Vengeance 10

The four technicians, their white uniforms soiled with the exertions of the past twenty-four hours, exchanged puzzled glances but trooped out. The pilot tried to fix an earnest look on his face but failed miserably. Bethwig suspected that for the first time the man was beginning to comprehend the odds against him.

‘I understand the submarine is in place,’ the pilot began, thereby betraying his apprehension, but Bethwig cut him off. ‘Never mind that now. You will not be flying tonight.’

The pilot’s expression showed a combination of relief, surprise and disappointment. ‘Not… but why…?’

‘The flight is cancelled.’ Bethwig spread his hands in apology. ‘Wind conditions are near gale force at eight thousand metres. We are rescheduling for tomorrow night. I thought I should come and tell you in person, knowing what a disappointment it must be.’ Bethwig slipped from his pocket the syringe prepared earlier. ‘Well that’s a relief, I’ll bet,’ he said in a hearty voice. ‘Let’s have that suit off, then.’

The pilot’s hands went automatically to the zipper, and as he peeled the suit over his upper arms, Bethwig slipped the needle through the layers of woollen underwear and into the muscle. The pilot jerked back, but it was too late.

‘What the hell…? What are you doing…?’

Bethwig spoke softly: ‘It’s just a sedative. You’ll wake up in a few hours…’

The pilot’s eyes rolled, and his knees collapsed. Grunting, Bethwig stripped the suit off, strapped the unconscious Lieutenant Gross to a gurney, and hauled him into the storeroom.

Back in the dressing room, Bethwig removed his own clothes and pulled on the two layers of woollen underwear. He had to sit down on the floor to wriggle into the cumbersome leather and rubber pressure suit, a modification of the high-altitude pressure suit worn by Luftwaffe pilots in the Me163B rocket plane. When the zippers were closed and fastened, Bethwig tugged on the close-fitting cotton flying helmet, adjusted the earphone pads comfortably, and lifted the heavy plastic helmet over his shoulders, settled it into the rubber gaskets, and gave it a partial turn to lock it in place. Immediately the glass vision plate steamed over.

Moving clumsily in the heavy pressure suit, he made the connections to the cart containing the air bottles and air-conditioning unit and started up the systems. Bethwig sighed with relief as air began to flow into the helmet through the perforated shoulder piece. The air brought with it the smell of stale sweat, rubber, solvents, leather, and a host of other odours. The suit was amazingly stiff in spite of its cleverly articulated joints, and the twenty-five-kilo weight dragged at him. Bethwig took a deep breath, dragged the cart with him to the door, and knocked. The chief technician opened it quickly. He clipped a wire lead to the helmet and slipped his own earphones on.

‘Are you cert — ‘ he began, then broke off, and shrugged. ‘A bit too late to be worrying about that, isn’t it?’ The voice was tinny and distant through the built-in headset.

Bethwig lifted a ponderous arm and clapped him on the shoulder. When the technician asked where Bethwig had gone, he waved vaguely in the direction of the inner office and stepped into the corridor, at the end of which, beyond the glass doors, he could see the lorry waiting to drive them to the launch site. Technicians and well-wishers, family members of the staff and non-technical employees, had gathered to applaud the pilot as he passed. Bethwig waved, thankful that the vision plate was tinted, so his features could not be seen. The doors were opened for him, and he stepped out. A brilliant flare lit the northern horizon at that instant, and moments later sound struck them with the ferocity of a hurricane.

* * *

Prager’s estimate of the SS garrison’s ability to respond was obviously faulty, Memling thought with some bitterness. He had lost sight of the Gestapo officer just after they had slipped back through the fence and started towards the woods. A rifle shot snapped past, and the wind brought the sound of a lorry engine racing towards them. Memling made it to the cover of the trees, but Prager had disappeared in the darkness.

He could not see the soldiers crossing the field, but he could hear them: an officer’s whistle, the sound of booted feet on frozen ground, an occasional shout. When he was satisfied that they were in an extended skirmish line, suggesting that they did not know their quarry’s exact location, Memling trotted a few hundred metres into the scrub pine, switched direction abruptly, and headed north-east towards the coast, which, unless he had badly mixed his directions, was two kilometres away. There was nothing he could do for Prager except to hope the man had got clear.