by Nick Cook
paused. “I’ll leave him to explain exactly what gives the Komet its awesome performance.”
Mulvaney stepped down from the podium and took a seat alongside the brass who watched in silence as the oldest of the scientists from Rostock took a step forward to the front of the stage. He removed his protective headgear and, as Fleming had discovered at Rostock, spoke hesitantly but with a good command of English.
“The Komet can reach a speed of over a thousand kilometres an hour - that is six hundred and twenty-five miles per hour. Remarkable you will agree, yes? I will now show you what sort of fuel produces the energy to make this possible.”
While the German moved round behind the table and replaced his headgear, two of his colleagues brought forward an enormous sheet of Perspex which they held between the table and the audience. The chief technician then produced two glass phials, no bigger than the top of a fountain pen. When he showed them to the audience, pinching the glass gingerly between thumb and forefinger, Kruze could see the surface of a clear fluid dancing delicately inside each container.
His voice was muffled behind the mask.
“In my hands I hold two different fluids - in the left, C-Stoff and in the right, T-Stoff. The Komet’s internal tanks contain 1160 litres of T-Stoff and 492 litres of C-Stoff. That is around two tons of fuel altogether. Remember these quantities when I show you what happens when only a centilitre of each is mixed together.”
He poured a drop of C-Stoff into a flat glass dish and then gently eased off the metallic lid of the T-Stoff” phial. He held it for a few seconds over the dish while his hand steadied and then in a quick, precise movement, emptied the liquid onto its shimmering counterpart.
The second the two made contact, there was a blinding explosion, sending shards of glass flying up against the Perspex screen. When the smoke from the table started to dissipate, the scientist took off his headgear and looked with some satisfaction at the faces of his audience.
Admiral Welland was the first to speak. “What the devil is that stuff?”
“C-Stoff,” the German said mechanically, “is mainly methyl alcohol and is innocent enough on its own. But when mixed with the T-Stoff, or hydrogen peroxide, it produces a massive cryogenic reaction. The chemicals are easy enough to produce. It’s controlling them once they are mixed that is difficult, very difficult.”
“You mean those two substances are mixed in the engine’s combustion chamber and burn on their own to give the aircraft its rocket power?” The admiral asked.
“Precisely.”
The room filled with the excited murmurings of the dozen or so spectators.
“It is hardly necessary for me to add,” Hausser said nervously over the hubbub, “that this fuel is highly unstable. We had several instances at Rostock where the T-Stoff leaked into the cockpit and literally dissolved the pilot. T-Stoff will instantly decompose anything of an organic nature; clothes, skin, rubber - even iron and steel. For this reason we had to make the fuel tanks out of aluminium. Even then, we could not prevent all leaks.”
The demonstration over, Kruze wandered alone back to the Komet. The technicians were still working frantically to prepare the aircraft for its first flight. It was the haste of the flight-test programme that alarmed him. On previous occasions he had taken captured aircraft up on the day they had arrived at Farnborough, but this little bitch was different - a rocket fighter that could fly at over 6oomph, laden with two tons of liquid explosive.
He climbed into the cockpit and eased himself into the tiny bucket seat, casting his eyes over the simple instrument panel. The intruding bay containing the cannon squashed his legs together to the extent that he had difficulty operating the rudder pedals. He called over Broyles who was working on the wing behind him.
“Hey chief, couldn’t we take out the weapon bay to make a bit more room for me in here? I can hardly move my damned legs.”
The seasoned old engineer grinned ruefully. “That’s no weapon bay, sir. It’s the fuel tank that houses the hydrogen peroxide for the rocket motor. I’m afraid there’s nothing we can do about it.”
* * * * * * * *
The ground crew were strapping Kruze into the cockpit of the 163C when Staverton walked into the hangar. Welland’s last words were still ringing in the AVM’s ears. He had threatened to cancel the demonstration on the spot, so acute was his concern about the fuel.
