The Fuehrermaster

by Daniel Wyatt

  Throttles ... one-half-inch open.

  RPM control levers ... maximum.

  Superchargers ... low gear.

  Radiator shutters ... closed.

  Pressure venting cock ... on.

  Fuel transfer cock ... off.

  Immersed fuel pump switch ... off.

  Bomb doors ... shut, selector to neutral.

  A yellow flare soared overhead from the direction of the tower, the prompt to start their engines.

  “Tally-ho,” Croucher said. He pointed to the number one engine. “Contact port.”

  The ground crew had the external power source in place and worked the priming pump until the fuel reached the priming nozzles. Croucher switched the ignition to on and pressed the starter and booster-coil buttons. The engine whined, growled, and kicked into perpetual power. As the oil pressure rose, he opened the throttles slowly to 1200 RPM. He pointed to the number two engine. The same whine, growl, and kick followed. Once both engines were running smoothly, Croucher made further checks of the oil and coolant temperatures and the magneto charge. He opened the throttles fully, dropped them back to minimum idle, then opened them up again to 1200 RPM. “Radio check,” he said to Jones in the seat beside him.

  Jones pressed the mike for his pilot who was busy eyeing the gauges. “SUNDOWN, THIS IS WILLOW TWO-THREE. DO YOU READ?”

  “WE READ YOU, WILLOW TWO-THREE.”

  “WILLOW TWO-THREE OUT.”

  “Clear the chocks!”

  Jones relayed a thumbs-up to the ground crew to slide the wheel obstructions away.

  “SUNDOWN, THIS IS WILLOW TWO-THREE. ARE WE OK TO TAXI?”

  “OK TO TAXI, WILLOW TWO-THREE.”

  As soon as Croucher pulled out, he tested the brakes twice for maximum pressure. They held. Ahead was nearly a mile of runway, banked on both sides by red lights. He turned onto the concrete, then rolled to a stop. He set the course on the compass ring to oh-nine-six degrees. “How’s the hatches and your harness, there Ted?” Croucher yelled.

  “Locked and tight.”

  Croucher studied the gauges again. “Ready for take-off?”

  “You bet.”

  Croucher pressed the radio button. “WILLOW TWO-THREE TO SUNDOWN. WE ARE READY FOR TAKEOFF?”

  “YOU MAY PROCEED, WILLOW TWO-THREE. GOOD LUCK.”

  With one forward shove of his hand, Croucher roared the throttles to maximum, and watched the revolutions rise. Then he released the brakes. They were off. Partway down the runway, he glanced over at Jones pressed to his seat. They were both thinking the same thing. What power!

  When they took to the air, Jones flipped open his log and recorded: airborne 1931 hours.

  * * * *

  Lampert watched through Group Captain Walker’s office window as the Mosquito climbed into the sky. The phone rang.

  “It’s for you, Colonel,” Walker said. “London.”

  “Thank you.” Lampert took the receiver. “Lampert.”

  “There you are, Raymond. Charles here.”

  “Yes, Charles.”

  “Denise picked up another Hamburg message. There’s more to that sub drop. Listen to this.”

  TWENTY

  Firth of Forth, Scotland

  As Felix Schubert stood inside the control room with the young sailors, his eyes examined the dizzying array of dials, valves, handles, and knobs that controlled the movement of the sub. Then he noticed Steider entering the cabin.

  The boat’s commander, Kurt Steider, was a whiskered lieutenant in his late twenties, a hero in the Fatherland for sinking the first British ship of the war in September of 1939, off Scapa Flow. “Down scope,” he called out, motioning to a sweaty subordinate. The long, tedious trip had originated twenty-four hours earlier at the port of Kiel and they were now 350 yards off the Scottish coastline, inside the Firth of Forth. Waiting for the periscope to drop, Steider reversed the peak of his officers’ cap, extracted the handles, and bent down to the foam-rubber eyepiece. He used his left hand to guide the instrument, while his right hand focused the eyepiece. Pivoting back and forth, he eyed the lonely Scottish shoreline through the sea mist and the long shadows.

