Operation Afterlight, page 21
He turned to her, and she saw confusion in his eyes. Something else, too.
Guilt.
“Might I remind you, Brigadier,” Sir David said, “that Germany has many borders? There are a few hundred million people in Europe that we have spent the last six years trying to liberate. I, for one, would rather not see them die alongside the Third Reich.”
“Not to mention hundreds of thousands of British troops,” Lane added, “who could soon return home with Götterdämmerung in their veins.”
“Well said, Squadron Officer Lane,” Sir David said. “I rather fear that we’ve been one step behind this whole time. How do we get ahead? Could your RAF heavy bombers do it?”
She shook her head. “Too imprecise. Damaging the facility might do nothing more than expose Götterdämmerung and release it early.”
“Then what?”
“You need 465 Squadron,” Stahl said.
“One squadron? Alone?”
“He’s right,” Embry said. “465 Squadron can hit the building itself.”
“Bloody dangerous work,” Sir David said. “Flak everywhere, and I can’t imagine German fighters will let them just swoop in and hit it.”
“Nor Soviet fighters,” the man in the hat observed.
“They can do it,” Lane said firmly. Durban’s face sprung to her mind again, more vividly than ever. She remembered standing close to him, looking up at an aircraft. “We’ll use napalm,” she said, hearing his voice in her ears rather than her own. “Burn it. Set the surrounding air on fire. It must all be destroyed.”
“The scientists, too,” Stahl said. “If they escape, they can create it again.” His eyes met Lane’s again.
“The submarine,” she whispered.
He nodded. “That’s their way out.”
“Then it’s agreed,” Sir David said. “465 Squadron will destroy the building. In the meantime, I want the Biological Warfare Intelligence Committee working on this Q Fever business. I want every expert in the UK who knows a damned thing about sheep diseases to be working on prevention and cure. If this thing gets loose, millions will die. Our duty is to make sure someone in Europe remains alive to bury them.” He stood in silence for a moment, then turned hesitantly to the silent Minister. “My Lord?”
“I couldn’t have said it better myself, David,” Lord Wolmer sighed. “I’ll inform the PM. 465 Squadron will get the support they need if I have to fly a damned plane myself. Those of you who can help should do so to the utmost of your ability. Those who can’t? Consider this a direct order to get down on your knees and pray for them. Squadron Officer Lane? How long will it take to locate the target building?”
“I…” She froze. All eyes were on her. Waiting for her answer. Just as 465 Squadron was waiting, ready to be thrown one last time against the maelstrom of defences that would meet any attempt to target Götterdämmerung. Cold, unreasoning horror crept over her skin, crushing her chest and churning her stomach as the thought hit her in waves. Of what she had committed the Squadron to. What she had committed Andy to.
And still they waited for her answer.
“I don’t know,” she said.
Silence filled the room. She saw the men look at each other, and the hopelessness in their eyes.
“None of my agents can help now,” she said, feeling her hands tremble and powerless to stop them. “Not there. Most of East Prussia is in Soviet hands, the rest is chaos. I have no sources inside Pillau. I doubt more than a dozen men outside the city know the location, and the secrecy will be at its height, now that they are so close. There will be no more intercepts of signals, no more reports.”
Somehow her knees hadn’t buckled, but still she sank back into her chair.
“Then we’ve failed,” Sir David said. “It’s over.”
Lane closed her eyes. At least, now, 465 Squadron wouldn’t have to go. Andy could survive, if only until Götterdämmerung swept across the world.
“No,” Stahl said. “The SS would know. The ones in the city.”
Lane sat up in her chair. He was looking at her. Those dark eyes. There was life in them now. Fierce. Frightening.
She knew exactly what he meant to do.
Sir David looked up at the assassin, hardly a trace of weary hope left on his face. “And do we have an SS source in Pillau?”
“No,” Stahl said. “Not yet.”
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Norfolk, 6 April
The nightmare woke him, but it took the sight of the person by the bedside to draw a pained gasp from his lips.
“Bad dream, Grant?” Barton put down his newspaper and sat back in his chair.
