Mac Wingate 9, page 4
Wingate pulled on his left arm. He pulled until he had dragged himself halfway up the door, then he clubbed at the rear window with the gun barrel. It withstood a couple of blows, but on the third the glass burst inward and a blast of icy air was sucked past his head. He put his gun hand over the top of the door, through the broken window, and pulled himself up onto the running board.
“Halt! Halt!” he yelled.
The driver gave a quick glance behind him, then panicked when he saw the dark shape half through the window behind him and put the accelerator down to the floor. The vehicle began to skid to the right, checked, and began to slide toward the left. Something had to be done to get the driver to see reason. Either he was going to get clean away, or he was going to wreck the car and Wingate with it.
Wingate got his right elbow over the sill of the rear door, pushed the muzzle of the Colt as far forward as he could manage, and fired. The power of the bullet at such point-blank range flung the driver’s head forward and through the windshield. The car slewed out of control, beginning a long, slow spin to the right. The force of the movement drove Wingate in through the broken window, hitting the rear seat and the transmission tunnel before finishing up against the map case in the framework of the far door.
The rear wheels had already mounted the shoulder of the road and were bumping over the frozen ground. At any moment they were going to hit some obstruction that would check them and send the whole vehicle rolling over and over on its back.
Wingate struggled to his feet, grasping the heavy leather strap above him, then dragged the dead man clear of the wheel. He steered into the skid, leaning right over the back of the driver’s seat, and as the car began to straighten he groped with his right hand for the guy’s knee and pulled his foot off the accelerator. A moment later, he turned off the ignition and the big Austin slowed gradually to a stop.
Manganaro came running up, the flashlight and the Schmeisser in his hands. “Jesus!” he cried. “You OK, Mac?”
“I’m OK,” said Wingate, checking himself for injuries, then picking up the Colt from the floor where it had fallen and sticking it back in its holster. “That’s more than I can say for the poor bastard who drove us out here. The guy with the Schmeisser must have hit him with that first burst. You figured out who they were?”
Manganaro nodded behind him. “The guy with the gun was a Luftwaffe pilot. I figure they were on the run—either a POW camp, or they’ve just been shot down.”
Wingate put on the internal car light and looked at the mess on the front seat. The driver who had brought them from London had been hit half a dozen times in the head. There was blood down the dashboard, across the glove compartment and over the leather upholstery. The German had been hit once in the back of the neck, and he was sprawled over the other body on his side, his head hanging loose over the edge of the seat.
“Jesus,” Manganaro muttered. “What a mess!”
“Let’s get the three of them in the back of the car,” said Wingate, quietly. “We’ve a mission to do.”
Chapter Three
To Wingate, the Walrus looked like something the Wright brothers had stuck together. It was an amalgam of every mechanical monstrosity he had ever seen, with its fuselage like a row boat, its squat undercarriage and its high double wings.
“You trying to tell me this thing flies?” he asked, sarcastically, craning his head around the narrow cabin and looking upward through the Perspex roof.
“Like a bird,” said Manganaro.
“What kind of a bird?” asked Wingate, suspiciously.
“Well,” Manganaro admitted, “maybe not a swallow. More like a pelican.”
The airman standing outside with the starter battery put up his thumb. Manganaro pressed the starter button, the big engine turned a couple of times slowly, then finally caught and sputtered into life. Manganaro waved away the chocks, released the brakes and took the aircraft around the perimeter track and onto the end of the runway. A moment later there were a couple of green flashes from an Aldis lamp at the top of the control tower. He eased the throttle forward and the aircraft lumbered over the grassy surface of the field, gained speed and finally lifted off.
“I didn’t believe it,” said Wingate. “You really can fly!”
“You’re a brave man, Mac,” grinned Manganaro. “Getting in this thing with me, letting me play about with all the switches and never being sure I wouldn’t plaster your guts along the runway.”
“Well, I’m damned,” said Wingate, letting himself relax into the seat. “What will they say in Flatbush when they hear?”
