Angel, Archangel (20 page)

“Only to be overruled by the PM tomorrow,” Welland said.
“Why bother?
I’ve heard it all before.
It’s not worth it.”

Deering ignored him.
“Speak, Algy.
Let’s hear it.”

Staverton nodded his appreciation.
“I could probably gather a dozen German medium or heavy bombers for this job, but they would be cut to pieces by Yaks in minutes.
None of them would get within fifty miles of Shaposhnikov’s HQ.”

“Yaks?”
Welland asked.

“Soviet fighters,” Staverton said.
“Swift little buggers.
Pack a nasty punch, too.
The Russians have got hundreds of them in Czechoslovakia.”

“Then why would one aircraft stand a better chance of getting through?”
Deering asked.

“It wouldn’t be just any aircraft.
The one I have in mind is rather special: capable of 550 mph at sea-level, armed with 30mm cannon, two 1000-lb bombs and crewed by just one man.”
He reeled off the figures Mulvaney had given him over the telephone.
“Cuts down the risk of unnecessary exposure if anything goes wrong, don’t you think?”

“Five hundred and fifty an hour?”
Welland choked, thinking about the 450 mph maximum speed of a Navy Seafire.
“What the devil can do that?”

“The Messerschmitt 163C Komet long range rocket fighter-bomber,” Staverton said.

“The thing your man went to the Baltic for?”

“Yes, Admiral.
It’s currently undergoing final assembly at Farnborough.”

“But that thing’s a fighter, quite unsuitable for a penetration mission.”

“That’s what we thought at first,” Staverton said.
“We only discovered yesterday that, in addition to giving the thing longer legs - more range, Admiral - they’ve also added a precision bombing capability, as well.”

“That’s a stupendous leap forward,” Deering said, unable to hide the admiration in his voice.

“Are you sure about this?”
Welland asked.

Staverton smiled to himself; Welland was hooked.
Now all he had to do was reel him in.
“Whether you like it or not, Admiral, German technology has the edge over ours.
If we approve a plan like Operation Talon with Shaposhnikov as its objective this time, it will work.”

“I’m not convinced,” Welland said.

“Then come down to Farnborough tomorrow morning and watch the rocket fighter in action.
If you’re not impressed, I’ll drop my plan.”

“Which is?”
Deering asked.

“Ship the Komet to a forward operating strip, fly it under the Soviets’ defences to Branodz and hit Shaposhnikov in his headquarters with two thousand pounds of Trope.”

“But,” Deering objected, “even if your man did get through in this wonder-aeroplane, how on earth could he surprise Shaposhnikov, let alone be sure of hitting the target?”

“Speed, George, it’s all about speed.
At 55omph, Shaposhnikov would never see him coming.
Even if our man only came close - and remember, Ivan’s going to believe it’s the Jerries doing it, not us - Shaposhnikov’s going to think twice about launching Archangel without supremacy of the skies.”

“But there’s no guarantee -”

Welland’s aide, a bespectacled commander from Naval Intelligence, never got any further.
After almost forty-eight hours with no sleep, Staverton snapped.
“Of course there’s no fucking guarantee.
There’s no guarantee that this madman is going to carry through with Archangel, there’s no guarantee that Shaposhnikov is on his own in all this, there’s no guarantee that an antidote will work.
But we’ve got to stop pissing in the wind and do something.
If nothing else, this will buy us time.”
The aide withered under Staverton’s hostile gaze.
He looked to his boss for support, but found none.

“What I’m offering you tomorrow,” Staverton said, his composure returned, “is a chance to see German technology in action - a demonstration flight of the 163C rocket fighter.”
All eyes were on him.
“If you’re impressed, we go ahead and I run the show.
If it leaves you cold, then I concede we have to stop Archangel by some other means.”

“How long before the rocket fighter’s ready?”
Deering asked.

“I’ve got my men working flat out on it right now.
They’re preparing it for testing tomorrow and I want you to be there to witness the flight.
You must be convinced before we get the PM to sanction a mission into Czechoslovakia.”

Deering said: “Do they have any idea what it’s being readied for, your people?”