Utter chaos appeared to surround the Komet. Technicians were pumping water through the steam generator to prevent any inadvertent mixing of the two cryogenic rocket fuels. Other engineers played hoses over the ground directly beneath the aircraft in case any spilled.
As Staverton drew up alongside the cockpit, he could see wraith-like wisps of noxious T-Stoff gas venting out of the safety valves on top of the aircraft’s fuselage. All the crew who had spent the night and morning working on the Komet wore masks to stop them from ingesting the deadly hydrogen peroxide. Kruze was wrapped in his asbestos flying suit and had his oxygen mask clamped firmly across his face.
The hangar doors were winched back to admit the little tractor which would tow the Komet out to the end of the runway.
Even after his extensive briefings from the Komet’s designers and engineers that morning, Kruze was still poring over the dials and switches that dotted the instrument panel.
He looked up and saw Staverton’s outstretched hand; he shook it and went back to his instruments.
“I know this air-test is only meant for checking out the speed and range of this thing,” Staverton shouted to make himself heard, “but could you pull out all the stops over the airfield. For the brass from the War Ministry, you understand. It could be important.”
If the AVM had asked him before he had climbed into the aircraft, Kruze would have told him to take a running jump. If he was to take risks, he wanted answers. But in the cockpit, Kruze was a different person. He felt no negative emotion now, just a desire to get on with the job, mingled with excitement and trepidation at the awesome power of the aircraft he was to ride and break, like a wild steer at a cattle-meet. He gave Staverton the thumbs-up.
As the Komet slid out of the hangar, Kruze waggled the control column from side to side and looked down the wings to check that the ailerons were responding to his commands. If he noticed Staverton’s wave, he never acknowledged it.
The head of the EAEU started the long walk to the far end of the runway where the invited VIPs were watching, and waiting.
* * * * * * * *
The tractor positioned the Komet at the end of Farnborough’s main runway so that all Kruze could see was concrete stretching into the distance over the aircraft’s nose.
Everything was quiet in the cockpit, except for a slight hissing sound from the two idling Walter rocket engines which were waiting for the command to explode into life.
Kruze sat bunched in the bucket seat, preparing himself for the signal from the tower. An image of Penny sprang into his mind, her eyes sad and her lips mouthing silent words. Kruze shook his head to clear the picture. It felt like a bad omen.
His headset crackled.
“Tower to Kruze. You are clear to take off. Good luck.”
Kruze nudged the throttle lever to its first position. There was a muffled sound from the rear of the aircraft and a dull vibration shook the airframe. The turbine tachometer read around fifty per cent. All systems normal. Kruze pushed the lever to the second stage. The Walters roared, their thrust pushing the little aircraft hard against the two chocks in front of the wheels. One final glance at the instruments and Kruze banged the throttle to its last stage. The reaction was instantaneous. The Komet bounded over the chocks and a wall of gravity pushed Kruze back into his seat. Straining to keep his eyes level with the instruments, he watched the needle on the airspeed indicator surge forward, while outside the concrete rushed past in a blur at the periphery of his vision. The control column went loose and then with a slight application of back pressure from the wrist, the Komet was airborne.
&nb
sp; Kruze’s whole body tingled with excitement. The power was phenomenal.
Concentrate, man. He had forgotten to jettison the wheels. He pushed the selector forward and felt the Komet jump again as the heavy undercarriage dolly fell the fifty feet to the ground. One more check of the instruments told him that he had a hundred per cent boost while he was still over the airfield.
He thought of the stuffed shirts from the Ministry who were gathered below and Staverton’s last minute, somewhat awkward, instructions that they should leave Farnborough impressed. Climbing rapidly, he swung the aircraft towards the west.
