A Thousand Suns (12 page)

Chapter 16

Watched

Chris walked out of the rear entrance of the motel towards the quayside parking area. He was halfway across the parking lot on his way towards the Cherokee, weaving his way between two ‘Runcies Fish’ delivery trucks parked side by side, when he saw them.

He surprised himself with his sudden paranoid decision to duck back into the evening shadows between both vehicles. That telephone call yesterday out of nowhere from the mysterious ‘Mr Wallace’ had definitely done a number on him. He was getting jittery. Another week in Port Lawrence and he could see himself hugging his knees in a closet and wearing his favourite tinfoil hat.

The two men stood beneath one of the bright floodlights that lined the jetty. A sharp pool of white light picked them out in stark clarity. His first impression was that they had the appearance of ex-military types. Both were physically fit. They looked like they had the kind of whippet-lean musculature that comes from decades of genuine fitness, not the bloated Mr Universe-like bulk that any fool can build up in a few months with the help of a fitness instructor and a supply of steroids.

He had seen idiotic thugs like that in virtually every bar in Sarajevo. Pumped up wannabee-John McLanes, some of them ex-soldiers, many more who had never been, all attracted like wasps to a Coca-Cola can, looking for mercenary work. Not for the money, but for the thrill. Most of them had signed up to fight for the Kosovans.

Chris had done an assignment with
FHM
magazine, for an article entitled ‘The Shooting Gallery’. He had photographed quite a few of these thrill-chasers for the piece. Most of them had revelled in the attention, posing in their combat fatigues, brandishing their guns for the camera and enjoying the temporary celebrity status. They had boasted openly about the action they’d seen, their kills, or ‘frags’ as some of them casually euphemised the act of killing. They discussed their bloody business like excited trainee managers after a paint-ball game.

It hadn’t taken him very long to work out that he was dealing with the
poseurs
, the weekend warriors, big boys playing at being soldiers, and he soon learned to take with a pinch of salt most, if not all, of their Hollywood-inspired combat claims.

He’d moved on to find the genuine mercenaries in that wrecked city and had the shit kicked out of him on one occasion when he’d pulled out his camera in a bar. The three men that had cracked several of his ribs, split his lip and trashed his camera, they’d been the real deal. They had worn smart casual clothes - sports-casual, not combat fatigues - and they’d looked a lot like the two men across the quay, standing patiently under the light.

Chris watched them. They were talking and looking around, looking for something or someone. There was no mistaking their furtive manner; no mistaking the fact that they looked like pros . . . not just a couple of ‘scroats’, as an old police buddy of his used to refer to suspicious-looking civvies on the street, up to no good.

Chris found himself debating whether cowering here in the shadows between these two trucks was paranoia gone too far or a sound precaution. On the one hand, he felt there was already enough to this bomber story to speculate that even after sixty years some agency out there might want to ensure it wasn’t splashed across tomorrow’s newspapers. On the other hand, whatever happened, it all went off sixty years ago. Who would possibly care now? Who would care enough to send out a couple of heavies?

Chris shook his head. It probably was paranoia on his part, and he was glad Mark wasn’t here. The bastard would relentlessly take the piss out of him for wimping out like this.

His phone chose this moment in time to vibrate enthusiastically and trill the
Simpsons’
theme.

In the relative silence of the jetty, it carried effortlessly across to the two men standing near the edge. They both spun sharply around.

‘Shit!’ Chris cursed as he fumbled to pull his phone out of his jeans and kill it.

He looked up to see the men walking warily towards the trucks. One of them gestured to the other to check out the right-hand side of them, while he veered towards the left.

Chris, panic beginning to grip him, finally eased the damned thing out of his front pocket, only to let it slip through his fingers and clatter noisily to the ground.

‘Oh, for fuck’s sake,’ he whispered as he squatted down and patted the gravel in search of it. The shrill theme tune came to an abrupt end, which was a small relief, but the damage was done. The two men were almost upon him. He looked under one of the trucks; there was enough space to slide beneath, but he dared not leave his phone on the ground for them to find. As they drew close enough to hear their footfalls, Chris redoubled his efforts, feeling the uneven ground for the phone.

But it was no good, and they were too close.

He quickly dropped to a prone position and crawled as quietly as he could under one of the trucks just as one of the men appeared as a silhouette in the space between both of the vehicles.