“None,” Staverton said.
“I would only need to bring two of my staff into the picture, if the plan is sanctioned.”

Deering removed his glasses.
“I, for one, like the sound of it.
But before I’m convinced, I’m going to have to be persuaded by the performance and reliability of this rocket fighter of yours at Farnborough.”

“You hold the casting vote, George,” Staverton said, simply.

“Well let’s see what happens tomorrow, then,” Deering said.
“I’ll be there.”

Welland nodded, grudgingly.
“Very well.
So will I.
I’ll see to it the PM is notified as well.
Any slip-ups, Staverton, and we kill the plan.”

Staverton felt a surge of relief.
“Agreed,” he said.
“The preflight briefing’s at nine o’clock.
I think both of you should attend it.
The flight is scheduled for midday.”

Chairs scraped across the floor, papers were shuffled into piles and into briefcases and folders.
Deering’s aides were taking the pins out of the Archangel map and preparing to fold it away.

“There is one more thing we should do tonight,” Deering said.
An uneasy silence fell across the room.
“I think we should put a routine call through to our embassy in Moscow and get someone to monitor Shaposhnikov’s whereabouts.
At least when he makes a move for the front, we know we have to start worrying.”

“Good idea,” Welland said.
“I’ll see it’s done straight away.”
He picked up his papers and walked from the room.

As the others followed the Admiral, Staverton drew alongside Deering.
The Army man had never seen the AVM so drawn.

“Thank you, George,” Staverton said, with uncharacteristic humility.

“Don’t thank me, Algy, just make sure you get it right.
I stuck my neck out for you tonight.
The old sea-dog has got it in for you, it seems.”

Staverton headed down the long dark corridor that led to the Bunker and his camp bed.
For the first time in two days and nights, he felt he might be able to snatch some sleep.

CHAPTER THREE

Fleming awoke with a start.
He expected to find himself in the freezing tin shed at Kettenfeld, covered by the dirty blankets that Bowman had managed to dig out.

Instead, he felt clean, warm sheets against his skin.
There were curtains on the windows and sunlight showed through a crack between the black-out material and the windowsill.
He lay still, listening to the sound of voices and aircraft engines in the distance.

He had slept soundly; no, better than that.
He couldn’t remember waking so well rested, with such a sense of well-being, in over a year.
Sometimes he had woken with the same feeling of excitement when he was a boy, when he just knew in his bones that something wonderful was about to happen.

There was a sharp knock at the door.
Fleming looked at his watch.
A little before eight.
They had let him sleep in.

The door opened and Staverton stuck his head into the room.
He looked like he had aged ten years in the few days Fleming had been away.

“How are you feeling?”
the AVM asked.

“I’m fine, sir.”
Fleming was still trying to hide his surprise at seeing the Old Man.
“Never felt better.
I could ask the same about you.”

“It’s been a busy few days,” he said.
Staverton had slept during the night, but not for long.
Before the sun rose he had commissioned a car to drive him from Whitehall to the RAE.
The 163CS maiden flight was all he could think of.
He needed Fleming badly as back-up.

“You’ve done a great job, Robert, I’m proud of you.”
He hesitated.
Fleming had never seen him as tense.

“Thank you, sir.
Any word from Colonel Jewell?”

“They all made it to the ships.
They’re on their way to Chatham, so we heard.”

Staverton seemed to regain some of his composure.
He went over to the window and drew the curtains.
“A damn fine job,” he said, looking out over the airfield.
“But there’s work to be done.”

“What sort of work?”
Fleming asked.
He expected to be debriefed on the operation that day back in the Bunker, but he was not sure that that was what Staverton had in mind.

“We’re flying the 163C today.
Here, at Farnborough.
Get some clothes on.
There’s a briefing I want you to attend in an hour.”

Fleming sprang out of bed.
“But that’s madness.
I know we have to move quickly on this one, but there are checks to do, manuals to read, pilots to prepare.”

Staverton swung round to face him.
“You’re right, it is madness.
But the Komet’s the only answer.”
He ignored Fleming’s look of incomprehension.
“The aircraft’s been assembled, we’ve got fuel and we’ve got a pilot.
And now I need you, so get dressed.”