  “Do you see the signal, commander?” Schubert asked, his voice cracking unexpectedly. He looked down at the briefcase by his shoes.

  “Nothing yet, Herr Reichsfuehrer. We’re still early,” the lieutenant replied, then resumed panning the rocky enemy shoreline. There was no doubt they were at the right location — the jagged point that poked into the firth. Although most of the sailors were thrilled that Hess was aboard, Steider was not, and for several reasons. The Deputy Fuehrer was his responsibility and he out-ranked everybody aboard. Letting Hess off here in daylight was too risky. And what bothered Steider the most was that Hess did not seem to recognize him. They had once conversed for several minutes at the chancellery in Berlin in 1939, at a celebration for the lieutenant’s sinking of the British ship. Perhaps there had been too many people that day. Steider thought that Hess now looked different. He was older and greyer and his voice was deeper than he remembered. He had changed physically in such a short time. Was this the result of High Command pressures? If so, Steider didn’t want any part of high-level politics.

  Ten minutes went by before Steider saw something through the instrument.

  “There we are.” The relieved lieutenant saw a figure on the distant shoreline through the eyepiece. He saw the weak flashlight blinks in Morse code, despite the sunshine. Dash-dot-dot, long dash, dash-dash. “DLM. There it is again. Bring her up!”

  The lieutenant gave the order to expel the water in the ballast tanks. He was only too anxious to rid himself of Hess. Going aground was another possible danger with low tide approaching. At least the Deputy Fuehrer would return in darkness. That was one consolation. “Up scope.”

  “Aye, aye, commander.”

  Schubert braced himself on an overhead bar. The pressure jerked the sub upwards, creaking and hissing until it bobbed on the surface of the North Sea.

  “Open the hatch and make ready the dinghy. On the double!”

  “Aye, aye, sir!”

  Steider turned to Schubert. “Good luck, Herr Reichsfuehrer.”

  “Heil Hitler.”

  The sub commander flashed a stiff Nazi salute. “Heil Hitler.”

  Schubert clutched his briefcase, buttoned up his dark-grey trench coat, and climbed the ladder. He could feel the difference passing from the stale air below to the fresh, damp spray above. One rung to go, he looked straight up and saw the deep-blue sky overhead. He held his fedora to his head and pulled his body through the hole. On the surface he saw foaming water surrounded by walls of rocks on two sides. To his surprise, they were inside a cove, and it had to be at least thirty degrees cooler on the surface than it was inside the sub. He dug for his glasses and put them on as a flock of gulls screeched overhead. He performed a balancing act across the slippery deck, blinking in the sunshine, as two sailors held onto a rubber dinghy and waited for Schubert to reach the water’s edge. Schubert boarded by lowering between them. He then glanced over his shoulder and proceeded to paddle in the direction of the blinking light, his back to the beach.

  “Give them one for us, Herr Reichsfuehrer,” one of the sailors said.

  Schubert waved solemnly.

  The sailors disappeared below deck and closed the hatch with a thud. The sub wasted no time submerging. It was not until Schubert caught his last sight of the conning tower and periscope vanishing beneath the cold, black waters that the enormous reality of the situation seized him. He would now play the part of Rudolf Hess on enemy soil. He had fooled the sailors, but could he fool the British? He was very aware that his assignment could be extremely dangerous if it did not go as planned. Himmler and his country were depending on him and his mission, however bizarre it seemed. Perhaps the outcome of the war hinged on how he handled himself.

  Paddling with firm, even strokes, Schubert steered the lifeboat for the steady flashing signal. The mist cleared, and a
human form appeared on the beach. Rowing closer to the figure, he felt his arms began to weaken. He should have kept in better shape. As he neared the beach, the figure — a woman with dark, curly hair — came out to greet him. Together, they dragged the raft up to dry land.

  “The light of the morning,” Schubert said in German to open the conversation, gasping to catch his breath. He waited for the answer in code, his hand close to the Luger strapped inside his coat.

  “Comes early in the east,” the woman replied in German-accented English to the man in sunglasses. “Falcon?”

  He too switched to English. “So you are Denise?”

  “Yes. Heil Hitler.”

