Operation Afterlight, page 15
“Depends. Was there a night shift?”
“No,” Stahl answered for her. “The scientists worked in a single team, fourteen-hour days.”
“Only cleaners and administrative staff worked at night,” Lane said. She crossed her arms and shifted her weight in her chair. She still didn’t look at Stahl. Hadn’t done so even once.
“There may have been a few personnel sick or on leave,” Durban said, “but I think it’s fair to say that the ones inside the building…” He let his voice tail off.
Stahl reached to the desk, and Lane jumped. The German didn’t notice. Sifting through the images, he drew out the one that showed the widest view. An aerial view of the entire area from over thirty-thousand feet, no magnification. “Hildesheim?”
“Yes,” Durban said, “the city itself. This area here is where the station and marshalling yards were. You can still see sections of intact track here and here. Remarkable when you consider the amount of cratering. This area here has been almost totally destroyed.” He paused. Three churches had stood out on the pre-attack imagery. None were visible now.
“This is cloud?” Stahl pointed.
“Smoke. From incendiaries. This area here is mostly fire damage, very little blast. Large parts of the town are burning.”
“Still?” Lane frowned. “Four hours after the attack?”
Durban shrugged. “The HE likely ruptured the water mains. The fire brigades would do what they could, but without water, and with the fires so widespread, it could have taken them all night to bring it under control.”
Stahl’s finger still rested on one part of the town, largely obscured by smoke but clear enough in places to show collapsed buildings, ruptured streets, an open area that might have been a park but now a wasteland pockmarked with craters. Wordless, he dragged his hand away, leaving a smudge on the image before his other hand half-threw the picture across the desk.
“If you will both forgive me,” Stahl said, “I think I need some fresh air.” He backed away, his gaze still transfixed on the image.
Durban heard the clatter of the German’s heels in the corridor and the rush of air as he left the building through the front door. “What was that about?”
Lane didn’t respond, only shook her head slightly as she stared at the door.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Norfolk, 23 March
Stahl walked for an hour, following the perimeter track around the outer limits of the base. He found no fresh air. Only the smell of aviation fuel that hung in the afternoon air, and the remembered stench of smoke and burning flesh.
The raid had been a complete success. That was something. Twenty-six scientists had worked there, as best he could tell. Most with families, though that did not upset him. Given what those men were working on, they had long since forfeited their human right to see their loved ones again. Perhaps they didn’t even qualify as human anymore, but after six years of war, they weren’t alone in that.
His gaze fixed on an isolated Mosquito. Three men fussed about it, apparently patching holes in the wooden fuselage. Stahl could see the descending sun through another, larger rent in the tail. Lane hadn’t invited him to join her yesterday afternoon when she went out to count the sixteen Mosquitoes back home. He wouldn’t have gone, anyway. Though content that the first element of Götterdämmerung had been destroyed, he had eaten nothing and slept poorly.
After what he had seen, it would be worse tonight.
His path back took him close to the Squadron Commander’s office. The woman had left, but Durban still sat at his desk, pen in hand. The fool had his back to the window, oblivious. A few seconds was all it would take to walk up, put a single round in the back of the man’s head, and vanish among the scattered buildings nearby where shadows had already pooled as the sun dropped.
Instead, he went looking for the Black man he often saw with Durban.
He found him in the dining room, laughing and joking with several other men. The table fell silent as he approached. Three of the men stared at him with distrust, a fourth with absolute hatred. Grant’s eyes held only a question. He doubted the young man had ever known true hate. He would, with time.
“Can I help you, sir?”
“Call me Stahl. May we talk?”
“Of course.” Grant excused himself and followed Stahl across the room. The other men watched. “Were you looking for the Wing Commander?”
“I have just left him,” Stahl said. “He said to come and see you.”
“Really?” The man visibly shrank. “Why?”
“I have been trapped on this airfield for two days now.” True. “I have never been to England.” Untrue. “And he said you would show me some of the local area.”
