Hellsbaene: Odin's Warriors - Book 1

by Aeryn Leigh

  Piers broke the gaze, looked down, and then up again, and fired the flare gun. It streaked across the Me-262's nose. Piers dropped the gun and ran to the unconscious pilot's side.

  Ella taxied to the start of the runway. In the moonlight, she could see craters down its length, enough to make take-off interesting. The radio crackled in her headset.

  "Tower to Six Omega, please abort, over," said the voice.

  She ignored it, and kept moving. The fighter jumped this way and that over the rough surface, as she used the only straight bit of runway available, the left side, which meant using the strip of rougher ground next to it. One wheel on the smooth runway, the other on the rougher ground. The airspeed indicator crept up.

  All the better to eat you with.

  Amelia could barely see over the side of the canopy, so looked up at the sky instead, at all the beautiful stars. She squealed with excitement to her mum.

  "We're flying Mummy, we're flying!"

  With a roar of liberty singing in harmony with turbojet flames, Ella eased the control stick back, and her, Amelia, and the meowing cat, flew up into the shining, black skies.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Business Calls

  SS Colonel Grieg, father and husband, put down the telephone in the hallway of his house.

  That bitch would get it now.

  "I'm sorry my dear," he said, hugging his wife as she stood in her dressing-gown, half-awake. "Business calls, I'm afraid. An incident at the airfield."

  He'd fallen asleep in the armchair not long after dinner, once getting home and finally wishing his son a most happy birthday. His wife had put their son to bed, and done the same.

  "Give my love to Adolph when he wakes, and tell him I am such a proud father." Grieg kissed her, then sprinted down the hallway and out the door to the waiting black saloon, leaving at speed to Magdeburg airbase.

  His wife, full of admiration for both him and the Fatherland, closed the open door behind him.

  Chapter Eighteen

  The Silver Black

  Two hundred miles away, Hade's Express fought for her life.

  Mick spotted a German night fighter coming up to meet them, only minutes after leaving Nuremberg and the curtain of anti-aircraft fire, it's twin-engined black silhouette itself not impervious to the bright, gleaming moon.

  “Laurie,” Mick said into the radio, "we have an Me-110 on our five o'clock coming up fast." His hydraulic turret swivelled to face it. "It'll be in firing range in seconds," he said as he pressed down his own trigger, and the four linked machine-guns spat bullets at the fighter, even outside Mick's own optimum firing range.

  Squadron Leader John did the only thing he could. He slammed on the rudder to the right and pointed the bomber down into a corkscrew dive, pouring on the throttles. The crew were thrown sideways in their harnesses, and Skippy's crate slid sideways along the spar until it hit the fuselage wall, eliciting a bark within the blankets.

  The enemy fighter's cannon fire hammered right past them, but one shell got lucky. The outer starboard engine burst into flame.

  "Bastard," said Laurie, shutting down the engine. The momentum took them below the Messerschmitt, James taking the opportunity get off a quick burst of gunfire before it swung around again. Laurie put the control stick now as far forward as he dared.

  The night fighter took chase.

  Down and down they spiralled. The airspeed indicator climbing, reached safe limits, and went past them. The airframe creaked around them, and the outer starboard engine flames begin to peter out. The altimeter unwound at a frightful pace. Yet still they dived.

  "We're going to lose the wings sir,” yelled Thorfinn, as the airspeed needle entered the orange zone on the dial and crept towards the red.

  "She'll be right, she'll be right," Laurie said with effort. "Do you hear me girl? Just hold on a little more." He looked out and saw the fire extinguish itself in the slipstream.

  Yes.

  The altimeter showed six thousand feet.

  "Laurie," said the squadron leader to himself, "now." He pulled on the throttle levers, edging them back, and eased the control stick back into his gut. The wings vibrated now, resonating, making a horrible sound. Thorfinn stole a look up at the captain, and grimaced. Laurie ground his teeth. The bomber pulled up at last at two thousand five hundred feet, like a recalcitrant whale, and now they fled towards the French coast, as fires still dominated the horizon around them.