They stayed low, occasionally getting a glimpse of the tops of the breaking waves, but more frequently relying on the instruments. The movement of the aircraft was uncomfortable. The storm outside buffeted the big plane, making it yaw, sucking it down toward the churning water, then pushing it up again. Wingate’s gut was in constant motion. It was like taking a jeep at top speed over a mule track.
“You’d better get some rest, Mac,” said Manganaro, raising his voice above the clatter of the engine. “When I’ve dropped you, I’m heading straight back. I can sleep for a couple of days. But you’re going to have to stay awake when you hit that beach. You’ll need your wits about you if you’re going to stay alive. Get in the back there. There are some blankets in the locker, next to your life raft. Get your head down for a couple of hours. I’ll yell if I need you.”
Wingate unsnapped the safety harness and crawled behind. The life raft had been specially prepared for him. It was six feet long and made of inflated orange rubber. Along both sides appeared the name of the Norwegian fishing boat he was supposed to have been wrecked in, together with the port of registration: “Drammen—Oslo.” He climbed into it and curled up with the blankets over him and began to doze. At first, the unpredictable movements of the Walrus kept jolting him back into consciousness, and the clatter of the engine above his head jarred his nerves. But gradually his mind accommodated to them, and he slipped into unconsciousness.
They stayed twenty miles from the coast of mainland Europe, Manganaro following a track of 038°, steering a compass course of 046° to allow for the wind. It was heavy going. The constant, unpredictable movements of the Walrus upset the instruments, throwing him back momentarily on blind faith. Instinct alone told him whether he was upside down or not, diving down into the water or climbing steeply toward a stall. Occasional glimpses of the water below confused rather than helped him. Was it really the sea, or some odd reflection in the Perspex of one of the glowing lights on the instrument panel?
He was out of radio contact with base. The whole essence of the mission was secrecy, and radio silence was vital. Visibility was nil. All he could rely on was his skill and experience as a navigator. He relied on time and the correctness of his calculation of wind speed and direction to tell him when he had passed the French coast and picked up the Belgian, then passed the Belgian and finally picked up the Dutch.
Wingate woke with a start. The churn of his guts was alarming, and the roar of sound in his ears almost drove him crazy. He fought with the half-dozen Gestapo agents who were on top of him, and found they were only blankets. He blinked, got his bearings and finally propped himself up on an elbow. A voice was calling his name.
“Hey, Mac!” yelled Manganaro. “Mac! Take a look at this!”
Wingate came forward and peered through the Perspex. They were in a steep bank to port, circling. Below, someone was flashing SOS with an Aldis lamp—three short, three long, three short.
“What d’you make of it?” cried Manganaro.
“Life raft?” Wingate shouted, face pressed right up against the Perspex.
“Maybe,” said Manganaro. “Would a life raft carry an Aldis?”
“Some kind of ship?” suggested Wingate. Apart from the light itself, he could see nothing.
“I guess we’d better take a look,” said Manganaro. “We can’t leave the poor bastards to die. The minute I’ve dumped you, I can radio a position to base.”
Manganaro eased lower. The tip of the port wing seemed barely to miss the sea, yet still nothing was clearly visible in the gray-and-white soup below.
Manganaro leveled out, turned and came back. “I’m going to make a run right over the top,” he called. “Maybe we’ll see something that way.”
The light continued to flash the international distress code—three short, three long, three short. Manganaro headed directly for it, losing height slowly so as to keep it in sight. Whoever was behind the light was following their movements perfectly, keeping them right in the center of the beam.
Wingate had his face up to the Perspex and his hands cupped around his eyes, excluding the dim reflections from the instrument lights. The Aldis signals came right at him. Then he began to make out a shape, immediately below the flashes, a dim rectangle that rose up from the gnashing surface of the sea. Slowly, as they dipped toward it, it took form, and as it did so he gradually realized what it was.
“For Christ’s sake, Brad!” Wingate snapped. “Get us out of here!”