Most definitely untrue.
“I thought we weren’t supposed to leave the base right now,” Grant said. “Until we find out what we’re doing next. Do you mind if I check with him?”
“I do not mind,” Stahl said, reaching into his pocket. “He is in his office. But he seems very busy. That is why I left him to be alone. He is… how do you say it? Stressed. I heard him shout at that poor man with the funny walk.”
“The Ops Officer?” Grant ran his hand through his hair. “Bony did seem nervous when I saw him a few minutes ago. Mind you, he always does. Fine, I don’t want to get shouted at. But there is one problem. We don’t actually have a car.”
“We do,” Stahl said, opening his hand to reveal a set of car keys. It had been the easiest thing to palm them from the desk while the photographs distracted Durban and Lane. “I will drive.”
Grant frowned.
“If you are anxious,” Stahl said, “you can ask him to repeat his orders directly to you.”
“Best not, I suppose,” the young man mumbled after a long pause. He waved goodbye to his still staring colleagues and led the way out of the back doors of the building to where the Alvis sat parked. Stahl admired the silver bodywork before sliding into the driver’s seat. The Alvis was smaller than the Mercedes he had left in the hands of the Swiss, but most things were. The leather seat was well-worn and cracked in places. Comfortable enough, though. A nice car, he thought, waiting for Grant to get into his own seat before starting the engine and reversing onto the road.
His earlier walk had given him a good understanding of the layout of the roads, and Stahl felt confident he could reach the gate without risking passing by Durban’s window. He put the car into first gear and felt a surge of pleasure as the power built beneath his right foot.
“Other side of the road, sir,” Grant said.
“Of course. I can see why Andrew speaks so highly of your navigation skills.”
Grant beamed at that, and Stahl felt a momentary pang of guilt. He forced it away. After all, he was not lying for once, not really. Durban had said nothing, but Stahl knew enough of fighting men to know who they trusted, and Durban and Grant clearly trusted one another.
He wondered if the same would be true when Durban realised his keys had gone.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Norfolk, 23 March
Lane knocked and waited, holding the briefcase loosely. It seemed heavier than the mere weight of the paper inside. She checked her watch, knocked again, and was about to leave when she heard the muffled voice.
“You sound exhausted, Andy,” she said as she pushed open the door. “You look it, too.”
“Thanks,” Durban drawled from behind his desk.
“Were you asleep?”
“Sorry. No. Just concentrating.” He motioned to the photographs in front of him, the same as this afternoon, now augmented by long sheets of numbers and acronyms. “Just trying to work out if we could have done it better.”
“I’m not sure you could,” she said, pulling up a chair and placing it next to his, so that they sat side by side. She wasn’t sure he’d noticed, his eyes still fixed on the desk. “You destroyed the target, and you brought everyone back alive. You did everything right, Andy.”
He started at her touch on his arm. “Yeah,” he said. “You’re probably right. I just feel like it could have been, I don’t know, cleaner.”
“This isn’t that kind of war,” Lane said sadly. She offered him the penultimate cigarette from the pack he had given to her, then took the other herself and lit both.
“You know,” he said, looking at the ceiling as smoke trickled from his mouth, “in Pathfinders I saw a dozen Hildesheims. Bigger cities, bigger raids. I dropped target indicators over Hamburg the night of the firestorm. None of it truly bothered me before now. I didn’t enjoy it, but it was the job. This feels different.”
“The war is almost over,” Lane said. He nodded. “But it’s not over, Andy,” she added. “There is still a job to do.” She opened the briefcase.
“Is that what I think it is?”
“The next target.” She took out several aerial photographs and a hand-drawn map of an airfield. “Here,” she said. “Does it look familiar? The airfield at Uelzen. You can see the area marked out where the SS detachment took over.”
“I remember it,” Durban said. “I remember those revetments too.”