  "Can you see it?" said Laurie. Mick and James searched the sky above. James didn't see it. Nor did Mick. Their turrets swivelled, trying to find the fighter.

  "I think we lost it mate,” said James with relief. He peered up again, in time to see the black speck spit orange fire at them. From its own near-vertical dive, the Me-110 opened up, with only a few seconds of gunfire afforded in the window that time and space allowed. Cannon-fire ripped through the fuselage, exploding upon impact, and then it too screamed past the bomber. Mick tracked it, and watched as the port wing sheared off, the fighter a victim to its own speed and stressors.

  "The fighter is down, Old Man,” Mick said, watching the fighter spiral, the two-man crew bailing out, the second one striking the doomed aircraft's tail and falling like a sack. The pilot's parachute opened, and he kept watching until the fighter exploded into the countryside below. “Sir?”

  Laurie struggled to keep the bomber airborne. "Roger, Sergeant," Laurie said when he had the chance. The cannon-fire damaged the rudder control wires, and god knows what else, Laurie thought. "Everybody OK? Somebody check on Skippy."

  Mick replied with an affirmative, as did James, who looked at a jagged hole the size of his head only a foot away in the metal next to his turret.

  James swore under his breath and again thanked the Makers, while he scanned the skies above with even more keenness, if that was possible. "We have a chunk out of the left tailplane,” he said.

  Andrew and Bear, sitting up in the upper midsection of the aircraft, could see the huge, open holes that skewered the fuselage behind them. "Andrew and I are ok," said Bear, looking at Andrew who gave him the thumbs up. "Going to check on Skippy now." He got up, and leaned over the wing spar next to them, and looked down at the crate. With an outstretched hand, he moved the blankets away and checked the dog. There was no blood, and Skippy thumped her tail at the touch. "Skippy's fine, Laurie, although her crate has been thrown about a bit."

  "Tom?" said Squadron Leader John. No response. "Bear, eyeball him." Bear moved up and under the flight desk, where Tom laid.

  "Tom?" said Bear. Still nothing. Bear crouched down and came up beside him, and saw the pool of blood underneath. "Tom's been hit," he yelled. Fingers went to Tom's neck, found a pulse, but weak. Shit. "I'll need help to move him."

  "Thorfinn," said Laurie. "Help him." The bomber yawed this way and that, as the remaining control surfaces struggled for balance, and the three remaining engines took up the strain.

  They were almost out of Germany now, Stuttgart on the right horizon, and soon pass into Occupied France. The buildings and fields flashed by beneath.

  "Hell," said Thorfinn. "What a mess." He helped Bear pull Tom out with care, and together laid him out behind the spar, on his back, next to Skippy. Tom's pale skin gleamed with sweat, as he muttered unintelligibly in pain.

  "Easy now," said Bear, and peeled away the flight suit, it's entire surface soaked in blood. A metal fragment had pierced the underside of the bomber and speared into Tom's stomach, just below the navel. Two inches of it stuck out, slowly going up and down with each laboured breath. “Laurie,” he said, "Tom's in a bad way I'm afraid. Gut wound. I don't think he's got much longer."

  "Give him some of the morphine then," said Laurie, his voice low. "And then get back to your posts."

  "Already on it," said Thorfinn, stabbing the little vials of painkiller into Tom's bare skin. "There you go mate, stick with us, yeah?"

  Thorfinn looked at Bear, who shrugged. They both returned to their stations.
/>   Laurie looked out at the countryside.

  It's another two and a half, possibly three hours more flight time home, and now strong headwinds joined with the enemy hell bent on preventing them reaching safety. You bastards, is that all you've got?

  He touched his forehead as an afterthought.

  "What's our fuel situation Thorfy?" he said, and as he spoke, knew that Tom's best chance at survival was to eject him from the aircraft, his parachute rigged to deploy automatically, and hope civilians or military forces found him soon enough to get him to a hospital.

  It would mean that Tom would spend the rest of the war in a prison camp, if he indeed survived the drop and being found. Stories were coming back of how the German population, fed up with being targeted daily, took out retribution on downed airmen, and part of Laurie could sympathise, shitty as it was.

