Alex Scarrow - A thousand suns

‘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.

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.