A Mighty Endeavor (16 page)

She looked at him stonily. “I’m not a lassie; I’m a Roman gladiator.”

The man paused for a second then burst out laughing. “That’s good. Roman gladiator indeed.”

Achillea acknowledged the laugh. “The other thing is I’m not in charge; he is. Name’s Gusoyn Rivers.”

“I have got a deal for you.” Gusoyn was back in the game now. “We have got eight Thompson guns and a dozen Webley revolvers, plus ammunition. All courtesy of the Sherwood Foresters.

“You come with us, show us to the A74 where we have to go and come with us to Prestwick. Then, you can have the guns and ammo. Start your resistance movement off nicely, I think. You can have the trucks and car as well, but I suggest you burn them.”

“And we have a crate of hand grenades in the trunk of the staff car. You can have those as well.” Achillea tossed them in as a sweetener. “Although for a resistance fighter, a pistol is the best weapon you can have.”

“Tommy guns, grenades and revolvers. Billy Boy, this could put us in real business.” The speaker, like any true Scotsman, found the idea of throwing hand grenades at invaders irresistible.

“Aye. You have a deal. We’ll ride with you to Prestwick.”

B-17C Flying Fortress “Swoose”, North of Prestwick.

“How did the aircraft get its name?” Stuyvesant was curious.

“This one? It just popped into our minds. It seemed right somehow, almost as if she was telling us herself. Sometimes the crew will vote on a name or the aircraft commander will pick one by himself.” Captain Archie Smith made some minute adjustments to the controls. “We’ll be making our approach in ten minutes. What happens when we get there?”

“If everything has gone right, we’ll be able to sell the idea that this is an aircraft being delivered to the RAF and has just flown in via the Greenland route. We have orders to pick up some cargo and passengers at Prestwick and fly them down to Abingdon where the aircraft will be accepted by the RAF. By the time we are missed, we’ll be well on our way home.”

“Those orders better be convincing. Any fighters at Prestwick?”

“The orders are. Written in best British bureaucratese by a leading British civil servant. Sir Humphrey Appleday no less. They are a masterpiece. As to fighters, as far as we can tell, just a detachment of Defiants.”

“Just
Defiants
? Damn it, those things are a menace. They cut a squadron of Hun 109s to pieces over Dunkirk. With that power-operated turret, it can sit in one of our blind spots and riddle us. The Air Corps does a lot of talking, but these C-models aren’t fit for combat. No armor, no self-sealing fuel tanks, blind spots all over. And we haven’t got the crew to man the guns we do have anyway. Just Defiants, indeed.” Smith shook his head at the inability of civilians to understand the realities of air combat.

“Archie, course one-eight-three and drop to six thousand feet.” The voice came up from the navigation table.

“I’ll bet you ten bucks we drop out of the clouds and the runway is dead ahead of us.” Smith was grinning broadly.

Stuyvesant guessed this was a sucker bet and avoided it. “Captain LeMay is that good?”

“Best there is. You hear about the
Rex?
Six hundred plus mile flight to a moving target with him doing her final position by guesswork. Weather about as bad as it gets. He says, ‘drop out of the clouds’ and when we do, we’re right on top of her. Drove the squids wild.”

Prestwick Airfield Perimeter

“And who are you?” Sergeant Christopher McCulloch of the County of Fife Constabulary shone his torch into the Humber staff car. Only long practice stopped him from catching his breath when he recognized two of the inhabitants of the car.

Gusoyn recognized the Police Sergeant as well and wondered if McCulloch’s presence here on the airport main gate was a coincidence. “Good evening, Chris. I have a letter for you.”

He fished out the paper from Sir Humphrey Appleday that Igrat had brought over. McCulloch took it and read the brief note. It was a comprehensive request for safe conduct and contained a few allusions that left no doubt of its authenticity. He didn’t know what was going on, but he did have a distinct idea he didn’t want to.

“I see. Good luck.”