“No, sir,” Grant lied. It hadn’t been as bad as some others. At least the aircraft hadn’t caught fire this time, and the memory of the enclosing cockpit and the stink of cordite and smoke and his own blood was fading with merciful speed. Even the half-remembered dregs that remained, though, were enough to draw fresh needles of familiar pain from beneath the bandages around his torso. “How long have you been there?”
“Long enough to be bored of watching you sleep.”
“You shouldn’t do it, then.”
“Don’t feel too special. You’re not the first wounded aircrew I’ve visited in this place. I brought you some tea.”
Suddenly aware of the dryness of his mouth, Grant reached for it. His fingers brushed the cheap hospital mug, and he knew immediately it was empty. “Was it good?”
“It was cold,” Barton said. “I’m sure a nurse will bring you some more. They all seem to like you. One even called you a hero.” He sniffed. “I said I’d bring her a dictionary next time I visit.”
“Oh,” Grant said. “So there has to be a next time?”
“Ungrateful sod,” Barton said, reaching for his newspaper again. “If you don’t want to be visited in hospital, the answer is simple.”
“Yeah, I know,” Grant said. “Recover quickly.”
“I was going to say just get killed next time, mate,” Barton said. “Save us all some effort.” He sighed, crunched up the newspaper, and threw it across the room into the wastepaper basket. “It doesn’t make better reading the third time around.”
Grant adjusted his position. The thin white sheets clung to the sweat from the nightmare, and the bed creaked and sagged with his movement. “I appreciate the gesture, Squadron Leader,” he said formally. “It’s nice to have a visitor. Not everyone has bothered.”
Barton barked a harsh laugh. “Don’t have a pity party, Grant, just because it’s me sat here and not Durban.”
“I wasn’t.” Grant marvelled at how he’d been raised not to lie and had now managed it twice in the first ninety seconds of being awake. His mother would not be best pleased. “I expect he’s very busy.”
“He is.” Barton lowered his voice, looking at the handful of other occupied beds in the ward. As usual, most were asleep or too distracted by their own pain or recovery. The ward received a dozen visitors a day, and even an RAF Squadron Leader with wings on his chest warranted little attention. “Something big is coming up. He’s got us flying twice a day, sometimes three times. Low-level, high-level, dive-bombing, air-to-air.”
“And yet,” Grant said, “you found time to come and watch me sleep. I’m honoured, by the way.”
“Bloody right, you are.” Barton tugged at the ragged edges of his moustache. “But between you and me, I didn’t come here because I wanted your company.”
“Oh. Suddenly I feel less honoured.”
“Look,” Barton said. “You might have noticed I don’t like Durban. I don’t much like you either, though at least you’re not a Pom. But I’ll say this for the smooth bastard. He’s got the squadron running well. Better than ever. The men love him. And he’s no coward.”
“No, he’s not,” Grant said. The pain pulsed again, where the shrapnel had torn at flesh and muscle.
A spent shell, the surgeons had told him, shattered into fragments by the impact with the engine cowling and slowed by the wood of the fuselage. A little more metal, a touch more energy, another few inches up or down, and he’d have probably bled out. As it was, the wounds were healing well. With rest, he would be back to flying soon enough.
Though not too soon, they had assured him. The war would probably be over by the time he was certified fit to fly. Grant could still remember the thrill of relief that had passed through him.
And the shame that followed.
Further down the room, a heavily bandaged man gave an anguished moan, but didn’t wake despite the afternoon sunlight pouring through the windows.
Barton gestured. “What happened to that poor sod?”
“Sergeant Laycock,” Grant said. “Tail gunner. Pulled from his burning Lancaster. Not quickly enough, sadly, though he never complains. Brave man.”
“You know,” Barton said, “I’ve met a lot of brave men. No two were the same. I’ve met men who would go out night after night without a flicker of emotion, like it was just any other job. And,” he added, glancing at Grant before turning his attention to the ceiling, “I’ve met lads who shat themselves before every mission. But they still went. You tell me which is the braver.”