Manganaro recognized it a second later. It was the conning tower of a U-boat. It had lured them into a trap and they’d walked right in. He hit the throttle and pulled the Walrus into a steep turn to port. A moment before the U-boat disappeared beneath the aircraft’s nose, he saw the flash of quadruple-mounted 20 millimeter Flakvierling 38s, and four streams of tracer arched toward him.
The Walrus lurched and staggered as the 20 millimeter shells ripped through it. Manganaro fought with the control column, trying to bring the port wingtip up. He couldn’t move it. Something had jammed the aileron linkage. The aircraft was out of control. In another twenty seconds, given her present attitude, she’d hit the sea with the wingtip and cartwheel ass over titty.
“Mac!” he yelled. “Give me a hand!”
Together they fought the control column, trying to free the linkage. Despite the cold, Wingate could feel beads of sweat oozing onto his forehead, starting to trickle down onto his cheeks.
“She’s coming!” cried Manganaro. He could feel the slightest give just starting in the column. If they could just keep it coming ...
“Jesus!” cried Wingate, as the linkage finally freed itself and he left the column to Manganaro again. “That’s as close as I ever want to come!” Beneath them, the water broiled.
“We’re not out of it yet,” said Manganaro, voice raised to top the noise caused by the rush of air through the damaged fuselage. “The old stringbag’s amphibious, but God knows whether she’ll still float after that.”
They turned slowly back on course, Manganaro keeping the maneuver flat to avoid unnecessary strain on the controls. There was a heavy smell of gasoline and a roughness in the engine. He checked the gauge and the oil pressure.
“Shit!” he muttered, tapping the instruments. He turned to Wingate and called, “We’re hit in the gas tank. She won’t make it back. I guess you’ve got a partner. If I’m going to pass myself off as a fisherman with you, you’d better start teaching me Norwegian. By the look of the gauge, you’ve got about seven minutes.”
Manganaro put the Walrus into a gentle turn to starboard, straightening up on a course of due east. He flicked a switch beside him and turned a dial. He finally nodded and said, “I’ve picked up the beacon on Borkum. I figure we’re just about right.”
Wingate put a hand behind him and felt the life raft. It was still inflated. “Well, at least we’ll float,” he said. He looked around the cabin and at the gun position set in the nose. “How come they let you fly this all by yourself?” he asked. “Shouldn’t there be some kind of a crew?”
“Sure there should,” said Manganaro. Then he added, “Normally. Only this is hardly a normal trip—putting an assassin ashore in enemy territory to kill an Allied officer. Secrecy’s at the top of HQ’s list. The more crew, the more guys you have to let in on the secret.” He gave a quick grin and took his eyes off the instruments long enough to throw a glance in Wingate’s direction. “Anyway,” he said. “I figure they thought, with a guy as good as Manganaro, who needs a crew?”
Wingate wasn’t listening. There was a low, black shape ten degrees to starboard of the nose. It looked like the storm was lifting. High above the horizon a star shone weakly. He tapped Manganaro on the arm and pointed. “You figure that could be land?” he asked.
Manganaro squinted through the Perspex for a moment. “That’s land,” he said. There was gratification in his voice. He took the aircraft fifty feet lower and checked the waves. “The wind’s dropping,” he said. “With luck we’ll make it. I’ll put her down as close to the beach as I dare. Better check your safety harness. If she’s badly torn up underneath, she’ll jar when we touch. Don’t move until she’s reached a dead stop, then kick the quick release handle on the door behind me and get the raft out. Wait for me outside. I want to check that this old bird sinks. If they find her afloat in the morning, they’ll comb every inch of the islands.”
Manganaro eased the Walrus lower. Wingate watched the sea change from a shifting mass of dark gray and white to a thousand individual rollers. A fleck of spray struck the windshield and disappeared at once in the force of the air-stream. The dark mass of land grew steadily closer.
Manganaro said nothing for more than two whole minutes. Wingate glanced at him occasionally, watching the intense concentration on his face, admiring the skill and assurance with which he handled the lumbering aircraft. He was some find, this Italian kid from Brooklyn. Because of him, Wingate’s view of New Yorkers would be a lot less jaundiced than most Midwesterners’.
