Alex Scarrow - A thousand suns

Pieter nodded; he was satisfied with that justification. It would be everyone ’s fault if it all ended in ashes; after all, they were just trying to defend themselves. What other country wouldn’t do the same if they had the chance? And anyway, who would be left to point an accusatory finger?

No one.

He smiled grimly. To have got this far required the intervention of fate. To turn back now would be an unforgivable act of weakness. Pieter knew that fate, destiny, or whatever you wanted to call it, was with him, with them. Now was not the time for doubts or second thoughts.

He decided that that was the last of the thinking he should do on the subject. The only thing to do now was to concentrate on the job in hand.

Max watched Hans as he kept the gun squarely aimed at him. However, the young man’s eyes darted frequently to the starboard porthole, anxious to watch America approach, to see the country first hand that he’d only so far seen in the occasional newsreel, and once in a film about cowboys and Indians. Hans saw the clouds and the dark coastline, surprised at how much like the coast of Normandy it looked. He’d always thought America was a hot place — blue skies, golden beaches and large, beautiful, snow-tipped mountain ranges. But it looked like yet another cold, dark and wet country. He decided with a silent nod that it would make it that much easier to blow up a large chunk of it.

‘It’s not like you imagined it, eh?’ said Max.

‘No,’ Hans replied automatically.

Pieter’s voice came over the interphone. ‘Hans… tell him to be quiet, we need to concentrate.’

Hans reminded himself of the new situation; Max was no longer the plane’s commander, no longer a comrade, a friend. He jerked the gun towards him angrily. ‘Shut up, Max, I told you to stay quiet.’

Max raised his hands submissively.

How in God’s name am I going to stop this?

Time was running out for him to find a way to put an end to the mission.

He wondered why it had been so easy for him to believe there was some truth in that note, and for Pieter and Hans to dismiss it so readily. There might have been a time, maybe two or three years ago, before their posting to the eastern front, before this war had become so barbaric, that he too might have sided with them and considered it a Jew’s attempt to sabotage things.

But now? Maybe deep down, a suspicion as yet unspoken, he’d decided that their home wasn’t worth killing so many innocent people for. Maybe the world would be a safer place without someone like Hitler in it, who would gamble the world for his own ambitions; without easily led people like Pieter and Hans, who would do the same out of blind fealty to such a recklessly dangerous leader.

As a country, Germany would vanish, and her people would become — what? Russian citizens. Some might argue, losing a flag and a language

… they deserved a great deal worse than just that.

Pieter leaned forward in his seat and looked out of the cockpit window. Below and ahead of them the coastline of America was upon them. He watched as greyish beaches, awash with the rolling surf of the Atlantic, slid beneath the nose of the B-17. There had been no more ships to follow in the last few minutes, so he had decided to hold his oblique north-westerly course until they crossed over the coastline and then he would pull round to the right and head due north, following the coastline until either they were nearly dry or he came across the city.

The gauge was now showing empty; it wasn’t a precise display, a needle hovering over a crudely marked dial showing hundreds of pounds of fuel, it was an approximate reading at best. His watch showed the time was twelve minutes past the hour. Another eight minutes, he decided, and then the bomb would have to go, New York or no New York.

‘I’m pulling around to the north now, Hans, and we’ll follow the coast. Eight minutes to go.’ Hans acknowledged, and Pieter began to bring the plane smoothly around to the right.

‘The device in the bomber, it’s an atom bomb, isn’t it?’ asked Chris.

Wallace made no discernible response.

‘The Germans beat you guys to it, and right at the end of the war they were about to bomb America,’ Chris added, hoping to prod him for a reaction. ‘They used an American plane, I guess captured sometime earlier, because it was the only thing big enough to make it across, and because it would be a disguise. And they nearly did it, didn’t they? They got within a few miles.’

Wallace said nothing, he simply sipped at his coffee.

Chris knew that he had it right there. No response was no denial. The old man was telling him all without uttering a word.

‘Jesus! Oh, for fuck’s sake, that’s bloody amazing!’ he laughed aloud.

Wallace looked up from his coffee and smiled. ‘Congratulations, so now you know, I might as well give you and your friend the whole tour, then. But not tonight.’

Chris shook his head. ‘No, no way. I want to hear what you’ve got, Wallace. I let you go earlier this evening, and we nearly lost you. I’m not doing that again.’

Wallace smiled. ‘Very touching,’ he said drily. ‘Tomorrow, if you can drive me back to my home, not far from Queens, I’ll tell you it all. I have notebooks, evidence that you could use if you wanted to go public with this. I’ve been waiting a long time to find that old bomber and to know whether they really did manage to build the bomb. So now I finally know for sure… it’s time you and I show the world what we know, eh?’ said Wallace quietly, with a wry smile and a wink. ‘But that’s for tomorrow. Right now, I need to sleep. I think we all should get some sleep.’

Mark nodded. ‘That’s probably good advice. I feel wasted after this evening’s goosing around.’

Chris shrugged. ‘Yeah, sure… okay. Anyway, I need to make some calls tonight. If we’re going down on that wreck again — ’

Wallace placed a hand on Chris’s arm. ‘No calls tonight,’ he said, ‘please. Let’s be careful about that. They can be traced. Right now, I think we’ve safely lost them. Please let’s keep it that way.’

Chris patted his hand reassuringly. ‘Okay, no calls… it’ll wait another night.’ He looked at his watch. ‘It’s gone two in the morning. Shall we make it an early start tomorrow, then, chaps?’

‘Sounds good,’ Mark replied. ‘The sooner we clear out of here, the better.’

Chris pulled out some bills and left them on the table, while Mark helped the old man up out of his chair. The three of them wandered out into the cool night.

Mark handed them both the motel room keys he’d picked up earlier. ‘Rooms four, five and six. I’m hitting the sack, guys; too much fun for one day. Good night.’

‘Good night, mate,’ Chris replied, slapping him gently on the back. ‘I’ll come knocking at nine.’

Mark waved as he walked tiredly across the neon-lit tarmac forecourt towards the motel rooms, a dozen quaint wooden cabins arranged in a tidy row.

Wallace watched him go. ‘He’s a good friend to you?’

‘The best,’ replied Chris.

‘You trust him with this story?’ the old man asked carefully.

‘With my life, actually. Yeah, I trust him.’

Wallace nodded and smiled. ‘That’s good,’ he said, raising one hand to massage his temple. ‘Please excuse me, I really must rest now.’

‘Sure. I think we lost those spooks. You go and rest up.’

He watched the old man walk wearily towards his cabin. ‘See you tomorrow,’ he called out to him.

Mission Time: 22 Hours, 12 Minutes Elapsed

5.17 p.m., EST over the outskirts of New York