Gusoyn put the Humber into gear and drove through the main gate as the candy-striped barrier lifted. Behind him, the two lorries followed suit

B-17C Flying Fortress “Swoose”, North of Prestwick

“Bring her around to one-two-six; drop to two thousand feet. Prepare for landing.” LeMay’s voice betrayed no stress at all. Stuyvesant was watching out of the cockpit, looking for the first glimpse of the runway. This was a straight-in landing, no messing around with approaches.

“Acknowledged. Flaps twenty degrees, undercarriage down. Prestwick Control, this is RAF Fortress 1 on final approach after transatlantic delivery flight. We have cargo and passengers to pick up. Request permission to come straight in.”

“Prestwick Control here. We do not have your arrival logged.”

“Blasted bureaucrats. This Fortress was available so we were told to ferry it over while the Government was still sitting on its thumb. Now, do you want this bomber or don’t you?”

There was a laugh on the other end of the radio. “We’ll take anything right now. Bring her in.”

“Landing lights on. Stuyvesant, flash the recognition code. Electrical panel, second row of switches, first from the left. That’s the one.”

Stuyvesant saw the runway suddenly appear as the Flying Fortress dropped out of the clouds. It was an occupied, operational base with Whitleys parked on the apron beside the runway. For all its apparent insanity, that was a key part in the deception. A bomber arriving at a deserted minor airfield somewhere was highly suspicious; one arriving at an operational bomber base was not. Stuyvesant took a quick look at the runway approaching under their nose and noted that the aircraft was perfectly lined up for landing. He started to flash the agreed signal as Smith looked at him and mouthed ‘told you so.’ On the perimeter of the airfield, a small line of three vehicles flashed its headlights in response. The knot in Stuyvesant’s stomach started to dissolve slightly.

The aircraft bumped as the main wheels hit the ground; then it settled as the tail came down. By the time it had come to a halt, a staff car and two trucks were approaching from one direction and a single staff car from another. An officer got out of the latter and stalked over to the Flying Fortress. “May I see your orders please?” The question wasn’t quite barked at Stuyvesant, who was still only half way out the entry hatch. But it was that of a man who wanted to be convinced, and wasn’t quite sure what he should be seeing and what was better left unseen.

Stuyvesant handed him the folded orders. “The other Fortresses are still on the production line, but this one was ready, so we were told to bring it over. Our orders are to pick up some passengers and cargo here and fly them down to Abingdon near Oxford.” He spoke with a British accent that sounded almost painfully strangled.

The RAF officer read the papers. The combination of Whitehall Bureaucratese and Stuyvesant’s obviously aristocratic accent caused his attitude to thaw noticeably. “Well, these seem genuine enough. Only Whitehall could come up with something this jawbreaking. Odd they painted her in Fighter Command camouflage though.”

“Tell you the truth, Sir, I think they just slapped the first paint job they could on her. Between us, I’ve heard the Government is going to embargo the supply of these aircraft and Boeing won’t get paid for them until somebody takes them over. So they wanted this one over and out of their doors before that happens. And, of course, the RAF wants every Fortress it can get. This is the new model, by the way. Have you seen the improved belly gun position? Captain Smith, show the Flight Lieutenant the new gun mountings.”

Smith took the RAF officer to the rear of the aircraft and started to show him the twin .50 caliber machine guns in the ventral bathtub. That way, he didn’t see the portly figure being hustled out of the trucks and squeezed through the hatch into the aircraft.

Once Churchill was on board, everybody else could behave more openly. Underneath the aircraft, the bomb bay doors whined as they opened. A team of men from the trucks started to pass crates inside. Once the last crate was in, they got back into the trucks and the little convoy left the airfield.

“You want an escort?” The RAF officer was definitely impressed by the Fortress. “Forgive my bad manners, I never introduced myself. Name’s Cheshire, Leonard Cheshire.”

“Archie Smith. Leonard, this is a Flying Fortress. We’ve got twin ,50s in the belly, another twin in the radio cabin and single guns in the waist and nose. We could escort your fighter though.”

“Bloody Yanks.” A bomber baron to his fingertips, Cheshire loved the jab at Fighter Command; the insult was affectionate. “You’re blind astern, though. You really need a tail turret on these things. Have a good flight down south. Do you know where these birds are going to be based? The Bomber Command base at Tangmere?”