“Hang on, Mac,” said Manganaro, at last. “Here we go.” Then, as an afterthought, he asked, “How do I say, ‘Hi there, I’m from Brooklyn’ in Norwegian?”
“Let me teach it to you in English first,” said Wingate. The belly of the amphibian brushed the tip of the first wave. There was a sound like ripping canvas.
“She’s hit bad,” said Manganaro. “It could be tricky.” He let the aircraft settle again. She brushed once more, skimmed, then touched again. The sound of ripping was deafening. It sounded like the whole of her belly was being ripped apart. She slewed left, then right. Manganaro fought with the rudder pedals to keep her straight. If she started to ground-loop, she could dig in a wingtip and break up. With the amount of gas she was spewing out, she could very easily burn.
He cut the engine. He wasn’t going to need it again. There was no way they could take off again and make a new approach. It was either this time or never, and on the water the engine was only a liability with a leaking gas tank. Slowly she began to drag to a stop.
She was already listing badly to starboard when Manganaro released his harness and cried, “OK, Mac—out!”
Wingate hit the door release and pushed the entire panel out of the fuselage with his shoulder. He bent and grabbed hold of the life raft and hauled it toward the open door. The gear he had picked up was secured inside the raft. All he had to do was take a couple of turns around his hand with the towline, then push the raft into the sea.
The wind whistled through the open doorway, scattering the maps and papers that Manganaro had been consulting during the flight. Waves broke into the cabin and hit Wingate in the face. The coldness took his breath away. Finally, the raft was through the door and into the water, riding up and down in front of him.
“Brad!” he yelled. “Get the hell out of there!”
“Coming!” called Manganaro’s voice from somewhere below. He was hammering loudly on the aluminum belly of the aircraft, trying to speed up the rate at which she was sinking. Finally he climbed up into the cabin again, water pouring off the soaked legs of his pants. “Stay—out of the water, Mac!” he gasped. “Two minutes in that and you’ll freeze to death.”
They dropped gently into the raft, took out the oars and began to row. The sea fought them, tossing them up in the air, dashing them back into some trough, drenching them in spray, but the run of the tide was toward the beach and slowly they worked their way nearer to it.
It took almost an hour to cover the two or three hundred yards of turbulent water between the position where the Walrus had sunk and the beach. Wingate’s hands had frozen to the oars and the skin tore as he prized them free. The water had lashed into the rubber raft and swilled in the bottom almost a foot deep. By the time the craft ran up onto the sand, both men were soaked to the skin.
“Drag her up the beach!” yelled Wingate, the bitter wind snatching the words from his lips so that Manganaro had difficulty hearing him. “If the story’s to stick, she’s got to be found!”
They pulled the raft twenty yards clear of the high tide mark, then left her.
“For Christ’s sake, let’s get under cover!” called Manganaro, beating his dead arms against his body. “Another ten minutes and we’re icicles!”
They climbed the gentle slope of the beach, crossed a road and pushed inland across an open field. There were no lights. The only features were the occasional fences they walked into, and the line of stakes and barbed wire that Wingate kept just to his right. Twice, they came across broken-down barns that creaked in the vicious northeaster that came in off the sea, but they offered no protection. The wind howled through the gaping holes in their walls and a fine mist of snow slanted down through the caved-in roofs.
“Brad!” yelled Wingate. “We’ve got to take a risk. We’ve got to find a house and try and sell somebody on the fisherman story. We’ve got to get you out of that uniform—it’s a dead giveaway. Shelter’s not enough. We need to find fire. We’ve got to get warmth, and we’ve got to get it fast!”
In the distance, some vehicle cruised slowly along a road further inland. Wingate followed it for a couple of moments, still leading the way with the line of wire beside him. He was thinking that that would be the main line of habitation, two or three hundred yards inland from the sea. A moment later, he felt a grim sense of satisfaction as the shaded headlights of the vehicle threw a beam of light on a group of buildings beside it, before passing on into the night.
