Vengeance 10

Memling crossed the road. By the time the first soldiers arrived to investigate the blaze, he was deep in the forest, moving south.

* * *

‘Right foot here, sir, then left foot on the couch. That’s it, sir, now ease in and down.’

The technician’s big hand pushed down on the helmet, forcing Bethwig’s chin against the rim, so that he spluttered in protest before he popped through the hatch like a melon seed, caromed off the far wall of the cabin, and bounced into the seat. With an air of exasperation, the technician leaned across and reset the three switches he had knocked out of position.

Franz lay back in the contoured seat while the technicians worked to secure him to the acceleration couch and hook him into the control panels. He could hardly believe that he had pulled it off, yet the couch rocked gently on its gimbals and there was the main instrument panel above his head. He was so excited that he no longer noticed the sweaty, oily smell of the pressure suit; nor did he notice that it chafed. The suit was just about one size too small, but that could not be helped. And his neck was just that much longer than the original owner’s that the top of his head rubbed against the padding.

The technician rapped on his helmet, and Bethwig came to with a start. The man was motioning for him to switch on the radio. For an instant, panic gripped him; if he turned his radio on, his voice would be transmitted over the intercom to the.launch area and the command centre. If they discovered that he had substituted himself for the pilot before the hatch was sealed, the SS would certainly end the launch attempt. The man pointed again, but the chief technician elbowed him aside and plugged his headset directly into Bethwig’s helmet.

‘Sorry, Lieutenant. Got delayed. Small problem in the instrument bay, but it’s fixed now. Some idiot left a bolt just loose enough to keep the hatch from closing.’

Bethwig suppressed a sigh of relief. Over the tinny intercom the chief technician would be unable to tell who was inside the pressure suit. He rocked the seat back until he could see the chronometer in the main panel. The two dials showed local and elapsed time. There was less than thirty-five minutes to go now.

They finished the instrument check, tested the oxygen and other support systems, checked the engineering and fuel systems, and ran through the final inventory of food and water stores. At the end the chief technician handed in the special tool kit made of non-sparking aluminium and bronze. When the hatch was closed and sealed, the air inside the cabin would be replaced with pure oxygen. Bethwig was not happy about that, but the original design had envisioned a flight of not more than fifty minutes’ duration for which oxygen was the cheapest and most efficient system. Now, in the event of a fire, even normally non-flammable materials, such as the kapok stuffing in the couch, the leather of his suit, the composition board of the instrument panel, and even the aluminium panelling, would burn furiously in a one-hundred-per-cent-oxygen atmosphere.

‘That’s it, then, Lieutenant Gross.’ The technician clapped him on the shoulder and set the gimbal brake. The couch immediately swung into a reclining position. The chief technician hesitated, as if he wanted to say more but could not find the words. He contented himself with a mumbled ‘Good luck’ and unplugged the headset. A moment later the interior of the cabin went dark as he lifted the hatch panel into place and began to bolt it down. Franz turned his head as far as the cumbersome suit would allow, and caught a final glimpse of the chief technician peering in at him. The thought occurred to him that the technician’s face was probably the last he would ever see.

Bethwig was alone. The silence was total but for the faint whisper of oxygen inside his suit. He took a deep breath, feeling the excitement rise, and grinned. He had expected to be terror-stricken at this point. Instead, he was elated.

The chronometer hands stood at minus thirty minutes. The winking red light indicated that the command centre was trying to contact him. He reached up and inserted his helmet radio leads into the main panel. There was nothing that could stop him now.

* * *

Memling was crouched in a stand of pine less than thirty metres from the SS headquarters in Zinnowitz. Two five-ton lorries were parked on the gravelled parade, and he counted forty SS men drawn up in two columns. An officer ran from the building shouting orders, and the men hurried to their trucks. The officer leaned from the cab to give last-minute instructions to a sergeant, and the lorries lurched and bumped across the parade and out through the gate. Memling watched, waiting to see which direction they would take — north-west to the launch area or due north to the coast where he had ambushed the patrol. There was little more he could do if the SS had decided to halt the launching, but the lorries reached the main road and sped north.