Smith nodded and Cheshire gave a curious smile. The crew boarded the Fortress and went through the pre-flight checks. Eventually, Stuyvesant breathed a sigh of relief as the now-heavily loaded bomber turned back onto the runway and started to accelerate down its length. As the wheels lifted off, the last knot of tension dissolved from his stomach. Nell and Achillea were in the radio cabin; Achillea was readying the twin ,50s in case of any problems. Gusoyn was aft, by the waist gun positions. All the other passengers were spread out around the aircraft. Churchill was taking a swig of brandy out of a hip flask he’d produced once safely on board.

“Flight time four hours; we will maintain twelve thousand feet all the way.” LeMay’s voice from the navigation table showed no sign of relief or even pleasure. Stuyvesant guessed that to him this was just another job done to the meticulous standards he demanded of himself and others.

Royal Apartments, Windsor Castle

It was called protective custody, but it felt more like imprisonment. Likewise, the Police Auxiliaries at the door were technically there for security but were actually jailors. Albert Frederick Arthur George Windsor, better known as His Majesty, King George VI blamed nobody but himself for his situation. He had blundered; blundered so badly that the scale of his error left him near suicidal. In his eyes, the error was so egregious, so utterly damning, that it made the faults of his predecessor seem inconsequential in comparison. To the King, his backing of Halifax against Churchill in the May leadership contest had set the stage for what would happen barely six weeks later. That should cost him his throne; the King believed that it would if there was any justice in the world.

“Major Charles Frederick Aubrey de Vere Beauclerk of the Sherwood Foresters regiment, Your Majesty.”

The King pulled himself out of his brown study and greeted the young Army officer who had been ushered into the room. “My Earl of Burford, how go these sad days with you?”

Charles Beauclerk glanced around the room and touched his ear. The King nodded slightly. He was not bereft of resources and some of them had been used to check for listening devices in this room. “Your Majesty, it gives me great pleasure to report that the rightful Prime Minister of your realm, the Right Honorable Winston Spencer Churchill, has escaped from the United Kingdom and is presently on his way to Canada where he will declare a government-in-exile loyal to Your Majesty.”

The King felt a fierce joy run through him. Somehow, the catastrophic error that cursed the nation he led seemed to lessen slightly. Now was the time to build upon the moment. “You bring me most welcome news, Your Grace. Now, I must charge you with the most important mission you are ever likely to receive. I have a message that must go out on the midday broadcast tomorrow. Most importantly, this message must be delivered to Daventry unseen and unread by anybody who purports to be in authority in this country. I charge you to deliver this message in time for that broadcast, protecting its contents with your life and accepting no obstruction in fulfilling this charge. Do you understand this mission, Your Grace?”

“I do, Your Majesty.”

Government House, Calcutta, India, 7:30 AM, 29th July, 1940

“It’s come, Martyn. We have a message from the King.”

“Eric, what does it say?” Sir Martyn Sharpe’s voice was urgent and a strange mixture of hope and foreboding. The contents of this message could spell victory or defeat for his efforts to keep India in the war and all the consequences that were attached to that policy.

“It was broadcast from the main BBC short wave overseas transmitter at Daventry in place of the usual midday news. The communique is in two parts. The first a spoken message addressed to all, and the second transmitted in encoded Morse directed at the various Dominion and Colonial governments. They sent the latter twice, each time in a different cipher, both of which were specifically for the use by the Crown. There’s no doubt about its authenticity; this is the real thing.”

“Eric, will you tell me now what is in that message, or I will have it forced out of you?” Sharpe knew he was being teased by his old friend, but that didn’t make it any easier.

“It’s the living will of the Crown. The effective part of the communique reads
...”
Haohoa took a deep breath and read the message exactly as it was written on the message strip he was holding. “Be it known that it is our will that in the event of direct communication with the Crown being severed the Powers of the Crown will pass through the direct Representative to the Col/Dom Cabinet in Committee in trust George VI Rex.”