Grant opened his mouth to speak but changed the words before they could reach his lips. “Which one are you?”
Barton winked. “I’m one of the special ones. I’m too stupid to think I could ever get a scratch on me. Mind, three years of ops and no one’s proved me wrong, so maybe I’m smarter than I look.”
Grant chuckled, then coughed and waited for the sudden waves of agony to pass through him.
“The problem is,” Barton added, “you stay in this game long enough, and it doesn’t matter how brave you are. Sooner or later, everyone reaches their limit. Take your mate, the Wing Commander, for example.”
“What do you mean?”
Barton frowned in surprise. “Aren’t you navigators supposed to be observant? That man has been hurting since the day he arrived.”
“He’s not a coward,” Grant said, feeling his cheeks redden.
“I already said that, didn’t I? Keep up. Like I told you, everyone reaches their limit. Everyone. Unless they get killed first. Andy Durban didn’t get those DFCs from a Christmas cracker, but he’s flown more operational missions than anyone I’ve ever met. His last navigator died in the seat next to him, and you tried to pull off the same trick. Have you never seen the way his hands shake?”
“No. He gave no fear away.” Except once, Grant thought suddenly. On their last sortie. When he had thought Grant was dying.
Barton snorted and shook his head. “God help Durban up there if he has to rely on you to spot anything.”
Nurse Anita entered the ward, and the Australian fell silent. She checked on Laycock and the other men, then scowled at Barton before giving Grant a sweet smile and taking his temperature. Promising to come back to bring Grant a fresh cup of tea and some food, she tapped her watch with a pointed stare at the Squadron Leader and continued on her rounds.
Barton watched the pretty nurse walk away with obvious appreciation. “Can you believe Kittinger pulled that?” He shook his head. “The man must be packing artillery in his trousers.”
“That’s Kittens’ girlfriend?”
“For six months now, at least. It doesn’t seem fair, does it?”
“He never mentioned it, even when he came to see me.”
“He’s a private individual. Did you ask him? Well, there you go then,” Barton said as Grant shook his head. “You also haven’t asked who your replacement is.”
“What?”
“As Durban’s navigator.”
“Oh.” Grant hadn’t even thought about that. It brought an odd twinge of jealousy. “Who was it? Finnegan?”
“Finny? No chance. That little toe rag has been with me since Australia. No way I’m giving him up, and Durban knows better than to ask. Which is just as well, because he’s asked just about every bugger else.”
“What do you mean?”
“That he’s trialled every other navigator on the squadron. A few even got to go twice, but then he decides they aren’t good enough and sends them packing. Apparently, mate, you’re his Finny.”
“I doubt it,” Grant said. “If I was, he’d have visited. I know, I know. He’s busy.”
Barton laughed. “Not so busy that he doesn’t ask for updates on you half-a-dozen times a day. Why do you think I came? I’m hoping if I tell him you’re fine, he’ll stop beating himself up about how you got here. You are fine, aren’t you? I mean, you’re going to be back flying soon?”
“The doctors said it could be weeks.”
“We don’t have weeks,” Barton said. All humour faded from his voice. “Whatever this job is building up to, it’s happening soon. Durban is one of the bravest men I’ve ever known, and he may well be the best squadron commander in the RAF, but I’m worried for him.”
He rose from his chair. “And if you tell anyone I said that, you’ll be back in here for months. Get better, Grant. Fast.” He stared furiously down at the navigator for a few seconds, then stormed out of the room.
Grant closed his eyes and listened to the thud of the receding footsteps until they faded into the general indistinct murmur of hospital life. Somewhere beyond the window, he heard distant Merlin engines. He didn’t look. He simply lay there, with his hands resting on the bandages around his midsection. They felt damp. Sweat. Not blood.
The sound of the engines grew louder, filling his ears with their roar, and he heard the clattering thud as the cannon shell slammed into them again.
With a gasp, he sat up, pain flooding through him.
“Sorry,” Anita said, snatching her hand back from the mug she had just placed on the bedside table. “I didn’t mean to wake you. Just bringing you some tea. Are you ok, love?”
