Greg Iles - The Spandau Phoenix

rush of fear and adrenaline that accompanied takeoff, and neither man

spoke again until they found themselves forty miles over the North Sea,

arrowing toward their target. As the plan dictated, Hess had yielded

the controls to the captain. Hess now sat in the radio operator's seat,

facing the twin tail fins of the fighter. The two men used no

names-only ranks-and limited their conversation to the mechanics of the

mission.

"Range?" the captain asked, tilting his head back toward the

rear-facing seat.

"Twelve hundred and fifty miles with the nine-hundredliter tanks," Hess

replied.

"I meant range to target."

"The island or the castle?"

"The island."

"Six hundred and seventy miles."

The captain asked no more questions for the next hour. He stared down

at the steadily darkening sea and thought of his family. Hess studied a

sheaf of papers in his lap: maps, photographs, and mini-biographies

secretly copied from SS files in the basement of the

Prinz-Albrechtstrasse. Ceaselessly, he went over each detail,

visualizing the contingencies he could face upon landing. A hundred

miles off the English coast, he began drilling the pilot in his duties.

"How much did they tell you, Hauptmann?"

"A lot. Too much, I think."

"You see the extra radio to your right?"

"You can operate it?"

"if all goes well, you have only a few things to remember.

First, the drop tanks. Whatever happens, you ditch them into the sea.

Same with the extra radio. After my time is up, of course.

Forty minutes is the time limit, remember that. Forty minutes. "

"Forty minutes I wait."

"If you have not received my message within that time, the mission has

failed. In that case@' There was a sharp intake of breath from the

pilot, quiet but audible. Hess knew what caused that sound--the

unbanishable fear of death. He felt it too. But for him it was

different. He knew the stakes of the mission, the inestimable strategic

gain that dwarfed the possible loss of two human lives. Like the man in

the pilot's seat, Hess too had a family-a wife and young son. But for a

man in his position-a man so close to the Fuhrer-such things were

luxuries one knew might be lost at any moment. For him death was simply

an obstacle to success that must be avoided at all costs. But for the

man in the pilot's chair ...

"Hauptmann?" Hess said, almost gently.

"Sir?"

"I know what frightens you now. I really do. But there are worse

things than death. Do you understand me? Far worse."

The pilot's reply was a hoarse, hollow gurgle. Hearing it, Hess decided

that empathy was not the proper motivator for this man. When he next

spoke, his voice brimmed with confidence. "Dwelling on that is of no

use whatsoever, Hauptmann. The plan is flawless. The important thing

is, have you been studying?"

"Have I been studying!" The captain was obviously relieved to be

talking about something else. "My God, some iron-assed SS

Brigadefiihrer grilled me for two days straight."

"Probably Schellenberg."

"Who?"

"Never mind, Hauptmann. Better that you don't know."

Silence filled the cockpit as the pilot's mind drifted back to the fate

that awaited him should his special passenger fail.

"Herr Reichminister?" he asked at length.

"Yes?"

"How do you rate your chances of sudcess?"

"It's not in my hands, Hauptmann, so I would be foolish to guess.

It's up to the British now." My advice is to prepare for the worst,

Hess thought bitterly. The Fuhrer's bankers have been since January.

"Just concentrate on your part of the mission," he said. "And for God's

sake, be sure to jump from a high enough altitude to destroy the plane.

It's nothing the British haven't seen before, but there's no need to

make them a present of it. Once you've gotten my message, just jump and

wait until I can get you released. It shouldn't take more than a few

days. If you don't get the message Verdammt! Hess cursed silently.

There's just no avoiding it. His next words cut with the brittle edge

of command. "If you don't get my message, Hauptmann, you know what must

be done."

"Jawohl," the pilot murmured, hoping he sounded more confident than he

felt. He was sickeningly aware of the small, sticky cyanide capsule

taped against his chest. He wondered if he could possibly go through

with this thing that everyone but him seemed to consider simply business

as

usual. said earnestly. "You

"Listen to me, Hauptmann, " Hess know why your participation is

necessary. British Intelligence knows I am coming to England ..."

Hess kept talking, trying to fill the emptiness that would give the

pilot too much time to think. Up here, with Germany falling far behind,

the concept of duty seemed much more abstract than it did when one was

surrounded by the reinforcing order of the army and the SS.

The captain seemed sound-and Heydrich had vouched for him-but given

enough time to consider his position, he might do anything.

After all, what sane man wanted to die?

"Cut your speed!" Hess ordered, his voice quickening.

"Hold at 180."

The miles had melted away before the Messerschmitt's nose. They were a

mere sixty miles off the Scottish coast.

On a clear evening like this, the RAF radar stations would begin to pick

up reflections from the fighter at any moment.

Hess tightened his parachute harness, then set aside his maps and leaned

backward.

"Stay high and clear!" he shouted to the canopy lid. "Make sure they

see us coming in!"

"Where are you going out?"

"We should make landfall over a place called Holy Island.

I'll jump there. Stay high over the mainland for a few miles, then dive

and run like hell! They'll probably scramble a whole squadron once they

realize what you're flying!"

"Jawohl, " the pilot acknowledged. "Herr Reichminister?"

"What is it?"

"Have you ever parachuted before?"

"Nein. Never."

An ironic laugh cut through the drone of the twin engines.

"What's so funny, Hauptmann?"

"I've never jumped either! That's a pretty significant fact to have

overlooked in the planning of this mission, don't you think?"

Hess permitted himself a wry smile. "Perhaps that fact was taken into

account, Hauptmann. Some people might even be counting on it."

"Oh ... my God."

"It's too late to worry about that now. We don't have the fuel to make

it back to Germany even if we wanted to!"

"What?" the pilot exclaimed. ",But the drop tanks-"

"Are empty!"

Hess finished. "Or soon will be!"

The pilot felt his stomach turn a somersault. But before he could

puzzle out his passenger's meaning, he spied land below.

"Herr Reichminister! The island! I see it!"

From sixty-five hundred feet Holy Island was a tiny speck, only

distinguishable by the small, bright ribbon separating it from the

mainland. "And ... a flare. I see a flare!"

"Green or red?" Hess asked, his face taut.

"Red!"

"The canopy, Hauptmann! Move!"

Together the two men struggled to slide back the heavy glass.

Parachuting from a Messerschmitt was not common practice-strictly an

emergency measure-and quite a few aviators had died attempting it.

"Push!" the pilot yelled.

With all their strength the two men heaved their bodies against the

transparent lid of the cockpit. Their straining muscles quivered in

agony until all at once the frame gave way and locked in the open

position. The noise in the cockpit was deafening now, the engines