Fleming grabbed his clothes, which had been thrown carelessly over the end of the bed.
“What the bloody hell’s been going on here while I’ve been away?”

“This isn’t the time,” Staverton said.
“As soon as we see the thing fly, we go back to the Bunker.
I’ll tell you all about it then, in the car.
For the moment, as far as you are concerned, this is a big day.
We fly the aircraft that you stole from the Nazis.
People will be excited.
So will you, and quite rightly, laddie.
But I don’t want a word of this conversation to filter out beyond these walls, do you understand?”

“But you haven’t said anything yet, sir.”

“I will, boy, I will.”
Staverton walked to the door.

Fleming stopped him just before he turned the handle.

“I wanted to get word to my wife, sir.
She must have been worried sick these past few days not hearing anything from me.

Staverton paused.
“I’m afraid that’s out of the question, Robert.
The classification on this one is so high I’m not even going to allow you to talk to yourself until it’s over.”

Fleming gritted his teeth.

“And when will that be?”

“If we’re lucky?
Ten days at the most.”

* * * * * * * *

Kruze was leaning against the door at the mouth of the huge flight-test hangar at the far, most secure, end of the airfield, studying the stubby little aircraft in the centre of the concrete floor.
He had been there for the best part of an hour, just watching it and the team of riggers, fitters and Rostock scientists who had laboured through the night, under the fierce direction of chief Broyles, to get it assembled and ready for the flight.

Sleep had not come easily to Kruze.
When Mulvaney had told him late the previous night that he was to take the Komet up so soon, he had stared at him in disbelief.
The station commander almost sounded apologetic: the orders had come directly from the Bunker.
There was to be a demonstration and Kruze was to fly it.
And that was it.
No work-up flights and little time for familiarization.
Mulvaney had wrung his hands and told him that if it was any consolation Luftwaffe Komet pilots were accorded the same training procedure.
Next to none.

He became aware of a presence beside him.

“Taking a last look at her, eh?”
Mulvaney’s words echoed throughout the hangar.
“Did their scientists tell you everything you wanted to know?”

“Their scientists?”
Kruze smiled.
“They’re ours now.”

Mulvaney shuffled uneasily.
“They promised full co-operation, you know.
I’ll tear the hide off them if they don’t play ball.”

Kruze had a sudden absurd impression of a younger Mulvaney leading the Rostock scientists out onto the school cricket field.
He smiled again.
Perhaps he was cracking up.
First Penny, then Fleming’s return, now the Komet.

“Don’t worry,” he said, “they gave me their full co-operation.
They seemed quite decent chaps, actually.”
He thought it was the sort of thing Mulvaney wanted to hear.
“Told me it was just like flying a glider.”
He waited for his own echo to come back to him, before adding: “With a bloody great firework shoved up the tail.”

Kruze detached himself from Mulvaney’s side and ambled round the Komet, occasionally tugging at a control surface or running his hand along its smooth skin.
Sergeant Broyles watched him for a moment, before leaving by the rear exit, ushering his groundcrew with him.

The Komet was tiny.
Its fuselage was no longer than the length of three men end to end, while its swept wings were probably less than thirty feet in span.
There was no horizontal tail surface, just a vertical stabilizer that extended to a height of about eight feet from the ground.
Perhaps its most unusual feature was the undercarriage which, the Rostock team told him, consisted of two unnaturally large wheels to be jettisoned as soon as the rocket fighter lifted off from the runway.
Landing was carried out on a long skid, mounted centrally under the belly.
Right at the back were the two tiny exhaust ports for the twin Walter rocket engines.

The crosses and swastikas stood out starkly against the mottled green and brown surface of the wings and fin.

Kruze checked they were alone.
“What’s it about, Paddy?
I mean, why all the fuss?
Yesterday evening we were assured a decent test period - at least, by Staverton’s standards - then, bang!
It’s all go.
It doesn’t add up.”

They were on first name terms at the EAEU, so small was the team, but it was the only time Mulvaney could remember Kruze actually using his.
“I don’t know, Piet, and that’s the truth.
But it can only mean one thing.”

