Moral Compass (The Samuel Beasley Trilogy Book 1)

by Adam J Watts

  The person he sought held significant status within the Nazi party. His name was Hackbeil and he would regret the day he ever dragged Caitlin into this fight.

  Seb now knew of the German, thanks to a little digging in MI6 archives.

  Naturally Gerald had not wanted to foot the bill for his little business trip to Jersey and as such had invoiced his employers accordingly.

  It was a bit like one of those decoding machines he had read about in the news; if you knew the cipher with which the message was written, you stood a far better chance of cracking the code.

  He knew the dates he and Stratton had visited the Channel Islands, so the next part was common sense.

  Cross referencing the passenger log of the daily ferry from St. Malo to St. Hellier, with that of any German nationals, Seb had found only three.

  The next port of call had been a quick rummage through the extensive collection of dossiers on members of the rapidly growing Nazi party. Britain was understandably watchful of any overseas political activity and as such did not take the task of recording the details lightly.

  Thankfully the collator has been so kind as to organise the documents alphabetically and this saved Seb some precious time. Time which he would duly spend learning something even more valuable from the old inventor, Henry.

  Unsurprisingly Gerald had lied to him. He was going to sell him like a cow at market. The next big thing in warfare: the genetically engineered soldier, a spy that could not only calculate and act out a carefully constructed plan but also implement it with little to no emotional response.

  Unfortunately for Sir Stratton he had unwittingly created a monster. This particular prototype was off the leash. They may have been able to take away his ability to feel anything except physical pain, but he still had a mind of his own. An extremely versatile mind and one with a lust for vengeance.

  Wherever Herman Hackbeil was hiding, he was coming for him. It may have been foolhardy to hunt down the very man that previously tried to capture you, but he no longer cared about himself.

  All that mattered was getting things back to how they once were.

  ***

  Getting aboard a Wellington bomber hadn't been as difficult as he'd first imagined. A convincing disguise, coupled with an equally believable lie or two soon had him inside the R.A.F. base.

  Seb had no official flight orders and anything he said would not stand up if questioned. He therefore elected for the safest course of action: wait until it was dark and sneak inside a plane.

  ***

  'Who the devil are you?' the navigator shouted above the drone of the engines.

  'I'm your deadhead mate,' replied Seb in an equally booming bellow.

  'You're our what?'

  'Special delivery. Once you've unloaded your own cargo, I have orders for you to drop me over France.’

  The navigator looked sceptical and tapped the wireless operator's shoulder. Seb intervened, 'No can do mate. Absolute radio silence. Nobody is to know I am here.’ With this, the stowaway removed an identity card from his jacket pocket and held it out for the crew member to read.

  He had known back at the ministry that a blank Secret Service pass would come in handy. That's why he liberated it just before he started the fire.

  'Too dark...' he complained, to which Seb took out his lighter. Once things had become clear the airman didn't argue. Granted he did look a little perplexed when their unannounced guest held the document over the naked flame, but he did not speak out again.

  'Like I said: absolute secrecy. Can hardly get caught with this down there. My identity would be confirmed and I would be tortured for my intelligence.’

  To say the time flew by would not only be corny, but an exaggeration. It was a nerve-wracking experience up in the clouds and Seb made a mental note there and then to put anyone straight who so much as suggested otherwise.

  He checked his watch. They had been flying for about an hour when they hit some resistance. Perhaps a better way of phrasing this would be to say that some resistance hit them. Thankfully the squadron in which Seb found himself had been provided with an aerial escort. The Wellington Bomber was after all, not renowned for its manoeuvrability.

  Unfortunately, the support had been given direct orders not to engage the enemy over Europe, as the number of fighter planes needed to defend the skies above Britain was dwindling every day.

  Seb found this little gem of information out the hard way. Approximately five minutes after the Spitfires departed, the rear gunner -- or, 'Tail End Charlie’s as they were more affectionately known -- bought a packet.

  There had been a loud cry from the rear of the plane followed by a thud. A tragic waste of life, but one which would need to be quickly replaced.

  'Make yourself useful! Get back there and man that gun.’

