Operation Afterlight, page 30
Norfolk, 16 April
Sarah Lane shoved her doubts aside and slipped through the Operations Room door.
Somehow, she had expected the room to be a blur of movement and noise, dozens of RAF personnel running around, supporting 465 Squadron’s mission. That seemed proper. Regardless of how few people might ever be allowed to know it, AFTERLIGHT was the most important job not just of her career, but of the war. Succeed, and it would be just a footnote in an archive somewhere, possibly to be puzzled over by future historians when the statutory period was up and the millions of classified records this war had created opened to the public. Succeed, and the war would meander to its inevitable conclusion, the Nazis already consigned to history as a new war began, pitting the democratic Allied nations of the West against the Soviets and their subjugated satellites. Succeed, and AFTERLIGHT would be blissfully forgotten.
Fail, and countless millions would die.
It occurred to her that the occasion deserved more than this. The big Operations Room stood mostly empty. Bony Wright paced with his hands behind his back. A handful of WAAFs stood monitoring a situation board, with fifteen light blue placards displayed on the left and one on the right. Air Vice Marshal Embry and Major Anders sat at a table next to another WAAF wearing headphones, an intent look on her face as she stared at her large radio set.
No crowds of expectant viewers. No sound at all.
Lane took a deep breath.
Anders saw her coming. Pushing his chair out for her to take, he strode off across the room in search of a replacement. Embry looked up at her approach. He didn’t smile. Exhaustion hung on his pale face.
She hesitated for a moment. “Dare I ask, sir?”
He motioned for her to sit. “They reached the target about ten minutes ago, Sarah. They lost an aircraft on the approach.”
She swallowed. “Who?”
“Bravo Four,” he said. “Flying Officer Dickie Chapple and Flight Sergeant Sam Elmore.”
Relief washed over her, replaced in an instant by guilt. She didn’t know the two men she had doomed when she brought them this mission. She only knew that neither was Andrew Durban.
“Stahl?”
Embry shook his head. “DINGO. Three times so far. We also have COMRADE. The Soviets have intervened.”
“We knew they would. They want it too much to let us destroy it.”
He nodded. “I don’t suppose it would help if we told them how close it is to being released?”
“It’s too late either way, sir.”
“You’re probably right,” he said. Anders pulled up a chair, and the three of them sat in silence.
Lane felt her eyes drift to the board where the WAAFs stood, as helpless as the rest of them. Each placard showed the names of a crew, Durban/Grant at the top. So far, only the placard marked for the unfortunate Chapple/Elmore had shifted to the column marked lost, but there would be more. It was only a matter of time. Was it worth it? How many of those placards would she be prepared to move to the right-hand side of the board if it guaranteed success? Thirty-two lives, against millions. A simple decision for the politicians. The greater good. The big picture. All part of the ultimate blueprint for victory.
She saw Andy’s face in her mind and gave silent thanks that the burden of choice wasn’t hers.
“Are you okay, Sarah?”
Maybe she had shuddered. Or spoken aloud without realising it. All she knew was that she had given something away, and that Embry was staring at her. It wasn’t her eyes, at least. They remained dry. So many tears she had cried in this war; she never let anyone see them. “Not really, sir,” she admitted. “You?”
“I’d hoped for better news,” he said. He looked at his watch. “Their time is up. Durban should have aborted by now.”
“He’ll hold on for as long as there is a chance, no matter how slim. If there is a way, Andy will find it.”
The WAAF looked up from her radio, face intent. Lane knew before she spoke what the radio operator would say. The slump of her face said it all. “DINGO, sir.”
Embry nodded. “Stahl must be dead. I’m sorry, Major Anders.”
The Dane said nothing.
“I think that might be it, I’m afraid,” Embry added. “Durban has no choice but to abort now.”
Lane stared at the utter hopelessness in the AVM’s eyes. “Would you, sir?”
“What?”
“Abort.”
He sighed. “I suppose not. Damn, I wish I was leading this, to make that call myself.”
“What do you mean?”
