing his hands together again. “It’s hard to believe that six months ago he was in a hospital bed. An FW 190 got him over Italy, you know.”
“Yes, I heard about that,” Kruze said, trying to control his voice.
* * * * * * * *
Staverton must have written Shaposhnikov’s name out a dozen times on his desk pad. Each entry had a question mark after it. He had circled the name in every case and drawn an arrow down to the bottom of the page. A dozen lines leading to a single word. Remove. Yes, the Soviet Chief of General Staff had to be removed along, if possible, with key members of his command. But how? He was tired, horribly tired. He dropped the pencil and rubbed his eyes.
At best, assassinating Shaposhnikov would put an end to Archangel. At worst, it would buy them time.
He had the germ of a plan, but his main doubts centred not on the scheme itself, but the reaction of the cabinet advisers to it. It was bold, certainly, but the rudiments were well established.
His mind drifted back to that other time of sleepless nights, thrashing out the details of the Berchtesgarten raid. Hitler’s hideaway in Bavaria was one of the most heavily fortified locations in the Reich, but Churchill wanted to show his allies, especially Stalin, that no target in Germany was beyond the reach of the RAF. Staverton was told to get to work on a plan that would strike the Führer where he felt least vulnerable, high in his protected lair in the Bavarian Alps. After examining a number of alternatives, Staverton concluded there was only one that might work without incurring huge losses to Bomber Command.
Operation Talon: to steal a Luftwaffe bomber from an airfield in the Reich, jink through the multi-layered defences around Berchtesgarten and put two 1000 lb bombs through the drawing room windows of the Eagle’s Nest.
Within the EAEU, he had the pilots with experience of Luftwaffe machines. He had, with the help of Special Operations Executive, the means to get a man into the Reich and then to an airfield in Bavaria which operated the Ju 188E-2, which in early 1944 was an almost unbeatable Luftwaffe medium bomber.
The plan foundered because the cabinet advisers, especially that pompous oaf Welland, questioned the very basis of his central argument for Talon: that Luftwaffe technology was in most respects superior to their own and was, therefore, right for the job.
Before the D-Day invasion, the EAEU was a shadow of its present strength, operating a few clapped-out fighters and bombers that had either fallen with little damage on to English soil, or had inadvertently been put down there by disorientated pilots. The EAEU of March 1944 was not the sort of fleet that would have prompted the cabinet advisers to change their minds. It was a different story now; or was it? Their prize, the Me 262 jet fighter, had exploded a few months before, following a catastrophic turbine failure in one of the engines. Kruze, through his tenacity and skill, had barely escaped with his life.
There were other impressive German aircraft still at Farnborough. Impressive to him and the rest of the EAEU, that was. To people like Rear Admiral Welland, they were just angular lumps of metal, no different to the RAF’s machines.
In the end, three hundred and sixty Lancasters went to Berchtesgarten. Only three hundred came back.
Just then the phone rang. It was Mulvaney.
“Back at Farnborough? What is, man?” Staverton barked into the receiver, with no idea what Mulvaney was crowing about.
The station commander seemed taken aback. He didn’t want to mention the 163G by name, even though they were supposed to be speaking on a secure line.
Staverton banged his fist on the desk the moment he remembered Fleming, the 163C and Rostock. He looked at his watch. Fleming and the cargo would have been back at Farnborough for over an hour by now. He hadn’t thought of them in a long time. For some months, Churchill had been pressuring him to let go of the EAEU and devote all of his time to his special duties as Cabinet adviser. So far, he had resisted all attempts to tear him away from his creation at Farnborough. Perhaps it was time to reconsider.
At least he’d have Fleming back in the Bunker to help him try and sort out this mess. The flight test programme of the 163C could go on without him. Archangel had priority over everything.
“Is the package safe and sound?” Staverton asked, more out of courtesy than interest.
“Yes, sir. We’re just unwrapping it now,” Mulvaney replied. “If you’re going to put Fleming up for a decoration, you know you can count on my endorsement.”
“Of course,” Staverton said, by now anxious for Mulvaney to get off the line.
“I’d like to add for the record, sir,” Mulvaney continued, “that he has proved himself not only to be a very able intelligence officer, but also a decisive man of action. The way he acquitted himself over the booby-trap incident has placed him high in our admiration.”
Staverton
had also felt a surge of pride when he was told about Fleming’s courage at Rostock. “Your opinion will be recorded, Paddy.”
He thanked Mulvaney and put the telephone back onto its cradle.
The long range rocket fighter, wonder weapon of Hitler’s Alpine Redoubt. A few days ago it was all he could think of. The corner of his mouth twitched into a smile. Funny how it just wasn’t important any more.
And then he had an idea.
He picked up the phone and asked to be put back through to Mulvaney at the Royal Aircraft Establishment.
* * * * * * * *
The GAZ which Krilov had commandeered at the airfield jolted its way over the pot-holes that pitted the streets on the outskirts of Ostrava. Its gears crunched uncomfortably, because the driver had never taken anyone more senior than a colonel, much less a marshal, and he was having difficulty controlling his nerves. The private weaved his way precariously through the thousands of Red Army troops, many of whom sang the folk songs they had known since childhood, as they marched through the night towards the front.
The sight of these men swarming towards the final battle, the condensation of their breath illuminated in the glow of the headlights, was magical to Krilov. The last time he had seen action, the fascists had been pouring through the rubbled remains of the Moscow suburbs. Now the tables were turned, the atmosphere of impending victory all around them was intoxicating.
At last they reached the sprawling marshalling yards where the machinery and munitions that had been forged and assembled in factories deep behind the Ural Mountains arrived by train on its way to the fighting. Krilov had never seen anything like it. Despite the black-out imposed on the town, clouds of steam produced by the trains that pulled in and out of Ostrava every minute glowed a deep orange, illuminated by the raging coal fires that powered the heavy locomotives.