  It was the navigator again, but this time he was far more forceful. Seb simply stared at him, the dead crew member, then back at the navigator again. 'Should be a doddle for someone like you... Now get a move on! We're sitting ducks up here without a Charlie!'

  This was actually happening. He would have to man a Browning .303 Mark 2 machine gun and return fire on the Luftwaffe. How hard could it be right? Just point and shoot. If they could train these chaps in a few hard weeks, he was sure he could pick up the basics in an evening.

  How wrong could he have been. The trajectory, wind speed and poor visibility all contributed to making the task much harder than expected. Still, something was better than nothing and he was bound to find the mark sooner or later.

  Conserving ammunition was another factor he'd failed to consider. There wasn't an infinite amount and these big boys certainly churned through bullets at an alarming rate. They would be lucky to have enough for one way, let alone a return trip!

  Did he hit something then? He could have sworn there had been a flare from the engine of one of the German planes. Maybe not.

  It didn't make much of a difference anyway, because something bad had happened front and centre.

  Smoke was beginning to fill the fuselage and the visibility inside was almost as bad as that out there in

  the night sky. Although he didn't want to abandon his post, Seb realised the importance of investigating the situation.

  He didn't like what he saw. Bullet holes ran diagonally down one side of the plane and the freezing cold air penetrated the cockpit. The wireless operator was almost certainly dead and the navigator was frantically searching the table map in a quest for some sort of bearing.

  Seb continued past him and up to the front of the bomber. Despite the relatively short distance, it was a deceptively tricky journey. The turbulence was immense, throwing crew and cargo from side to side at a moment’s notice.

  Finally he had reached the two front seats. There was good news and bad news. The flight engineer was lying lifeless on the floor, but the pilot still had the controls.

  'Think she's beyond repair?' Seb ventured in the direction of the Pilot.

  To his credit he managed a smile before giving his reply.

  'We've been through worse. A bit of electricians tape should do the trick!'

  Seb was about to smile himself, when he happened upon the full story. The pilot was wounded and badly by the look of things.

  'What about you? Might we kill two birds with one stone?' he was of course referring to the use of tape to patch up the flyer.

  'Too late for that I'm afraid. Going to have to ditch her in a field... unless you know how to fly?'

  He paused for a moment. He wasn't going to make the same mistake again. This was almost certainly more complicated than it looked.

  'No, but I'm a quick learner.’

  'That's the spirit... Move me into Dick's seat will you? I'm sure he won't mind.’

  Seb carefully removed the pilot and placed him on the sideways facing chair.

  'Take the controls!' the wounded man barked, 'Or we'll be down there a lot sooner than we'd like.’

  'Could we not just jump for
it?' Seb shouted, whilst choking on some smoke.

  'You could have, but it's a bit late now. I don't think I can move again.’

  Seb tried in vain to peer through the broken glass.

  'Here, try these!'

  The pilot was holding out a pair of goggles with one hand and holding in his stomach with the other.

  'Thanks.’

  Seb put them on as quickly as he could.

  'Sorry about the blood,' laughed the commanding officer.

  'Not a problem. So what do I do now?'

  'Keep the controls steady and gradually push forward when you're ready to take her down.’

  Of all the flights, he had to choose this one. Then again, he imagined most bombing raids were like this. The figures didn't lie. There were more planes lost, than those that made it back.

  'What's your name?' enquired the pilot. Seb saw no reason to lie to a dying man.

  'Beasley, Samuel Beasley. Yours?'

  'Reilly. Michael. A pleasure to meet you Mr. Beasley... Claire is in good hands.’

  'Claire?'

  'The old girl... the plane man! We've been on sixteen flights together.’

  He was fading fast. He must have lost a lot of blood already and was becoming incoherent.

  'Stay with me Michael!' Seb urged.

  'I'm right here... If the instruments are still working, use them. If not, you'll have to do it the old fashioned way,' he coughed.

  'Which is?'

  No reply. Seb repeated the question, only this time a little louder.

  'Which is?'

  'Sorry... Use the horizon. Ease back on the throttle as you push forward. Check the landing gear... If we still have any.’

  This was reassuring to hear.