A shaft of bright torchlight illuminated the ground beside Chris, throwing into sharp relief the scuff and drag marks he had left in the pebbles; a telltale sign of Chris’s hasty scramble for cover. Chris could now see where his phone was. It nestled just behind the front tyre of the truck opposite, half in, half out of view.

Shit.

All he needed now was for the previous caller to try his number again.

The beam of torchlight moved up and down the narrow gap between the trucks with a slow and steady thoroughness.

‘No one,’ he heard one of them say.

‘Check in the drivers’ cabs,’ the other said.

The torchlight flickered wildly, and shadows leaped as the beam was aimed into the cabs of both trucks in turn.

‘No one inside, but there’s a phone up here on the dash. See it?’

‘Yeah. Maybe that was it.’

‘Shit, that was a loud ring.’

The torch snapped off, and he heard the crunch of feet on gravel as the two men slowly headed back down towards the jetty’s edge. Chris watched them as they returned to where they had been standing, resuming, it seemed, a vigil.

They’re waiting for Will’s fishing boat to come back in, aren’t they?

Yes, it looked like they were. Word must have got around that Will had taken out a couple of divers to the plane wreck; that’s how McGuire had found out in all likelihood. The old boy had been talking for sure, then.

With great care, Chris eased himself out from beneath the truck and hastily reached out for his phone. His fingers quickly located it and before it could ring again he switched it off, letting out a sigh of relief as he did so.

It was nearly time to meet ‘Wallace’ at Lenny’s. He looked anxiously back at the two men down by the jetty. If they really were here to keep things quiet, then not only were he and Mark potentially in danger, but this poor old sod Wallace too.

And hadn’t he already sounded a bit uneasy on the phone when he’d called you out of the blue?

Wallace could be dangerous. He may be a harmless old man with the best of intentions to blow the whistle on some wartime secret, but if there were spooks like these watching him from afar, then he was leading them, albeit unintentionally, right to Chris.

Not exactly an encouraging thought.

Shit, Chris, you muppet. If the CIA or whoever wanted you dead, you’d be dead already.

Fair point. He made his way towards Lenny’s, casting one last glance back over his shoulder as he crunched quietly out of the parking lot, and walked briskly up the dark cut-through between a couple of buildings and onto Devenster Street.

Chapter 17

Decision

Max finished explaining the details that he’d been given. Major Rall had described to him an outline of the plan, just enough to understand the enormity of the task they were being asked to perform, and the appalling risk.

And now his men knew too.

He swigged a mouthful of tepid coffee, relishing its bitter taste. The questions were coming, any second now.

His men sat around him in the bunker’s canteen on document cases dragged in from the radio room. Chairs, it seemed, were a rarity down here. They sat in a circle, each of them savouring the coffee, and all but Stefan smoking the cigarettes Major Rall had generously offered the crew after they’d returned from the hangar. The blue-tinged smoke from the coarse Russian brand converged above them against the low concrete ceiling in a thick fog.

As Max watched each of them absorb what he had finished telling them, the silence lengthened. Faintly he could hear Rall moving around in his office, no doubt anxiously waiting for them to discuss the mission and decide whether they were willing to undertake it.

Pieter’s lower jaw moved from side to side. Max knew he was grinding his teeth, an unfortunate habit of his when he was immersed deep in thought. His thick, full eyebrows were knotted in concentration beneath a lick of blond hair as he waded through the information, the repercussions, and the events that would follow if they went ahead with the mission.

Pieter was undecided.

Decisions like these were for leaders, generals, he argued wordlessly, not for the likes of him. It is the luxury of a soldier not to fathom why an objective exists, just to make sure it is met. Max had briefed them on the task, but then he’d also clouded the water with suggestions on how the Americans, Russians and British might react, and how the whole thing might play out in the next few weeks. He wished Max hadn’t. It was a layer of detail too much for him and he was making no progress with it. He decided to sidestep these considerations by assuring himself that the top brass would have exhausted finer minds than his on the strategic repercussions of what they were planning to do. He limited himself to a simpler, straightforward question.

Can it be done?

He sucked on his cigarette, as he weighed up the risks. The mission sounded like a bastard. But you had to hand it to this Major Rall, it sounded like an audacious and impressive bastard. If it could be done, and the war won, then surely they
had
to do it. They had to at least try, surely. Pieter wasn’t afraid to die - he’d passed that point a long long time ago - he just wasn’t that keen on doing it pointlessly. If there was a fair chance for success - just a fair chance - they had to give it a go.