  Need to make it to France at a minimum.

  But there it was. Tom's best hope now lay outside the aircraft.

  "We have three full tanks left," said Thorfinn, "out of six. The third will empty at our current rate in about ten minutes." They had taken off with an enormous amount of fuel, over two thousand gallons, more than enough for the trip by a considerable margin.

  "Well that is some good news, at least," said Laurie. He paused. "But — there's nothing for it. Prepare Tom for a parachute drop. His only chance now is below.

  “Sir,” said Andrew, "we can make a slight detour and fly over the French city of Strasbourg, and drop him there." He stopped, and made new calculations. "It wouldn't be far out of the way. It has the best hospital in the area."

  "Yes,” said Laurie, "and it also has some good air-defences, given we've bombed it hard as well. All right, give me the co-ordinates". Flight Sergeant Bloomsbury, Navigator, did so, and so south they flew, ever vigilant.

  Tom started moaning, louder and louder, as pain bested the opiates, then started screaming.

  "Hang on, mate. Almost there," said Laurie. Ahead was the Rhine, and on the other side, Occupied France. When they reached the river, anti-aircraft guns rent the air, searchlights joining them, the shells bursting overhead, the fuses set too long. But before the gunners had a chance to reset, they turned again, and Laurie flew the big machine over the Rhine, following the river south, low, and as fast as he dared push his Lancaster.

  "I was there before the war started," said Andrew. "Pretty town." He stopped as a shell exploded next to them. "But I rather preferred it before the war."

  They were flying so low, one hundred meters over the trees and bridges, that everything that could open fire at them did so. Small-arms fire twinkled from every bridge, and civilians running to bomb-shelters gasped upwards at the aircraft roaring past.

  "We're not here to bomb you," said Mick, "for pity's sake."

  "Well they don't know that, do they," said James.

  "I sure as hell wish they bloody did." Laurie looked below. The river course headed for the industrial area, and would have the highest concentration of defences. "Andrew, I need another way in mate."

  Andrew searched his memory, consulted his map. "Swing inland to the right, fifteen degrees... and now." The bomber turned and now flew over the city. "We better climb hard now to fifteen hundred feet, and prep Tom now." Laurie pulled back on the stick. The airframe groaned. Thorfinn and Bear prepared Tom as gently as they could, setting the chute cord to open the moment they pushed the unconscious man out of the escape hatch.

  He hung between them, braced against the wind. "Ready," said Bear.

  "There's a park north-west of the hospital, Orangerie I think it was called. Damn fine place for a wine," said Andrew.

  Mick muttered into the radio.

  "I see it," said Laurie, the altimeter showing fifteen hundred feet, levelling off. The park was black against the buildings that surrounded it, yet again the moonlight helping as much as hindering.

  It was a damn pretty city.

  "Thirty seconds," he said, guessing, "wait for my signal."

  The wait was horrible.

  Laurie felt bullet holes rip into the wings and fuselage, and then the flak stopped. The park lay just ahead, open and edged with trees.

  "Gunners," said Laurie, "eye's open."

  They flew over the waterway, and into the park's airspace.

  "Mark," said Laurie.

  Thorfinn and Bear pushed their friend out into the rushing air, watched the parachute open, and then he was gone.

  "Back to your —" said Laurie, stopping as something caught his eye.

  "Six o'clock," said James, and opened fire at the fighter swinging down to meet them. He'd seen it thanks to years of practice, and no small thanks too, just in time. Mick tracked and fired now. The fighter swept by, it's barrage missing far behind with inexperience. It banked for another approach.

  “Mate,” said Thorfinn, easing himself on his belly behind the nose gun, the flight-suit soaking up Tom's blood, "whatever you're going to do, do it."

  Laurie pushed on the control stick again and sped down to tree-height, up and down over the buildings, and bridges, yet again. For the next five minutes the fighter gave chase as they swung into the open fields towards home. The pilot scored a hit on the left wing flap on its final pass, but at a cost. James poured point-blank, four lots of .303 machine-gun into the fighter’s mid-section, and the pilot slumped forward, crashing into the ground astern.