  “Heil Hitler,” Schubert responded. He towered over the woman who was dressed in dark slacks and a plaid coat and stood only a couple inches above five feet in height. He studied her face and decided she looked close enough to Himmler’s picture of her.

  “We must hurry. I have my car just up the road.”

  “How far is it to Dunhampton?”

  “Less than an hour if I take some back roads I know.” Her manner was feminine, thorough and professional. “But first we have to deflate the raft and take it with us.”

  “Certainly.”

  That done, and now inside the vehicle, Schubert finally removed his hat and sunglasses, and looked over at the agent behind the wheel.

  The woman froze in shock. “Rudolf Hess? Is it really you?”

  “Yes, it is. You may call me by my rank of Reichsfuehrer.”

  “I don’t know what to say, Herr Reichsfuehrer. It’s an honour.”

  Schubert smiled. He had passed another test. “There is no need to say anything. Go.”

  Denise threw the car into gear as she handed Schubert a note in German — her most recent deciphered message from Hamburg — without saying a word. Schubert snatched the sheet. It was Himmler’s headquarters via Hamburg. Schubert now had fresh orders that had to be carried out promptly. He had to kill the pilot of the ME-110 that was due to arrive at the base at approximately the same time as he and Denise were scheduled to. What pilot? What ME-110? Then he was to return by Steider’s sub with the pilot’s briefcase. How was he supposed to do that? And why his briefcase? Nothing made sense. Something must have gone wrong.

  “Is anything the matter, Herr Reichsfuehrer?”

  Schubert managed to recover. “Just drive, please. I have to think.”

  TWENTY-ONE

  RAF Dunhampton, Scotland

  Hollinger rushed to the aerodrome with the convertible top down, his recently cut hair blowing in the wind.

  Along the way this sunny afternoon, he chuckled at how his clandestine career had developed. In only a few short years he had helped break the Japanese Enigma, had leap-frogged across a good portion of the United States and Great Britain, and had met, drank and conversed with Winston Churchill. He had also discovered startling British Secret Service files on leading German and British figures, had been exposed to the British appeaser group, and was now about to face the Deputy Fuehrer of Nazi Germany, Rudolf Hess. Not bad for a kid from New York State who had lucked his way into the U.S. Navy Intelligence. Hollinger was having more fun than he could ever have believed possible. He wouldn’t have missed all this for anything. Then he thought of Langford. She was some dame! But did the two of them stand a chance with the predicament she was in, pregnant and dumped by her navy man? He actually felt sorry for her.

  Cleared through the gate checkpoint, he flew down the road to the administration building, spinning to a halt on the gravel. He undid his brown trench coat and breezed past the adjutant inside to a large office. A Royal Air Force officer looked up from behind his polished desk.

  “Good evening, Mr. Hollinger. I’m Group Captain Walker.”

  Hollinger recognized the voice from RAF Intelligence attached to Enigma. “Pleased to meet you.”

  “You’re late. We were expecting you forty minutes ago.”

  Hollinger smirked. “I got lost along the way.”

  Walker reached for a pack of cigarettes. “Care for one?”

  “No thanks. Don’t smoke.”

  “Oh, yes. So I’ve heard. Sit down, Mr. Hollinger. There’s trouble.”

  “What kind of trouble?”

  Walker took his time explaining the latest intercepted radio message from Hamburg. “At first,” he finally said, “we thought that Hess had cancelled his flight and was going to be dropped off by sub instead, because the destination of Dunhampton is the same. Now the last message really threw us. Kill the pilot and return by sub must mean that the mission has gone awry.”

  “Do you think the Germans are on to us and are pulling out?”

  “It’s possible. Or someone or some people from Germany are out to get Hess. Nevertheless, our traps are set for both Germans, whether Hess is one of them or not. We’re not sure of anything. Both Germans have the same code name. Falcon. Whoever these two are, they will both be caught before one can kill the other.”

  Hollinger looked through the wide window behind Walker’s desk. The entire aerodrome spanned before them. “So how are we all set to nab Hess, I mean the pilot, or whoever he is?”

  Walker handed Hollinger a flare gun. “For our benefit, let’s say it’s Hess, shall we?”