Max turned to study Hans.

The young man was nodding and tapping a finger on the metal rim of his mug, as if enjoying a tune no one else could hear. In his other hand he held his smoke, forgotten, burning steadily towards the filter. His blue eyes were unfocused and lost in the distance. Of all of them, Max knew Hans would have the least reservations and would probably be the first to volunteer. He wasn’t one for careful deliberation by any stretch of the imagination; he was a bull-necked thug with a preference to thinking with his fists - a typical gunner. But here, now at least, he seemed to be indulging in some level of introspection about what could lie ahead. Even for Hans, the mission was too dangerous to blithely accept. But there was one thing Max was certain of: if Pieter voted yes, so would he. Hans, although physically strong, was a follower, unsure of himself. He would always look to either Pieter or Max for a direction. Hans would follow Pieter on this.

And finally Stefan.

The young lad rocked gently from side to side; his eyes darted uncertainly from Max to Pieter to Hans. ‘Baby Bear’ was what Pieter liked to call him when he ruffled the boy’s ginger hair. That was stupid. Stefan had done his share of growing up like the rest of them. He had been with them for over a year and flown on nearly a hundred sorties as navigator and radio operator; but being the youngest would always make him the pup of the crew. Stefan absent-mindedly pulled on the tuft of red hairs that had managed to grow on his chin. All of them were sporting bristles long enough to tug, it had been many days since they’d had the luxury of a razor, but unlike the others, who would happily pay a day’s ration for a razor and some shaving oil, Stef took great pride in the meagre offering on his jaw.

‘Okay, tell me what you lads are thinking,’ said Max.

Pieter looked up at him. ‘What do you think, Max?’

‘I want to see what you boys reckon first. Whatever decision we end up with, it has to be unanimous, right?’

Hans cocked his head.

‘Unanimous means . . . everyone has to agree,’ Max added.

‘Right.’

Stefan raised a finger, a classroom habit that he still hung on to. Max nodded. ‘Go on.’

‘We’ll get fighter escort cover most of the way?’

‘Across France and some of the way beyond, yes. They’ll be arriving soon, some of the best fighter pilots in the Luftwaffe. You can’t get a better escort than that.’

‘How many?’

‘As many as we can find planes for. Major Rall told me that they have managed to pool something like thirteen 109s, maybe some more can be put together between now and when we leave.’

‘Thirteen fighters and a B-17 against everything they can throw at us between here and the Atlantic?’ Pieter smiled. ‘My money says we won’t even make France.’

Max shrugged. ‘I’m not going to lie to you. This is going to be a nasty one, the worst one we’ve flown together. But we have the element of surprise, we’re flying one of their planes - they won’t expect that, and we’ll have a squadron of the best fighter pilots nearby watching and waiting to step in when we need them.’

‘This is a one-way flight, isn’t it?’ said Stefan.

Max turned to the lad.

Clever boy, you’ve done the maths.

‘Yes, Stef, the extra fuel tanks give us the range we need to get there and a little more, but not enough to come home. After we’ve done our job, we’ll attempt to land, or bail out over there.’

Pieter snorted. ‘They’ll bloody well skin us.’

‘If it all goes to plan, by the time we bail out or land, the Americans will be our allies.’

‘And what if we say no?’ asked Pieter.

Max shrugged. ‘The Major says we can go.’

‘And the Russians carry on with what they’re doing,’ added Stefan.

On that point they all looked at Max. He nodded slowly. ‘Yes.’

All four men were fully aware of the savage revenge the advancing Red Army was exacting from their German foes. It was common knowledge that they were not taking prisoners. Rumours had spread of many atrocities that had occurred to straggling German forces, even the liberated civilians left in their wake. And now they were on German soil and hungrily advancing across the country, surrounding Berlin and spreading west and southwards. They knew Germany was to be obliterated and most of its people massacred, and when the war ended, the Russians would surely demand access to what was left of the Fatherland under Allied control to complete their bloody act.

‘Fuck it, I say we do it. We’ve been running from the enemy for too bloody long,’ Pieter said, the shadows of doubt banished from his mind.

Max looked towards the other two.

Hans stopped tapping his mug and looked up at Pieter and Max, still unsure.

‘Come on, Hans, let’s stick it to them,’ growled Pieter.

‘Yeah, okay,’ said Hans, looking to Pieter.

All three men turned to face Stefan.

