Alex Scarrow - A thousand suns

‘Well? What are you waiting for? Slide it under.’

The paper with their orders on slid under the panel door and he reached down and picked it up. He quickly unfolded the paper and scanned the two lines printed on it. What he read there made his heart skip. They were asking U-1061 to return to Bergen and remain there for further orders. He knew the war was now in its final phase, the end game. It seemed at last that someone up there at Admiralty, Doenitz perhaps, had decided enough was enough, that there was little point sending out any more U-boats. They were being recalled to Bergen to await the end.

Lundstrom found himself analysing his emotional response to the news.

How do I feel?

The answer came surprisingly quickly and easily. Indescribable relief. Once he and his men had safely navigated their way back to the pens in Bergen, the war would effectively be over for them.

He finished his business, flushed the toilet and opened the door. Outside, the rating was still tautly awaiting an order.

‘Sigi, my lad, we’re going home.’

Chris sat at the same table in Lenny’s that he and Mark had used two nights ago. He checked the time; it was ten minutes to seven. He ordered a Bud to drink quickly before this Wallace chap arrived.

Just a little Dutch lubrication to ease things along.

Lenny’s was as dead this evening as it was the other night, more so. Only three solitary drinkers stared vacuously at the TV above the bar. Tonight it was basketball. He tried watching the game for a few minutes. It would be the inconspicuous thing to do, in here, with a cold beer in his hand, he thought. But every time the door to the bar swung open, he glanced anxiously towards it, half expecting to see the two men he’d seen at the quayside enter.

His nerves got the better of him, and before long Chris had to go and take a leak. He hurried back as quickly as he could after relieving himself and, as he settled down in his booth once more, he felt a light tap on his shoulder.

‘Chris, I presume?’

Chris jumped a little. He looked up to see a frail-looking old man standing beside his table. The man was short and the top of his back was rounded, forcing him to stoop slightly. He wore tan slacks that were hitched up too high on his waist and a red and black chequered shirt. On his head, perched awkwardly on thinning hair as white as the suds on a Bud, was a Yankees cap. A windcheater was draped over one of his fragile arms; in his other hand was a walking stick. Chris guessed he had to be in his eighties.

‘Mr Wallace?’

He nodded. ‘Trust me, I don’t normally dress like this. I was going for the tourist, weekend-hiker look. I’m not entirely sure I managed to get it right.’ He smiled awkwardly. The old man sounded like an asthmatic James Stewart, and his face reminded him a little of the old stand-up George Burns. It looked like a strong gust of wind could carry him away with little effort.

‘Have a seat. Can I get you a beer or something?’ he asked the old man.

Chris noticed Wallace cast an anxious glance around the diner before allowing himself to settle down, with some effort, onto the chair.

‘I’m afraid I need to steer away from the stuff… I’m on medication. A cup of milky coffee would be good.’

Chris caught the attention of the waitress and ordered another beer for himself and a coffee. He waited until she had gone before he decided to talk.

‘I’ve got to say, since you called me I’ve been a little bit jumpy. I hadn’t really thought this story had any big angle on it,’ said Chris.

Wallace nodded. ‘We must be cautious. I was around when… well, when these events happened.’

‘Can you tell me what exactly happened?’

‘Well,’ Wallace said, lowering his voice. ‘What do you know so far?’

‘Not a lot. There’s a B-17 down there, it was flown by a German air crew. I think it fought its way over Europe to get to America. I also know that the body of one of the crew drifted ashore near the end of the war, and its discovery triggered a huge search off the coast nearby for a few days. I presume they were looking for the bomber. That’s what I know. What I can speculate is that there was something or someone aboard the plane that the US government really wanted. How’s that for starters?’

Wallace nodded. ‘Very good — almost as much as I know. Tell me, have you been down to look at it yet?’

‘Yup. I’ve done two dives down there.’

‘How is she after all these years? How does the bomber look?’

‘Amazing. The whole plane is intact, very little corrosion, very little marine growth.’

The waitress returned with the order and placed the drinks on the table between the two men.

‘Can I get either of you folks somethin’ to eat? A Surf Grill? Steak and Fries? BBQ Ribs?’ Both of them shook their heads silently. ‘How about maybe a snack? We do Fish Burgers, Hotdogs, Filled Bagels.’

‘No. Thanks, honestly we’re not hungry,’ Chris answered abruptly, eager to send her away.

The waitress handed him an insincere smile. ‘Fine. Well just you shout if either of you gents change your minds.’ She turned and headed towards a couple of swing doors that led into the kitchen.

Chris watched her go, then looked back at Wallace. ‘Let me show you something.’

He produced a cardboard folder from his bag and placed it on the table. ‘Well, you see, I’ve made two dives on the plane, the second time was inside… I took a load of pictures.’

Wallace’s eyes immediately widened. ‘You have pictures of the inside of her?’

‘Yeah, sure… in here,’ he said, tapping the folder.

Wallace reached out a hand. Chris could see that it trembled slightly. He wondered whether that was attributable to old age, an illness… or maybe he was just as wired as Chris.

Chris quickly pulled the folder back from him.

‘May I see those pictures?’ Wallace asked eagerly.

‘Sure, but let’s slow down. I’ve got one or two hundred bloody questions I want to ask you first.’

‘Let me look at the pictures first, please?’ said Wallace. ‘It’ll almost certainly help me to answer those questions of yours.’

Wallace looked Chris firmly in the eye. In a face so pale and drawn, his eyes seemed to shine with a keen, intense, energy. ‘Trust me. You show me what you have in that folder, and I can tell you how that plane ended up down there.’

He was right of course. It all boiled down to trust. Quid pro quo, Wallace had said on the phone.

Chris opened the folder and pulled out a pack of black and white photographs. After a moment’s hesitation, he handed them over to Wallace.

The old man studied them intently, one after the other, his eyes widening with each new image.

‘My God,’ he whispered after a few minutes.

‘What is it?’

Wallace looked up at him. His jaw quivered with excitement or fear, Chris couldn’t tell which.

‘It was for real,’ the old man whispered.

‘What? What was for real?’ Chris asked.

8.43 p.m., 13 April 1945, Berlin

The night sky pulsated like an erratic strobe light from the artillery bombardment; the flashes on the horizon threw the silhouetted remains of the buildings nearby into stark relief. Dr Hauser stood outside the staff car and took in his surroundings. A fresh breeze blew down Wilhelmstrasse, what was once a grand thoroughfare that linked the various buildings of government, the Air Ministry, the Gestapo Headquarters and the Reich Chancellery. It was accompanied by a moaning sound as the wind whipped in and around the empty shell of the Chancellery. One storey up, a window frame, blown out and dangling from a cable, clattered noisily against the massive front facade of the building.