Vengeance 10

The general is well pleased with himself, Memling thought as they trotted back towards the landing site at an easy pace. A runner had come up in the last stages of fighting to report the army troops successfully ambushed at the other end of the valley. There were no survivors. Thirty Waffen SS and twelve regular soldiers were dead, as against three slightly wounded partisans. And Captain Reynolds. Memling carried his ID tags in the pocket of his battledress.

Culliford met them, but the look of triumph and relief on his face disappeared quickly when Memling told him about Reynolds.

‘We’ve dug the Dakota out and repaired the hydraulic line. We can fill it with water and make it work well enough to get the landing gear up.’

The Dakota was already reloaded for the third time. They had exhausted their supply of starter cartridges, and when the last bundle was secured, Memling stood outside with the fire extinguisher while the partisans lined up to turn the port-side prop to start the engine. The co-pilot had gone to great pains to impress upon them that they were to jump aside as soon as the engine fired, but he needn’t have worried. Three times the nervous men had to reform before the engine caught with a bang.

When the second engine had been started, Memling tossed the fire extinguisher aboard, shook hands solemnly with the general, and, as an afterthought, removed his pistol belt and handed him the Colt automatic. The general was delighted and pressed him to take his own nine-millimetre Radom.

‘Have plenty guns now. Get them from Nazi. You take, remember me.’

Memling grinned then and buckled the belt and holster on and climbed aboard. He slammed the cargo doors on the partisans’ cheers and hurried to the cockpit to clap Culliford on the shoulder. ‘Make it good this time,’ he shouted.

The pilot’s face was grim, and the co-pilot, at his nod, eased the twin throttles back. The engines ran up smoothly, and Memling watched the rpm needles mount until they were hovering near the red line. The Dakota vibrated, then, with a Maori war cry, Culliford released the brakes and the Dakota bounded forward. For just an instant Memling could feel the wheels sink as they came off the boards, but the aircraft’s momentum was too great and she raced on. At forty-seven pounds of manifold pressure, the tail came up and Culliford began to pull back on the control column. The aircraft lifted easily for all its load, and they were airborne. The treetops flicked past, and the Dakota went into a climbing turn.

Culliford brought them around to fly down the field waggling his wings then climbed for altitude to the south-east.

* * *

Jan Memling landed at a new airfield west of London, near the suburb of Heathrow, having changed planes three times in two days. Rain swept across the tarmac in gusts as he trudged into the Nissen hut that served as reception. Two red-capped MPs escorted him to a damp office.

Memling broke into a grin when he saw the brigadier seated at the desk smoking a cigar, and he tossed the leather satchel containing the Polish reports on to the desk. ‘There they are. Safe and sound. You did receive my preliminary report from Brindisi?’

Brigadier Simon-Benet nodded and opened the satchel. His abstracted air as he glanced through the first report puzzled Memling. ‘You did very well, Jan. It was too bad about Reynolds. Very bad. But ‘I’m sure it couldn’t be helped.’ He glanced significantly at his aide who took the hint and stepped outside.

‘I take it you experienced no special personal problems?’ Memling looked at him in surprise. For the first time in thirty-odd hours, he thought about his fear, or rather the lack of it. From the moment they had touched down in Poland, he suddenly realised, there had been the usual apprehension but nothing more; in fact, he had even been able to understand Reynolds’s fear and admire the way he overcame it. Perhaps that was an end to it, then.

‘No, sir, none.’ He grinned. ‘You were right.’

‘Good,’ Simon-Benet answered gruffly. ‘I am happy that something came of all this. While you were waiting in Italy an A-Four rocket crashed in southern Sweden. We obtained it from the Swedish government in return for two destroyers and some radar sets. The bloody thing’s at Famborough now where the wizards are taking its guts apart. I don’t want to suggest that this mission of yours was not worth while; far from it. The more information we can gather, the better off we are.’

The brigadier studied him. ‘You’ve already been vindicated by the Swedish rocket, my boy. Preliminary reports indicate the fuel is alcohol diluted to seventy-five per cent with water and liquid oxygen. Hydrogen peroxide is used to drive a turbo-pump which pressurises the fuel tank — constructed of steel, as you reported. That and other uses of steel rather than aluminium account for the great weight discrepancy between Captain Reynolds’s analysis and yours.’

Memling nodded, his face suddenly haggard.