  'Which lever is it?'

  'Down by... your... seat.’

  There it was. Seb tugged on the handbrake style lever. Something made a scraping noise.

  'One last push old girl... Do it for me.’ Reilly's voice was almost a whisper now.

  'Stay with me sir.’ This was more of a plea than an order.

  'What do you think you're doing?' came a familiar voice from behind.

  'Landing this thing. Where the hell have you been? Can you fly a plane?'

  'No. I've been checking the maps. Trying to find out where we are...'

  Seb was not impressed.

  'Stick around and you'll find out first hand. We're going down.’

  'We're what?' The news had clearly startled the navigator.

  'It's under control. Sit down and buckle yourself in.’

  It took a moment for the reality of the situation to sink in. Finally the crewman retook his seat.

  'How can you be so calm at a time like this?' he shouted.

  Seb had only one answer. Gerald's answer.

  'Trade secrets... Hold on.’

  ***

  The impact had been painful, but this was good, because it meant he wasn't dead.

  He was having some trouble focussing his vision though. No matter how hard he blinked he still couldn't see a thing.

  Suddenly he realised why. The cockpit was full of smoke.

  He needed to move and quickly. Something was obviously on fire and with a combination of fuel and ammunition things were likely to go off with a bang.

  After a rather impromptu wrestling match with his own safety harness, Seb was free. His first port of call was the pilot. Dead.

  Hastily he reached inside the fallen flier's jacket pockets. He was looking for anything of importance. A personal belonging perhaps. Something he could send

  home to his family. He was a good man and deserved this last mark of respect.

  Seb had heard stories about how some pilots and air crew carried with them a letter or final message to their loved ones, should this very eventuality occur.

  Reilly was apparently one such pilot and Seb pocketed the letter along with what appeared to be a cigarette lighter and something small and metallic.

  Staggering to his feet again, Seb forced his way through some twisted sheet metal and into the main fuselage of the plane. Crikey it was hot in here. Something was snagging at his boot. He looked down to see what the offending article was and hopefully shake the shrapnel loose.

  'Help me...' came a gasping voice.

  It was the navigator. He appeared to be trapped under his own map table.

  'I'll try and get you out.’

  On closer inspection the wall of the aircraft appeared to have caved in and be pressing down on the table, which in turn had the stricken crew member pinned to the floor.

  'I don't think I can move it. You're pinned down by the side of the plane.’

  'Don't leave me here to burn.’

  The anguish and fear in his eyes was unbearable. Seb wished just this once that he could share his ability with someone. Provide this poor fellow with a fearless final five minutes.

  'What can I do?' he asked, bereft of all hope.

  'Pilot... revolver.’

  Seb weighed things up. In the circumstances, it probably was the kindest thing to do.

  He turned and headed back towards the cockpit of the Wellington. Apparently there was a firearm up here somewhere and he needed to locate it.

  It would make sense to store such an item in some kind of holdall or box, but perhaps the pilot kept it on his person?

  Nothing on the body. He already knew this from his earlier search. The fumes from the fire must be starting to cloud his judgement.

  Under the seat perhaps?

  A Webley. That would certainly do the trick.

  He returned to where the navigator remained and asked one final question.

  'Any last requests?'

  He felt like some sort of executioner. How could the right course of action, so often feel like the wrong one?

  Chapter Twenty-Five: A Chance Meeting ~ Winter 1942

  Seb had driven the stolen vehicle in the general direction of the radio tower for approximately twenty minutes. It was hard to see where you were going with the headlights off, but it was essential for a night-time sortie of this nature.

  Now adorned in his latest disguise, he had to remember it was Russian forces he needed to avoid. If located, they would shoot him on site and ask questions later. Slowly Seb killed the engine and slid from the car, his jackboots squelching in the mud as he did so.

  Up ahead was the tallest building in the city. It was one of the few left standing after the continuous bombardment from the German bombers. Squinting through the darkness he could just make out the shape of an embankment.

  If he played his cards right, he might be able to drive straight up the fortification and talk his way through the blockade. He at least looked the part now. The radio tower itself was obviously on top of the building and