Yes, one thing, Kruze thought.
“So what’s the target?”
He didn’t expect an answer.

Mulvaney shook his head.
“I really don’t know.
All I do know is what you’ll hear me say at the briefing and I think you will find that startling enough.”
Mulvaney looked at his watch.
“My word,” he said, “the delegation from the Ministry will be getting impatient.
Piet, it’s time,” he said.
“Shall we go?”

Kruze followed Mulvaney through the door at the rear of the hangar which led to the propulsion laboratories.
At the end of one of the immense testing chambers, Kruze saw a group of people assembled.
The Rostock scientists had exchanged their scruffy suits for white laboratory coats and seemed not the least put out by their new surroundings.
Amongst the rest Kruze saw the various bigwigs from the Ministry, a stern-looking admiral, a bespectacled Army general and, finally, Air Vice Marshal Staverton himself.
He cast a quick glance around for Fleming, finding him before long at the back of the room with several other middle-ranking officers.
Their eyes met and, before the Rhodesian could look away, Fleming gave him a casual, friendly wave.

Mulvaney asked them to take their seats and then led one of the German scientists to the small stage at the end of the room.
On the podium was a table, behind which was a blackboard.
It reminded Kruze of the backdrop to the single classroom in the little schoolhouse he had attended in the bush.
As Mulvaney rubbed his hands and looked around him the German donned an asbestos suit, thick white gloves and a protective hood and visor of the sort used by RAF crash-truck crews.
Mulvaney, aware that he was no longer the centre of attention, coughed to signal he was about to speak.

“Gentlemen, I don’t think I need tell you of the unqualified success of the mission which has resulted in your trip down to Farnborough today.
Guided largely by the efforts of Air Vice Marshal Staverton, we have managed to obtain the Nazis’ most advanced aeronautical development to date, the Messerschmitt 163C Komet long range rocket-powered fighter-bomber.
For those of you who have not yet seen the aircraft, there will be an opportunity to inspect it after the little demonstration that we are about to lay on for you here.”

Kruze looked from Staverton to the two other senior officers beside him.
Just what the hell were they doing at Farnborough?

“The Messerschmitt 163B Komet has been an all too familiar sight to our bomber crews over Germany, particularly our friends the Americans,” Mulvaney continued, “But what we have in the next door hangar represents an even greater threat.
We believe that this version is about to go into series production in deep underground factories in southern Germany and Austria and will be used to defend these territories if the Nazis make a tactical withdrawal there.
With its air-to-ground capability and its longer range, it will be able to strike deep into our own territory.
It is a very worrying development indeed.

“With the 163C fighter-bomber geared as the basis of an air defence system for the so-called Alpine Redoubt, it became of paramount importance for us to obtain one of these aircraft in order to find ways to counter the threat.
I very much hope that our test-pilot, Squadron Leader Kruze here, will be able to identify its key weaknesses while we put the Komet through its paces over the next few weeks.
Such an evaluation will be crucial if we are to neutralize the weapon in the future.

“What makes the Komet unique is its rocket propulsion system.
As those of you who are familiar with Farnborough and the work of the EAEU will be aware, Britain has made significant advances in the field of jet propulsion.
But when it comes to rocket research, gentlemen, I am afraid to say we know next to nothing.
We have, however, been fortunate enough to secure the services of a number of German scientists who have, in the very short space of time since our recovery of the Komet, given us a remarkable insight into its performance.
I would therefore like to hand you over to Doctor Hausser.
I would like to stress that he and his colleagues have no sympathy for the Nazi regime .
.
.”
He

paused.
“I’ll leave him to explain exactly what gives the Komet its awesome performance.”

Mulvaney stepped down from the podium and took a seat alongside the brass who watched in silence as the oldest of the scientists from Rostock took a step forward to the front of the stage.
He removed his protective headgear and, as Fleming had discovered at Rostock, spoke hesitantly but with a good command of English.

“The Komet can reach a speed of over a thousand kilometres an hour - that is six hundred and twenty-five miles per hour.
Remarkable you will agree, yes?
I will now show you what sort of fuel produces the energy to make this possible.”