Death Ray
Authors: Craig Simpson
Chapter Two: London’s Burning, Fire Fire!
Chapter Three: Far from Prying Eyes
Chapter Five: Night of Broken Glass
Chapter Six: The French Connection
Chapter Nine: The Flamingo Club
Chapter Eleven: Jacques’ Story
Chapter Twelve: From Freya to Odette
Chapter Thirteen: Friend or Foe
Chapter Sixteen: A Rough Reception
Chapter Seventeen: Lost in France
Chapter Eighteen: Keeping One Step Ahead
Chapter Nineteen: Setting Europe Ablaze
Chapter Twenty: Sofie’s Choice
Chapter Twenty-One: Hände Hoch!
Chapter Twenty-Two: Next Stop Rochefort
Chapter Twenty-Three: Blood and Guts
Chapter Twenty-Four: Friends Reunited
Chapter Twenty-Five: Beware of Fat Men!
Chapter Twenty-Six: In the Midst of Treachery
Chapter Twenty-Seven: London Calling
Chapter Twenty-Eight: Impossible Choices
Chapter Twenty-Nine: Taking a Chance
Chapter Thirty: Unexpected Visitors
Chapter Thirty-One: The Great Escape
The Second World War is raging and Britain is in trouble.
Intelligence indicates that the Nazis have built a deadly weapon on the French coast. Could a death ray really exist? There’s only one way to find out – to steal it.
Finn and Loki are Special Ops agents. Officially, they don’t exist – they’re perfect for this undercover mission.
For the young men and women who bravely carried their heavy suitcases into battle
During a war many people have no choice but to fight. Others volunteer out of a sense of duty to King and Country, claiming they are fighting for freedom or to protect their way of life. Some, however, go to war for much more personal reasons – for revenge, or to protect those they love. These are the most powerful reasons of all – and the most dangerous. To protect those you love is a basic instinct and you will stop at nothing to defend them, even if it means betraying others who have entrusted their lives to you. As a member of Special Operations I have learned to question why my fellow agents volunteered. If it was for love or revenge, then it is time for me to start worrying and to watch out for the enemy within.
Finn Gunnersen
1941
Heading South
January 1941
MAJOR BAXTER’S PARTING WORDS
on the platform of Glasgow station gave me the shivers. ‘Well, we’ve taught you all we can in the precious little time available to us. In God’s name I just pray it’s enough,’ he declared as he reached out and shook each of our hands in turn. His crushing grip said
Good luck, give them hell
, and
Be safe
, all in one. I think he wanted to salute us too, but that wouldn’t have looked right, a soldier saluting three sixteen-year-olds. People would have thought that rather strange. Of course, Major Baxter knew what
they
didn’t – he knew who and what we were.
A horrible truth dawned on me. To all intents and purposes we didn’t exist, not officially, except to the leaders of Special Operations who had our details filed away under lock and key in folders marked
M
OST
S
ECRET
. It was odd knowing that passers-by would barely give us a second glance, not guessing in a million years that we were rapidly becoming pawns in the fight against Hitler’s Germany. Without uniforms we looked ordinary, like any other civilians, and that was exactly the point. Ordinary was good, perfect in fact, because that’s exactly how secret agents should appear.
A shrill whistle and the frantic slamming of carriage doors heralded our departure. The train jolted forward, slowly gathering pace. I could hear the massive steam locomotive puffing and straining, her huge wheels screeching as they struggled for grip. I spent a moment looking out the misted window. Faces floated past like ghosts. Arms waved. Then it all became a blur. Suddenly the station was gone.
We were heading to London, where we’d change trains before completing our journey. Our final destination was ‘classified’. I tried asking, of course, but got the standard reply, a rather worrying ‘You’ll find out soon enough.’
The corridors of our train were jam-packed with troops and their rifles and kit bags. The floor was slippery, and the stale oppressive air full of cigarette smoke, idle chatter, sneezes and hacking coughs, and the odours of damp cloth and leather. I suspected many of these men had been among the troops heroically plucked from the beaches at Dunkirk the previous summer, in what optimists were calling ‘the most successful escape in history’. The word ‘retreat’ was taboo.
Captain Nils Jacobsen slid shut the door to our compartment and pulled down the blind. Nils was accompanying us on our journey into the unknown. Like Freya, Loki and me, he was Norwegian too. In an unfamiliar foreign country it was good having him around. He knew the ropes. He was in his late twenties, but he looked older: the wrinkles around his tired eyes – eyes that had witnessed many dreadful things – were
hallmarks
of the stresses and strains of being a fighter pilot. Yet he was cheerful and always grinning and joking.
Gathering up our damp coats and gas masks Nils piled them up on an empty seat. Everyone had to carry their smelly rubber
nosebags
at all times. I often wondered if they really worked but hoped I’d never find out.
Loki and Freya slumped down opposite me, Loki occupying the window seat. Resting her head on his shoulder, Freya closed her eyes and let out a weary sigh. In truth we were all exhausted. For the previous three weeks we’d been hidden away in an isolated Scottish hunting lodge near a place called Arisaig on the west coast. The spectacular Highlands, with its many craggy mountains and deep lochs, reminded me of our homeland. The area was ‘Restricted’, the War Department banning everyone except those involved with Special Operations from stepping foot inside the zone. We’d got to know the area well while being taught the clandestine arts of reconnaissance, concealment and sabotage by Major Baxter and his men.
Nils unfolded his damp newspaper and handed it to me. ‘OK, Finn, get reading out loud.’
I groaned, but seized the paper anyway. We had to practise our English every day, to try and lose our native Norwegian accents. I began with the front page. London had been bombed for the fourth night running. The Blitz had claimed another dozen lives. It was grim
reading
. As I searched the pages for something lighter, I slipped into my native Norwegian and asked, ‘How come the Luftwaffe’s still pounding us to oblivion? I thought we’d won the battle of the skies.’