  “Fine.”

  “Jones and Croucher are under strict radio silence. We can only go by Hess’s radar contact off the coast. Lampert is ready outside Dungavel Castle with his men.” The officer stood and pointed to one of the hangars through the window. “Those men in coveralls out there are all Secret Service men who will wait for your signal. Hess will land his fighter on the longest of two runways, runway two-six, and wait for you near the ground-crew shack over there by the dispersal site.”

  “Got yuh.” Hollinger stood and picked out the men.

  “When Hess cuts the engines, you approach the aircraft. Hess will come out and state his codename of Falcon. Give him the Operation Night Eagle codename as Lion’s representative — remember Lion couldn’t make it — and he hands you the proposals. One shot from your Very pistol — a green flare — to the Secret Service men will bring them over. And we have him and his peace terms. What do you think Mr. Hollinger?”

  Hollinger’s background in intelligence operations had taught him one thing above all others, and that was to expect the unexpected. “I hope it will be that simple,” he replied, brushing his hand through his hair, glancing down at the pistol strapped to his chest holster.

  * * * *

  Near RAF Dunhampton, Scotland

  “This is as far as we dare drive, Herr Reichsfuehrer,” Denise informed Schubert, as she braked the auto along a dirt road. She wondered what she was to do now. Where were the Secret Service men?

  “The rest will have to be on foot, I take it?” he asked.

  She got out first, still in awe of the passenger. “We must move fast. Patrols, you know,” she said, as Schubert got out with her.

  Schubert remembered what Himmler had told him. No one except the British group were to see the papers. He removed Himmler’s proposals from the briefcase and stuffed them beneath his shirt, then threw the briefcase in the back seat of the car.

  They began to jog up a low hill. Denise looked back. The peat-covered earth of the moors was soft and damp, leaving tracks.

  * * * *

  Over the North Sea

  “Oxygen on. We’re climbing.”

  Pilot Officer Jones flipped his rubber mask over his face. He twisted his body to his left, stuck his face into the tube behind Croucher’s seat and played with the knobs on the Gee box. He watched the green blips, which represented signals picked up from two Gee stations in Scotland, then took a position reading off the point where the two lines crossed. The signals were fading quickly and would soon be jammed by German controllers. As soon as he thought of that, the screen turned to fuzz. He shut the box off and stared out at the small, round alto-cumulus clouds moving slowly east. On the second leg of the interception now, they were clos
ing in on the enemy’s patrol range.

  “Turn starboard four degrees for correction,” Jones told Croucher. “We’re off course.”

  Croucher eased the stick to the right and watched his compass heading. “Steady at zero-niner-eight.” He pointed his gloved hand at the radar scope, and Jones flicked on the button. “I’m going to turn her around.”

  Croucher banked wide through the puffy clouds, the two officers stuck to their seats by the centrifugal force. They could see glimpses of the surface of the North Sea below them. Croucher brought the fighter out of the turn and straightened it, throttling back to just above a stall. Back in cloud, they were now on a westerly course, relying on instruments only.

  Jones caught a mark on his radar. “Looks like a target of some sort.”

  He studied his two circular displays. One showed height and range, the other direction and range. The outgoing pulse fanned out horizontally on the left display until it came in contact with a downward notch on the centre baseline — the target. To the far right was the ground return. The right display, a vertical view in similar fashion, had the notch to the right of the centre line.

  “We got one, Jack.”

  Jones calculated the distances between the outgoing pulse and target. “Target to starboard, six degrees. Range five thousand yards, five below.”

  Croucher dropped the nose a touch to allow the target to move above and in front of him. “Can’t see a thing through this cloud. It thickened up all of a sudden.” He edged the stick to the right. The radar target bulged and fluctuated on the scope, then settled down. Croucher didn’t want to nose down too severely and dive after him. Building up speed and zooming in on the target could result in flying right past and not getting a good look. In this cloud, he might not even make a proper visual, let alone bear down on him with the cannon.

  “Back off.”

  “Right.” Croucher throttled back.

  They were still in heavy cloud.

  “That’s it. Turn port three degrees. We’re riding the beam.”