Rutherford Montgomery - A Yankee Flier over Berlin

ZERO HOUR

As Stan worked on the supercharger he went over his plans carefully. With everything about ready to make tests, he was beginning to wonder if the story Swen had told him was not just the wild fancy of a scared kid. He even thought of the possibility that Swen had been planted to get him off on the wrong track. There had been so many crazy things happening that he could not afford to overlook any angle.

He had three mechanics helping him, with Hans giving his orders to the two who spoke no English. As he worked he began to wonder if he had not been neatly tricked. He was sure that at least one of the men hanging around watching him was a Luftwaffe pilot. No one interfered with his work or tried to tell him what to do. He was having as free a hand as though he had been working in a shop of the Eighth Air Force. Some of the men scowled at him, but most of them just watched with interest and with something else. Stan guessed they were eagerly waiting for the trap to spring. Then they could have a big laugh on the dumb Yank.

The supercharger parts were about installed in the ship. Stan checked the gasoline supply. There was just enough to fly him out over the channel if he took off before he used too much. Once out over the channel he might be able to water-crash the P-51 near a British patrol or pick-up boat. The trouble was that the instant the engine began to work the trap would be sprung on him. He had to figure that one out fast.

Swen showed up and hung around watching along with the other mechanics. He grinned at Stan once and shook his head. Stan winked at him. Herr Domber showed up in a sports outfit. His white spats gleamed and his yellow tie shone. Domber was in a very genial mood.

“You are progressing?” he asked.

“I’m getting the thing together, but I don’t know whether it will work,” Stan said.

“We will have lunch at a café downtown today,” Herr Domber said without the flicker of an eye. “I have a special café in mind where the sea food is excellent and the wine very choice.”

“That will be fine,” Stan said and grinned as he hoisted himself up into the ship.

He lay inside the fuselage and looked at the supercharger. There was one valve which he had not fitted. He was afraid that if he fitted that valve into place the Mustang would purr like a cat. He was now convinced that the Germans had had all of their trouble with the air mixture and the pressure intake. His instructions on the new machine had been very detailed on these points. They were the secrets of the new supercharger.

Stan plugged the valve opening with a wad of cotton waste and tucked the valve into his pocket. Of one thing he was sure, the Mustang’s engine had to be hot if he expected to snap her out of that hangar. And in getting her hot he did not dare let her show signs of running smoothly. Climbing out of the fuselage, he called to Hans:

“We’ll turn her up.” He wiped sweat from his forehead. The air in the hangar was hot, kept that way to make engine starting easy.

Hans and his men wound up the Mustang. Stan climbed into the cockpit and got set. From where he sat he could see, through a plate he had removed from the panel, the adjustment valve he had seated with waste. He could reach it by bending over.

The Mustang’s engine turned over and she sputtered once or twice but refused to start. The wad of waste was no good. He had to seat the valve. Looking out he shook his head to Hans. Then he noticed that Domber was talking to an artillery captain over by the gate. He was shaking his head and making violent gestures.

Stan watched him carefully. It might be that Domber was telling the gun captain not to blast the P-51 if it made a run. In that case Domber had plans even if Stan got the ship away. Domber came back to the P-51 and Stan looked the other way as he bent forward and seated the valve.

The tough part was that if he hit the mixture just right in seating that valve the engine would hit it off at once. Stan knew how those Allisons worked. Given a hot room they might flip right over and go off with a bang. He climbed out of the cockpit and made a few last checks on the outside.

A water boy came up and the men crowded around for drinks. Stan watched the water boy carefully. He was again thinking about the poison business. The water was in a pail and the men were dipping it out in a tin cup. That did not look dangerous and Stan was very thirsty. He turned his back and climbed into the cockpit again. He was down inside, working on a repaired cable. Close to his face was the hole where the shell had ripped through and severed the cable.

Suddenly Stan heard someone whispering. It was the voice of Herr Domber.

“Get set, fool, and when the boy offers him a drink you are to shake your head. In that way he will think he has escaped being poisoned. He is just stalling now. I want this ship tuned up. If you fail, it is the Russian front for you.”

“Yes, sir. Heil Hitler,” Swen’s voice answered.

Stan grinned broadly. He finished with the cable. One thing was sure. The poison story had been a gag to make him think he had outwitted Domber. He climbed out of the cockpit and walked over to Hans.

“We’ll hit her again,” he said.

Turning back he noted that several of the mechanics had moved in close. A quick glance showed bulges under their coveralls which looked a lot like army pistols or automatics. The water boy moved toward Stan. Looking past the boy Stan saw Swen. Swen began shaking his head as Stan looked at the water pail. Stan pretended not to see him, though Swen was squarely in front of him.

Reaching down he took the tin cup, filled it, and drank deeply. He had a second drink, then tossed the cup to the boy. As he did so, he shot a side glance at Herr Domber and almost burst out laughing. Domber’s face was red and his mouth was screwed into a snarl. Suddenly Stan felt sorry for Swen. He nodded to Hans as he climbed up.

Looking down he saw the mechanics with their bulging coveralls crowding in close. Several of them had ripped their suits open and had their hands inside. Stan eased back against the shock pad. The left brake was the one to kick down hard. He had shoved the chock out from under the right wheel. He had a momentary feeling that the builders of the Mustang should have extended the armor plate further forward. The men on the ground would have a clean shot at him. They were well forward now and watching him like cats at a rat hole.

Hans kicked the engine over to prime her. Stan got set and eased on the switch. She turned over slowly, fired twice, idled, then fired again. Sweat broke out over Stan’s forehead. Below him the faces of Domber and his men blurred. The engine kept on rumbling and sputtering. Stan relaxed as he pretended to be working on the gas adjustment.

He gave the valve a turn and the Allison smoothed considerably. Leaving it that way he looked down at Hans, a deep frown on his face. He shook his head and motioned to the mechanic. Hans did not know what he wanted, but he moved around to the side of the ship. Stan was sorry to have to use Hans as a shield but he knew, now, that a quarter turn more on the valve would set the Allison roaring. What he needed was a bit more heat on his temperature gauge, and he wanted to keep Hans in line.

Bending over he bellowed at Hans, making his words jumble together. Hans looked blank and shook his head. Stan scowled at him. Then he got a bright idea. He looked over at Domber and beckoned to him. Domber came over. He was shorter than Hans. Stan reached down and bellowed:

“Get up and I’ll show you how to adjust this type of supercharger!”

He even gave Herr Domber a hand up on the step. Domber leaned into the cockpit. Stan pointed to the valve. His fingers closed over it and began to turn it. Then his right arm shot out. His fingers gripped Domber’s yellow tie. The Dutch Quisling’s eyes bulged and he pulled back.