Embry ran one hand over his face. “It’s not what you think,” he sighed. “I love to fly, but I’m not a fool who seeks danger for its own sake. I don’t envy Durban the peril he is in, nor do I think I could do a better job than him. But this is torture, Sarah. I would rather risk my neck a thousand times than listen to someone else face the threat instead.”
Lane nodded. She felt a surge of respect. The AVM wasn’t lying. Not even close. No wonder good men like Andy Durban admired him so much. “If it’s any consolation, sir, I think Andy would say the same thing if he was here in your place.”
“Of course,” Embry agreed. “He’s proven himself to have that quality. As have you, Sarah.”
“Sir?”
Embry hesitated. “Major, give us a minute, would you?”
Anders stood, his face expressionless, and walked away.
“I received your request,” Embry said. “You may work for SOE, but you wear an RAF uniform, and the RAF pays your wages. I know you have requested a special assignment to the British Occupation Zone in Germany. And I know why.”
“Did you approve my orders?”
“Of course. And you should know I will rescind them the moment you ask.”
“I won’t.”
“Look, Sarah, I understand why you feel you need to go. There are thousands of RAF prisoners of war still held in Germany, and I feel a responsibility to every one of them. But there is a whole machine ready to find them, just as they stand ready to find your missing agents. You don’t have to do it alone. The war is nearly over. As much as any man in Britain, you deserve the peace.”
“So do my agents, sir.”
His mouth opened, but no words followed. Neither spoke the obvious, that if Andy couldn’t destroy Götterdämmerung, the peace would be worse than the war.
The WAAF stirred again. They turned to her.
“DISMAL,” she intoned.
Mission aborted.
It was over.
Everything was over.
Chapter Forty-Three
Pillau, 16 April
He got to within four feet before the guards finally tore their eyes from the dogfight above.
Close enough.
Stahl drove the tip of his SS honour dagger into the man’s throat, then spun towards the second guard, too late to stop the warning shout but soon enough to prevent the man bringing his rifle to bear. He slammed the dagger into the man’s side, between the ribs and into the lungs, his hand a blur as he plunged it in, over and over. The soldier wrestled with him, trying to grab his wrist hand, and Stahl lunged, all his body weight through the point of his useless left shoulder. As the man stumbled back, Stahl thrust the steel blade down into his clavicle. One last twist and pull, and the second soldier dropped, leaving Stahl’s hand slick with bright arterial blood.
The first sentry writhed, both hands clutching desperately at his ruined windpipe.
Stahl dropped into a crouch, watching the front doors, alert for any sign that the second guard’s shout had been heard over the cacophony of engines and flak. The doors remained closed. The gurgling moans of the first sentry had no chance to be heard, and they fell silent soon enough.
He wiped the blood off the knife on the dying man’s uniform, revealing the words Meine Ehre heißt Treue etched longwise on the blade. My honour is loyalty. Stahl could have laughed as he sheathed the weapon. He stepped over the man’s fallen StG 44. The five-kilogram automatic weapon would have been useful inside, but with his left arm hanging limp at his side, it might as well have weighed thirty tons.
With his one good hand, he edged open the heavy front door, peeked inside, and drew his Walther P38.
The warehouse was mostly a single space, twenty metres wide and perhaps fifty long with a high, flattish ceiling. Towards the far end, metal steps rose to a platform with a line of offices and a ladder that seemed to lead to the roof. Three SS soldiers in respirators leaned against the railing of the platform, watching over the men standing on either side of the long line of white tables that ran the length of the building. Most of these men wore white scientific robes with matching white surgical facemasks. The only exception wore a black leather trench coat. That one’s white mask seemed comically incongruent below his black-peaked cap with its familiar Death’s Head insignia.
Along the length of the table, Stahl saw thick glass vessels, like clear water flasks, each with a steel screw cap. The liquid inside was colourless. Two larger vessels stood on horizontal mounts, each with a tap concealed inside a clear plastic sheath. They reminded him of black, burnished metal wine casks. As he watched, a scientist very carefully placed his hands and an empty bottle through the sheath, turned the tap, filled the vessel and screwed the top. Then he put the newly filled vessel with the others.