“We’ve confirmed the aircraft are Dornier Do-217s. Six in total.”
“Uelzen isn’t close.” He turned in his seat and stared at the planning map on his office wall. “We’ll load up half the kites with rockets; they are lighter, which will buy us a few more miles, and they will give us more options. When do we attack?”
“I don’t know.”
Durban rubbed his eyes. “Well, the squadron is as ready as it will ever be. We could go as soon as tomorrow afternoon if you want us to.”
“No,” she said. “We need to wait.”
“Why?”
“If we strike too soon, especially after Hildesheim, we risk alerting the SS that we know something. If they take Götterdämmerung underground, we’ve lost the game. It’s already a risk going after the airfield.”
“Then why bother?” At her sharp look, he spread his hands. “I’m serious. They are just aircraft, modified or not. It’s been years since a Dornier could survive long enough to reach London. They are slow, we are fast. I’d be more worried if they had converted some of their new jets, but these old kites won’t make it far.”
“What if they don’t need to?”
“Meaning?”
She paused, knowing she had already told him far too much. She lived in a world where “need to know” was more than a mantra. It was a tangible shadow hanging over everything. The intelligence reports that reached her desk could change the fates of nations, but each was as fragile as the cheap, thin paper it was printed on. One innocent yet careless breach of security, and the lifespan of the accrued knowledge became as short as that of the agent who provided it. She had lost too many agents that way, betrayed by a single wrong word. To arrest. Torture. The final bullet in the back of the skull.
And yet, the same secrecy that protected her agents put others in danger. She could sit and read these reports at her desk, warm and safe and sipping tea. Meanwhile, the pilots who would have to fly the mission, deep into the lethal heart of the enemy’s homeland, learned the details of their target only a few hours before the mission.
It had never affected her before. But then, none of those men risking their lives had been Andy Durban.
His gaze flickered away from the photographs and fell on her. Expectant.
“A local girl who works as a cleaner for the Luftwaffe Officers’ Mess at Uelzen drew this map for us,” she said, feeling her cheeks warm. If Durban had to go, she needed him to have the longest possible time to prepare for it. “She saw engineers working on the bombers.”
“Doing what to them?”
“The girl doesn’t know, but she saw metal cylinders under the wings.”
“Bombs?”
“Anna’s seen bombs before. These are too fat. According to her, they look more like shiny metal Zeppelins, but with no tail fins. She doesn’t own a camera and couldn’t get close enough to draw a sketch. She tried to talk her way closer, but the SS guards got suspicious and detained her. The Luftwaffe airfield commander had to vouch for her before they would let her go back to work.”
“Poor thing must have been terrified,” Durban said, rubbing his jaw. “Brave girl.”
“They all are,” Lane said. “Those that are still alive.”
“We have no clue what the modifications are for?”
“No,” she admitted. “But if the SS have gone to the effort, despite the age of the aircraft, they must know something we don’t. When you attack, it should be at night. During the day, they sometimes fly in the local area. Mostly low-level passes over villages and towns. I don’t want you arriving there only to find half the aircraft missing. Also, the building behind this hangar is the aircrew accommodation. At night, the pilots will be there.” She took a breath. Her stomach roiled at the thought of violated security rules.
It is necessary, she told herself. If they are better prepared, the mission has a better chance to succeed. And we need it to succeed.
“Destroy the aircraft, kill the pilots,” Durban said, turning to fully face her for the first time since she’d arrived. “The latter is easy enough, but those revetments look horribly solid.” He smiled, without even a trace of humour. “We’ll need more than the rockets. I guess I should order some napalm early.”
“You don’t need to give me the details,” she said with a shudder. She realised that, while he focused on the map and photographs, on their mission, she had been watching his face since the moment she came in. The exhaustion in him seemed much more than just the shadows under his eyes that, while deep, did little to detract from his pleasant features. At worst, they just made him seem a little more of a match for her own age. “Andy?”