‘How about you?’ asked Max.

The young man looked awkward under the gaze of his older colleagues. ‘I’ve got family near Sprenberg . . . three sisters.’ Stefan looked at Max with eyes reddened from fatigue. He didn’t need to add any more to that, the men knew what fate awaited them when the Russian army arrived.

‘I say yes, too,’ Stefan added quietly.

Pieter reached out and punched the lad’s shoulder. ‘That’s the spirit, boy.’

The men looked to Max for the deciding vote. ‘And so, Max, what about you?’ asked Pieter.

Max stubbed his cigarette out and drained his now cold coffee.

The men are waiting for you to say yes
.

The plan was a good one. It could work, it really could. They had the element of surprise, and the American B-17 was the perfect conceit, the air was full of them. Crossing France would be the dangerous part of the mission. Beyond France, across the Atlantic, they would be home and dry. New York had no air defences, she had never needed to have any.

It could be done.

Manhattan Island was the target. Max knew very little about the city of New York, but Major Rall had informed him that the island was the commercial heart of the city, and it would be a Sunday morning when they arrived with the bomb. Civilian casualties would be minimised.

But, there would still be several thousand people who would inevitably die.

Rall had not discussed the bomb in detail, only that it was a new ‘explosive formula’ one thousand times more destructive than that being used currently by the American bombers. This one bomb would do as much damage as the combined payload of fifty of their B-17s.

Imagine, Max, it will seem to them as if we have the power to conjure four squadrons of heavy bombers out of thin air, anywhere we want.

He could see how frightening a thought that might be to the Americans, safe these last four years, on the other side of an ocean. It could possibly be enough to convince them to step in and save what was left of Germany from the Russians, if for no other reason than to prevent the communists from getting their hands on this magical, powerful formula.

And there is the key, Max: mutual distrust between the Americans and the British on the one hand, and the Russians on the other.

It really could work. And if it did, there were many, many more German lives that would be saved by this than would be lost on a Sunday, on Manhattan Island.

There’s a simple arithmetic at work here, Max. One or two thousand of them for God knows how many of us at the hands of the Russians. When they’ve taken Berlin, do you think their revenge will stop there?

Rall’s faultless argument had boiled down to simple arithmetic. A few thousand American lives, to save millions of German lives. And on that basis, Max could see that they had to give this thing a go. There was no choice. But he was drawn back to the haunting image of total destruction that was Stalingrad.

‘This really is to
end
the war?’ he had asked the Major.

Rall had nodded. ‘God help us if it doesn’t. With such a bomb as you will be dropping, it would be insane for any further war after this to happen.’

Pieter, Hans and Stef were waiting for an answer. He knew they were all hoping for the same answer. He owed them at least that.

‘All right, I will tell the Major we will do it,’ said Max.

Major Rall looked up at the sound of rapping on his door. ‘Enter,’ he called loudly. Max walked in and saluted smartly.

‘Oberleutnant Kleinmann, you have a decision for me?’

Max nodded. ‘My men and I will undertake the mission, Major.’

Rall smiled. ‘I was beginning to think you and your men had eloped after enjoying my coffee and cigarettes. Thank you, Kleinmann. I will have you and your crew properly billeted here in the bunker and supplies arranged shortly. You’ll be pleased to know I can lay my hands on some more of that South American coffee, but first I have some calls to make. Please excuse me.’

Rall nodded as Max clicked his heels and departed. He picked up the phone on his desk and dialled a number he had been reciting in his head over and over for the last hour. The telephone rang once and was picked up.

‘Yes . . . Heil Hitler. This is Major Rall. Please inform him that the operation is ready to proceed.’

Rall placed the phone back in its cradle and listened to the faint rumble of the raid over Stuttgart, twenty miles north. His meticulously laid plans were now starting to roll forward; after so many months of organisation, fighting for a rapidly dwindling pool of resources, it was finally beginning to happen. Now that they had managed to pull in a suitable crew, the American bomber was fitted with enough additional fuel tanks to achieve the range they needed, and the weapon itself was approaching final assembly, it was time to activate the last component of the plan. He looked at his watch; it was 11.54 p.m. on the 11th of April. In little more than two weeks this would all be over.

‘My God, it’s actually going to happen,’ he said aloud.

He looked at the phone, another call was necessary. It was time to track down the one remaining U-boat that was big enough for the job and still operational somewhere in the North Sea.