As the noise of the rocket motors receded, Staverton glanced at the other delegates to gauge their impression of the take-off. Welland, the most influential of the party, seemed more interested in the final resting place of the take-off dolly, which had bounced its way into a thicket on the other side of the airfield. Deering pulled his fingers out of his ears, with a look of mild irritation on his face, as if a child had just exploded a firework nearby. Staverton turned back to the part of the horizon where he had last seen the Komet and swore softly. He had hoped that Kruze was going to beat up the airfield.
Deering walked over to Staverton and tugged him by the arm. They strolled over to the edge of the runway, safely out of earshot of the others. Staverton looked back and saw Welland walking their way with an expression on his face that told him his verdict was already prepared for delivery.
“Damn noisy machine,” Deering said. “The Russians would hear something like that coming a mile off, wouldn’t they?”
Staverton resisted the temptation to raise his voice. “George, as I tried to explain before, with Kruze going at high speed and low-level, they wouldn’t have a clue until it was too late. As the Komet approaches the target the sound wave would be a mere two or three seconds in front of the aircraft itself. It would give them no time to react.”
Deering looked at Staverton. “I’m not so sure I like the idea. Besides, this thing was designed as a fighter, wasn’t it? How is Kruze going to have time to learn how it operates as a bomber?”
Staverton felt his control of the situation slipping away. “Kruze is already familiar with the aircraft’s on-board bombing aids. The Komet uses much of the same equipment as the Messerschmitt 262, which he flew extensively here at Farnborough.”
Deering nodded. “The 262 is their jet fighter-bomber, isn’t it? It’s supposed to be quite a machine.”
“That’s right.” Staverton shifted uncomfortably. He had set the trap up for himself.
“Then why don’t we use that for the operation?” Deering asked.
“We can’t,” Staverton said, watching the approach of Welland out of the corner of his eye. “The 262 suffered a bad mid-air engine failure. We lost the aircraft.”
“You lost it? One of the things I did pick up at the briefing this morning was that rocket power is inherently more dangerous than jet power. And now you’re telling me that you lost the jet fighter because of engine failure.”
“It’s not quite as simple as that, George,” Staverton started.
Deering cut him off; Welland was almost upon them. “Look, Algy, I wanted to support you in this, I wanted it to work. Much as I hate to admit it, perhaps the Admiral’s right. We drop an assassination team into Czechoslovakia instead.”
Staverton crashed his fist into his open palm. “At least do me the courtesy of waiting until the test’s over.”
Welland confronted them. “Too noisy, too dangerous, too risky,” he said briskly. He drew breath to deliver the death blow, but never even began the sentence. His eyes caught a slight movement behind Staverton, somewhere on the edge of the airfield. Suddenly the Komet was upon them, so low, that in Welland’s split-second of awareness, he thought it would destroy them all. He threw himself to the ground, his warning to the others drowned by the deafening sound of the Komet’s engines as it flashed overhead.
On the other side of the airfield, flying at just over fifty feet, Kruze pulled the control column hard back. The Komet sat on its tail and blasted through a gap in the wispy clouds, leaving a vertical column of fire and smoke behind it.
Staverton bent down and offered Welland his hand. “Of course it’s dangerous and risky,” he said, a trace of a smile on his lips, “but a rocket fighter’s only noisy once it’s gone past you, Admiral.”
The Admiral took his hand and was pulled to his feet. He tried in vain to find the Komet in the clear blue sky between the clouds, but Kruze was already far away, heading towards the North Wales coast and the Irish Sea beyond, where he would put the rocket fighter’s range and endurance to the test.
“Rather than stand around and hear my apologies,” Welland said, “I suggest we all go back to London straight away. I’m going to support this low-level bombing scheme of yours to the PM, Staverton, so you’d better start getting down to the nitty-gritty at once.” He adjusted his cap. “Congratulations,” he added. “You were right. I just hope you can organize this thing in the few days we have left.”
They headed for their separate staff cars. Staverton managed to catch Fleming’s eye and stabbed a finger in the direction of the car park. At least by the end of the journey he would have enlisted some extra help in his crusade against Archangel.