  "Five," said James. Andrew made a note in the log.

  "Into the middle of France we go, before our last turn," said Andrew, and gave Laurie the co-ordinates.

  The Avro Lancaster, now with only six humans, a pregnant dog, and a stuck bomb, limped on its way through the silver black sky.

  Chapter Nineteen

  The Arc Of Triumph

  Ella wouldn't say that she was lost. Okay, well maybe. In the panic and terror of the last few hours, her body started shaking with withdrawal, tiredness, and the realisation of what she, they, had done. Behind her, Amelia had pulled out some clothing from the canvas bag and used it to prop herself higher up on the seat, with the cat on her lap. The child hummed.

  The radio drove her insane with its scratchy calls for her to return to base immediately, so in the end, fifteen minutes after they'd taken off, she flicked the switch. There. Silence. She breathed out, and tried to think.

  Where to go now? She wasn't too sure about Sweden or Switzerland now, as doubt solidified. What was to prevent them from turning her over? Ella didn't think that likely, but, and it was a big but, Amelia had to come first. Had to. No doubts or percentages. So, that left England.

  Merely saying the word England in her mind caused her stomach to twist in hate and disgust. Stuck up bastards the lot of them.

  Indiscriminate area bombing of civilian centres.

  Her hand whitened around the control stick.

  "Where are we going, Mummy?" said Amelia. The terror of the bombs falling only a short time ago faded, replaced by the sheer excitement of her very first jet-flight. She bounced up and down in the seat, continually pushing the sliding flight helmet back from her eyes.

  "I'm thinking," said Ella. They were at seven thousand feet, heading west south-west, that much she was sure of, from the instruments in front of her. She recalled glimpses of war maps, brow furrowed.

  If England it was to be, then there were realistically two flight paths to avoid the concentration of airfields and radar stations. Head north through Germany, past the Me-262 bases at Magdeburg they'd left, out into the North Sea and then west to England, or through the guts of France, hug the coastline off the Bay of Biscay, around the tip of Brest, then over the Channel to England. So, it really was only one logical choice then, the latter. The only things fast enough to catch her lay north.

  She rummaged in the small bag she'd taken off the pilot, and found it. She took one out of her right hand and placed the speed pill in her mouth. Instantaneous. Alive again, the tiredness gone, she buzzed.

  "England, we're going to England," said Ella, full of life.r />
  "Are they the good guys now?"

  Ella paused. She lowered her voice. "It was a cold rain, grey as steel falling onto the ground." She smiled. "Yes Amelia, I guess they are now." With the drugs in her system, her whole family sitting behind her, riding the fastest chariot known to man, yes, things might just be okay.

  "I still don't get it," said Amelia, referring to the book.

  "One day you will," said her Mum, and smiling, slowly opened the throttles all the way open. Once more, the angels pushed.

  Ella and Amelia sped over the country below. Amelia, now getting bored, as is the way of all small children, even with the most exciting thing in front of them, asked about the device in front of her.

  "It's a radar set," said Ella, scanning the skies around them for any signs of chase.

  "Can we use it?" said Amelia. "I'm good with the wireless set."

  Ella remembered the wireless set, in pieces on the lounge room rug, with a beaming Amelia right in the middle. She groaned.

  "Hey, I put it back together again," said Amelia with pride.

  "Yes, you did." The volume control never quite worked the same after that. "You could use it, yes," said Ella, "if I actually knew how it worked." She had only seen it operated once or twice, but as a test-pilot, radar set operation didn't fall in her expected knowledge base. Amelia behind her pressed a button. Nothing. And another.

  "Hmm," Amelia said, looking at the black screen, and kept pressing buttons.

  Ella looked around yet again. They had to be in France by now, surely, given their heading. On the horizon, she could see a city, a big one at that. Could that be Paris? They were flying so fast, the ground immediately coming up below was impossible to focus on before it was behind them in a flash. She aimed the jet fighter for the city and what looked like a recognisable landmark.