There must have been two hundred of them. Maybe more.
“Fifteen minutes, meine Herren,” the SS officer announced. “Leave the rest or remain with it.” He motioned to the masked soldiers. “Is the dispenser truck ready?”
“Jawohl, Herr Standartenführer.”
A full colonel, then. Stahl had expected no less. The SS wouldn’t have entrusted this final, critical mission to just anyone. There was too much at stake.
“Ausgezeichnet,” the Standartenführer said. “Bring it to the loading doors and summon the driver. Do not let him see what he will be carrying.”
One soldier threw out a stiff-armed salute and took the steps down two at a time before vanishing through some unseen rear entrance.
Behind Stahl, the door slammed shut. With reactions honed by years of SS training and deadly field experience, he took two steps into the shadows of a doorway marked Toiletten. The wind, he realised, closing the door after he had failed to do so. He had been lucky. No raised voices. No sign they had spotted him. Just the steady thud of anti-aircraft artillery. Beneath his feet, through boots and concrete alike, he could feel the distant shuddering of Soviet rounds hammering against the thin grey line of exhausted German defenders.
With deliberate care, Stahl ghosted his way through the assorted crates and shelves that filled every inch of space between the open central area and the right-hand wall. A scientist, grey-haired and slightly stooped, said something to the officer. Stahl heard neither the comment nor the reply. His heartbeat pounded in his ears. Far too fast.
Adrenaline had reduced the pain in his ruined left shoulder to a dull ache. He refused to think what harm slamming it into the guard had done, or what other damage lurked inside him. He scanned the wall. His gaze lingered on a first aid kit, for all the good it could do him. He was looking for something more important and found it just a few feet further along. An emergency distress kit, with a flare gun and several refills inside a hard plastic shell. He took it, though simply lifting its weight brought a wave of exhaustion, and then edged back towards the exit with the plastic case hanging from his hooked and nerveless left hand.
Footsteps behind him. He spun around.
The grey-haired scientist, reaching for the toilet door, stared at him in surprise.
Their eyes met. Held the stare for a long second.
The scientist frowned and opened his mouth, and Stahl shot him between the teeth.
He was moving before the body hit the floor, out onto the central floor. He sent four rounds towards the guards on the platform, hitting one in the gut while the other scrambled for safety, clutching at his head. The officer ran for the back door, yelling for help, and Stahl loosed off two quick shots. Too quick. One missed. The other hit the man in the hip instead of the spine, sending him sprawling onto the concrete floor, squealing in pain.
The scientists stood dumbstruck until Stahl shot another in the head. Then the rest scattered, wailing and tumbling over each other in their haste to escape, leaving hundreds of clear flasks forgotten on the table.
With the eight-round magazine exhausted, the top slide on Stahl’s Walther had remained in the locked back position. He put down the distress kit and fumbled for the second magazine in his pocket, glancing up at the platform above.
It saved his life.
The second soldier had ripped off his mask to breathe better. Blood poured down the side of his face from a shallow gouge. He must have only clipped the man, Stahl thought idly, then threw himself desperately towards the cover of the shelves.
The soldier yelled in anger as he pulled the trigger of his MP-40 in a poorly aimed spray. 9mm rounds skipped off the concrete floor, and a metallic screech rang out as one nicked the metal upright of the shelving unit and spun away into the far wall. The ricochet could just as easily have hit the metal table and its delicate cargo. Stahl spat. If he had dived for the closer shelter of the table instead of the shelves and crates, they would all be breathing Götterdämmerung already.
The soldier kept yelling, incoherent with rage, but with enough self-control to avoid wasting all his ammunition. Peering through a narrow gap, Stahl saw the soldier watching the shelves even as curses continued to spill from his mouth.
The officer, unseen on the ground beyond the table, yelled something. The soldier shouted back a reply, his gaze flickering away from the shelves towards his commander. A momentary lapse in concentration, and a last one.