Outside, the daylight was fading, and the sky was silent.
“No, Ma’am,” Grant said. “I don’t think I am.”
Chapter Thirty
Bedfordshire, 9 April
No one spoke. Major Anders drove quickly, expertly, seemingly unfazed by the dark country road or the dim headlights that were all that blackout regulations permitted. Stahl sat next to him upfront, eyes hooded, unmoving. Somewhere between sleep and waking. Between life and death.
Lane sat alone in the shadows of the back seat, glad that she was just a passenger this time around. Now it was up to Stahl. Her work here was done. Most of it, anyway.
It was only when they got close to RAF Tempsford that she felt the pressure build on her chest.
The strip of land between the Great North Road and the main line from Kings Cross to Edinburgh seemed an odd location for the most secretive airfield in the United Kingdom. Occasionally, the police or security patrols picked up a suspicious person roaming the surroundings, and at least two had turned out to be bona fide German agents. Lane didn’t know what had happened to them – whether they had been turned and become double agents or chosen the other option and hanged as spies – but it seemed clear they had not got word back to Germany. Tempsford and its two highly specialised RAF squadrons remained a well-kept secret. Even the locals who heard the hum of aero engines on moonlit nights had little idea that those aircraft were ferrying agents into occupied Europe.
Her agents.
Of course, it was a two-way process. They also brought agents home, their pilots landing their Lysanders and Hudsons in too-small clearings or lonely meadows lit for them by welcoming committees of resistance fighters. Dangerous work. A hastily lit flare path to guide the aircraft in, a mad dash by the agent to reach the aircraft as it turned ready to launch again, a scramble to close the door as the aircraft accelerated and hauled itself into the sky as their allies disappeared back into the darkness. Sometimes they cut it close and came back with holes in the fuselage from the rifle fire of some German patrol. Sometimes they didn’t make it back at all, but plenty of agents did, with intelligence to report and stories of terrified heroics to tell.
Not her agents, though. Not one.
Still without speaking, Anders turned off the Great North Road and followed a country lane. He kept the speed down, though she doubted the closeness of the hedges on either side bothered him. Ahead, a barrier barred the road, and Anders drew to a halt as dark figures closed in on them. One tapped on the window and waited for Anders to open it before shining his flashlight on each of their faces. The soldier checked their identification, paused for a little longer on Stahl’s, then gave a grunt. “Welcome to Gibraltar Farm, sir,” he said, saluting and motioning to two companions to move the barrier aside. “Welcome back, Ma’am,” he added with a smile to Lane.
She tried to reply, but her parched mouth betrayed her, leaving only a half-whisper to drift between her chewed lips.
“Farm?” Stahl’s eyebrow twitched, the most emotion she’d seen from him in hours.
“You’ll see,” Anders said, but the German had already returned to his silent contemplation of the darkness beyond his window.
With the engine of the Morris sputtering slightly, they crossed one of the three runways that together formed a triangle, and followed a partly paved track. Just like her, Anders knew exactly where they were going. A few seconds more, and the bulk of a building loomed up from the night. In the daytime, it could pass for the sort of barn found at a thousand farms across England. Now, beneath the faint light of the waning crescent moon, the illusion was even more complete, but that’s all it was. Illusion, like so much else in this war.
Anders switched off the engine and sat with his eyes on Stahl. “Time to go, my friend.”
A nod. A soft intake of breath. Stahl opened his door and stepped out into the night, leaving Lane wondering if she would ever see more emotion from him than that.
Anders ushered the German into the lightless barn, then stood waiting for her.
She didn’t move. Couldn’t move. Just getting out of the car had taken every ounce of her willpower. She simply stood with one shaking hand still on the door handle, staring at the barn. Up close, she could see the hidden bricks beneath the gaps in the wood cladding. This was no barn, the name Gibraltar Farm at once both a cover story to foil foreign agents and a desperate effort to ignore reality. This was where they came. The agents. Their final stop before they boarded the aircraft and headed off into Europe.