* * * * * * * *
From the tiny window of his attic room in the safe house maintained by Military Intelligence down a narrow alley in Shepherd Market, Herries could see a vignette of London life that a few days before he had never expected to see again. Directly below, a queue had formed outside a shop which had just taken delivery of fresh vegetables. An old lady at the front of the line seemed to be having difficulty in finding her ration card, but no one seemed to mind as she fumbled myopically inside her bag for the elusive document. Ah, the patience of the English, Herries thought.
The iron bars which hindered his view did nothing to dampen his elation. If they had made him a prisoner since his arrival in London, at least he had the status of a highly prized captive. A doctor had treated the last traces of his dysentery and the questioning had been very civilized. They wanted him alive. They were co-operating and behaving like gentlemen, which was more than could be said for those ignorant squaddies who had tried to beat the shit out of him in Pilzen.
The key rattled in the door of the cell. When it was pushed open, Herries recognized the silhouette of the MI 6 colonel who had interviewed him until the early hours of the morning. He could readily detect the distaste that the man felt, but it had never openly manifested itself in taunts or insults.
White-Smith pulled a chair up to the table in the middle of the room. He motioned for Herries to sit down.
“I hope you’re not going to keep me here much longer, Colonel?”
“Oh?” White-Smith looked with disdain at the ill-fitting suit that Intelligence had given Herries on his arrival in London.
“I made a deal,” Herries said. “I gave you the biggest bloody military secret of the war and now I expect to see you start honouring your part of the bargain.”
White-Smith lit a cigarette, but did not offer the pack. “Do not push us too far, Herries.” He did not look up. “Agreements made in time of war have a nasty habit of turning sour.”
“Then perhaps I should remind you,” Herries snarled, “that you need me if you stand any chance of stopping Archangel.”
“Why? We have the charts and the plan. What more can you do for us?”
“Don’t play games with me, Colonel. If you were going to kill me, you would have done it by now. No, you need me, because you don’t know what to do about a certain gentleman who is threatening to roll several thousand tanks and millions of men across Europe. Oh yes, you’ll tell me that you’re negotiating and that there is a diplomatic solution to this mess, but you know as well as I that the Russian is a conniving bastard. He’ll promise you one thing and then do the bloody opposite. I know the Russian, Colonel. I’ve lived with him. Yes, literally. Gazing up at the stars from my beautifully propor
tioned, shit-filled trench outside Stalingrad, I could hear them talking to each other. Sometimes we’d throw cigarettes to them - yes, we were that close. Then all we’d have to do was wait for one of them to crawl into no-man’s land, fire a star-shell and put a bullet up his arsehole. Five minutes later and, hey-ho another one would pop up, only to be dropped like the first by one of my snipers. All for one lousy cigarette.” He chuckled. “From time to time we’d take them prisoner. Some wouldn’t even blink as we put revolvers into the back of their heads and pulled the trigger. Others would try and do deals, side with us, denounce Stalin, offer their services.”
“Have you quite finished?” White-Smith ground the stub of his cigarette under his heel.
Herries laughed. “Ah, the English stiff upper lip. It makes you feel good to be back.”
“There are some things about the area we need to know,” White-Smith said, trying to contain his anger. “The dummy build-up at Chrudim, for inst- “
“Didn’t I make myself clear to you?” Herries banged his fist on the table. “No more information until you’ve got something for me. When do I get out of here?”
“You’ll be leaving here shortly.”
“Just like that, I suppose.”
“We’ll give you a new identity, of course. Effectively, you’ll be able to start a new life, Herries. I hope you make a better job of it this time.”
Herries snorted. “What do you know of my life?”
“Quite a bit, actually,” White-Smith said.
“Get to the point, damn you. When do I get out of here?”
“There are certain conditions you must observe before we release you.”
“Such as?”
“We want to know the names of all the members of the British Free Corps that you came across during your training and operational service.”