Stahl shot him in the eye, spreading a thin film of blood over the unbroken office window behind the man. A lucky shot, for sure, but hadn’t luck always been on his side when it came to killing?
The officer gave a low moan of despair.
Stahl ignored him. Even if the Standartenführer didn’t bleed out, he would die soon enough when Durban’s Mosquito finished the job. Picking up the emergency kit once more, he turned to the door.
Outside, the pace of anti-aircraft fire slackened for a second, and Stahl heard engines. Not aircraft. Trucks. Behind him, beyond the rear doors, shouts and hurled commands echoed into the warehouse.
He heard the officer laugh. The noise descended into a wracking cough.
No way out to the front. Nor the rear. That left upwards.
Stahl didn’t hesitate. He took the steps as fast as he could, his lungs heaving with the effort, then stepped over the two soldiers on the balcony. One was still alive, his hands clutching the glistening distended mass that had been his stomach. His eyes pleaded with Stahl. He looked so young. Nodding, Stahl shot him in the head, then slipped the Walther into his pocket and reached for the ladder.
The emergency case was the problem. He could hardly hold it when standing, let alone halfway up a ladder. With hands that were sticky with drying blood, he unlatched the case and dumped most of the contents onto the platform with a hollow clang. He kept only the flare gun, which he tucked into his belt, and four flares.
The shouts from below were louder now. Questioning. The Standartenführer croaked out a response.
One step at a time, he told himself, pulling himself onto the ladder. Above him, the roof hatch waited, looking impossibly heavy. His breath came in ragged gasps as he forced the useless left side of his body close to the ladder, keeping as much of his bodyweight on his legs as he could, leaving the right hand to guide his progress, always in contact with a rung or at least the thick uprights.
Halfway up, the front door swung open and slammed into the wall with a thunderous bang. Men spilled through, their uniforms a mix of SS and Wehrmacht. Some paused at the bizarre sight of the apparatus that covered the table. It bought Stahl half a second, and he scrambled for the hatch above. Pushed it. It barely yielded before dropping shut again.
A soldier yelled.
The movement had given him away.
One of them fired. Bullets smashed into the wall around Stahl. Fragments of steel and stone sliced into his left knee. Instinctively, his leg sought safety in flinching away, and his left boot slipped free of the ladder. He hung suspended above the platform for one long breath, only the fingertips of his right hand and the tip of his right boot between him and a leg-shattering fall to be followed shortly after by more gunfire and death. His body swung against the ladder, and he felt something snag.
Dragged free from his pocket, the Walther P38 spun end over end and shattered on the warehouse floor, two flare cartridges descending almost apologetically in its wake.
The soldier fired again, and Stahl’s ears filled with the painful crash of bullets on steel. With a roar of anger and pain, he lunged up again. Driving his good hand against the hatch, he shoved his arm through the narrow gap he had created. Keeping his feet churning on the ladder, he forced first his head and then his shoulders through the hatch’s heavy steel embrace. Excruciating pain flared as metal ripped skin and scraps of flesh from his ear. Almost whimpering, he flailed his feet for purchase and wriggled his body up, waiting for the agony of a bullet or the hatch itself taking off a leg.
It didn’t come. The hatch fell shut behind him. He was on the roof, eyes screwed shut, sobbing with pain. His good hand fumbled at his clothes. Not seeking wounds. They didn’t matter.
His questing fingers found his belt empty, then fell on the flare gun’s grip, miraculously clinging to his belt until it finally came free as he wriggled to safety. Muttering a silent prayer to a God he had long since disavowed, he hugged the flare gun close, then checked for the two remaining cartridges in his pocket and opened his eyes.
One flare, one spare. After that…
Above, he saw two Mosquitoes, out of strike range. A thin column of smoke hung over the Vistula Lagoon, already breaking apart in the breeze. He had no way of knowing which side’s dying aircraft had caused it.
It hardly mattered, anyway, so long as there were enough of them left to do what must be done.