“Hmm?” He was back to staring at the photographs again, turning the image of the airfield first one way then the other, as if planning the perfect attack route.
“Do me a favour and go to bed early tonight?”
“I’ll try.” He yawned. “I have to write a letter tonight. I’ve put it off for too long.”
His yawn triggered one of her own. “Stop that,” she mumbled, pushing him playfully on the arm.
“Sorry,” he said, smiling. “What about Stahl? Does he have anything to add?”
The name brought a wave of cold with it. Everything playful inside her shrivelled in an instant. “I don’t know,” she said. “I haven’t seen him since…”
“Since he looked at Hildesheim.”
“You saw it too?”
“Hard to miss,” Durban said. “I don’t know what he saw that we didn’t, but it doesn’t matter. He’s not here for the good of his health. He has work to do, same as us. If we’re discussing target planning, he should be here.”
“He was supposed to be,” she agreed.
“Perhaps you scared him off.”
“I doubt it. Fear is an emotion. Stahl has none.”
Durban stood abruptly and began policing up the photographs and other paperwork. “Come on,” he said. “Let’s secure these in the safe. Then we’ll dig up Stahl from wherever he’s hiding, wrap this up, and still have time for a drink afterwards.”
She stayed seated, chin resting in one hand, looking up at him while he took the briefcase from her and began shovelling files into it. Tired or not, she felt the warmth coming from him. The energy. The dedication. His country had got lucky the day he joined the RAF, she thought. More than that, he made her feel warm, too. But there was something she’d been meaning to ask him.
“Who is Gisela?”
She blurted the words out before she could think them through. It wasn’t jealousy that drove the question, of course. That was impossible. Mere curiosity. Asking questions was her job, and it was important that she understood this man who had become so important to her.
He looked startled. “Where did you hear that name?”
“Embry. He mentioned her twice.” Professional curiosity, she told herself again. Nothing more.
To her surprise, Durban laughed. “You don’t mean her, you mean it. Operation Gisela. Do you really want to know?”
“Why? Don’t you want to tell?”
“There’s not much to tell,” he said. He fell silent for a second. The speed with which the levity slid from his face brought a twinge of regret. That odd, queasy feeling in the depths of her stomach? Guilt. She should not have asked the question.
The guilt passed. Losing out, as always, to her commitment to knowledge.
He took a deep breath, his eyes widening for a beat before his professional cool returned, the way it had when he showed her the Mosquito. “We have the Germans beaten,” he began. “The fight between our bombers and their night fighters used to be evenly matched, but not anymore. Every night we fly more heavies, drop more bombs with better accuracy, and they can’t kill enough of us anymore to make a difference. We know it. They know it. But what the Germans don’t know is how to admit defeat. The stubborn bastards changed the game.”
“How?”
“An aircraft is never more vulnerable than when it is taking off or landing,” Durban said. “The Luftwaffe aren’t stupid. God, I wish they were. They would love to hit our bombers on take-off, with a full load of bombs and fuel just waiting to go up like a Christmas tree. But they can’t; we take off in daylight, with our air defences fully alert. No way could they get close, and it would be suicide to try. They used to make hay over the target, but these days, with our overwhelming numbers, with 100 Group jamming their radars and sending dozens of night intruders out looking for trade every time there is a raid, their odds aren’t much better than suicide even on home turf.”
She nodded. Her agents in Germany had said the same thing, talked about the fuel shortages, the horrifying loss rates for the Luftwaffe, the youths sent straight from flying schools to fly outdated aircraft against the overwhelming might of the Allied air forces. A brave people, the Germans.
Her people, she thought, however much she might pretend it wasn’t true.
Had so much courage and integrity ever been so sickeningly abused, squandered in the service of such darkness? She wasn’t religious – how could she be, after what had been done to those who followed the religion of her birth? – but she wished fervently that Hell was real, so that the Nazis could burn in it for eternity.
