by Nick Cook
“That shouldn’t be too difficult,” Herries said smiling. “I find your conditions acceptable.”
“Then you can start by telling us what you saw at Branodz. And leave nothing out. Every detail could be important.”
Herries reached across the table and took a cigarette from White-Smith’s pack. “My dear Colonel, I thought you would never ask,” the traitor said.
* * * * * * * *
Kruze waited until his altimeter read ten thousand metres before shutting down the twin Walter motors and levelling off. The roar of the rocket engines gave way to an eerie whistling as the wind sped by his clear bubble canopy at over 500 mph.
The North Welsh coast and the familiar outline of the island of Anglesea slipped past below him. He had travelled the width of the country in just over half an hour and he still had well over half his fuel left. He double-checked the
T-Stoff and C-Stoff gauges and scribbled down the figures on the scratch-pad strapped above his right knee. Test the range, he’d been told, push the aircraft to its limits. Well he’d done that all right. The Komet was proceeding swiftly and silently towards the coast of the Irish Republic and now Kruze was getting nervous. Marlowe was nowhere in sight.
He put the stubby fighter into a wide turn to the left, searching the revolving scenery before him for a trace of his escort. Marlowe had been despatched to the rendezvous point half an hour before he took off. The Spitfire pilot was to serve a dual purpose. He was to act as chase-plane, monitoring the performance of the Komet from the outside. He was also fighter-escort and guardian. With only a handful of people on the ground aware of the demonstration, Kruze did not want to be bounced by an over-zealous pilot from Fighter Command. He decided to break radio silence.
“Sunflower, this is Kingfisher. Can you hear me? Over.”
Farnborough came back to him on medium strength.
“Go ahead, Kingfisher.”
“Any sign of Hummingbird? I’m getting lonely up here.”
The controller’s voice crackled in his headset. “He should be with you any moment now. Slight icing problem. Keep calm, Kingfisher.”
Kruze glanced out over his wing but could not see very much. The asbestos suit and the protective headgear were severely hampering his freedom of movement. He craned for a look over his shoulder and caught a glimpse of something rising up through the clouds to meet him. It was either Marlowe or someone with rather more hostile intentions. Kruze drew comfort from the knowledge that his rocket motors could get him out of trouble in the blink of an eye. All he had to do was make sure he was not caught on the hop.
He deployed the air brakes momentarily and the speed dropped further still. He was now registering just under four hundred knots.
He hauled the Komet round in a tight circle to bring him into a position to meet the other aircraft. Suddenly a Spitfire broke through the intermittent cloud, its green-grey camouflage prominent against the patchy carpet of cumulus and the shining sea below.
Moments later, the sleek shape of the Spitfire slid alongside the 163, fifty feet off its starboard wing tip. Marlowe gave the Messerschmitt a visual inspection, paying particularly close attention to the area around the tail where the Walters’ searing hot gas had blasted out of the two tiny rocket exhaust ports. The Spitfire weaved round to the other side, where Marlowe carried on with the examination. At last he gave Kruze the thumbs-up.
Kruze went through one more instrument check before satisfying himself that all was safe for the next part of the evaluation, a high speed power dive to find the Komet’s critical Mach number. Marlowe was to try and follow him down for as long as possible. Only if he spotted any problems from the chase plane was he supposed to break the strict radio silence and warn the Rhodesian.
Kruze flexed his fingers before grasping the throttle with his gloved hand. Despite the altitude, he felt hot and sticky under the numerous layers of clothing and the protective hood. He was tempted to tear the whole cumbersome apparatus off his head, but the suit would perhaps just give him time to take to his parachute if anything went wrong. Perhaps.
Concentrate. Use the fear. Feed off it. Work the adrenalin to your advantage.
He eased the throttle forward.
Marlowe saw smoke belch from the 163’s exhaust ports. By the time he reacted, the rocket fighter was rapidly pulling away from him in a shallow dive.
Kruze relayed the progress into his microphone, even though no one could hear him. It was partly force of habit, partly a way of keeping his nerves in check.
“480 mph. Smooth ride. Turbine pressure looking good. No buffet. I’m opening up the motors to eighty per cent.” Calm, steady tones. Like the voice of the bomb disposal expert, Kruze thought. At any moment a split second away from total annihilation.
Concentrate.
Marlowe was losing him. He held the 163 in his gunsight as best he could, flipped off the safety catch above the firing switch on top of the control column and pressed the exposed red button. Within the wings, the gun-cameras whirred into life, catching the motions of the rocket fighter as it receded from view.
“550 mph. Still looking good. All instruments appear normal.” Kruze continued to talk into his microphone.
Buffeting shook Marlowe’s aircraft. At first the motion was barely perceptible, then it grew in intensity as the speed built up and the air that rushed to meet the Spitfire could not get out of the way of its long graceful wings. Marlowe’s plane rocked with vibration as it reached its critical Mach number. He pulled the nose up and let his speed fall off, but continued to monitor the Komet by tracing its path of smoke down towards the sea.
“590 mph and accelerating.” Kruze was still counting. “Just gone through 600 mph. Slight buffet at 610, but only momentary. 620 now. Smooth ride.”
Marlowe watched in horrified fascination as the 163 carved an inexorable path towards the turgid sea, pursued by its angry, fiery trail. He found himself shouting into his mask for Kruze to ease back as he saw the aircraft head for a gap between the clouds. He knew that the cloud base bottomed out at a few thousand feet. A few seconds later and he broke RT silence to issue the warning.
Kruze heard, but decided to press ahead. Something was driving him on, pushing him harder than he had ever gone before. It was a force deep inside that told him this aircraft had to be taken to the limits, no matter the cost. He looked at his altimeter. Five thousand feet. Just a little bit more. He flicked a glance at the airspeed indicator positioned above his height dial. He read out 640 mph. Then the buffet hit him again. It came so suddenly that it took Kruze by surprise. The tiny aircraft shook like a leaf in a raging tempest. The instruments blurred till he could no longer read them. He tried to call out, but the vibrations were so strong that he couldn’t form any words. He was unable to read off his height but he could see the sea rushing up to meet him. To pull back on the column now would exert enough gravitational forces to rip the wings off. He had to get the speed down first.
He fumbled for the throttle lever, found it and shut the Walters down. He inched back on the control column and felt the 163’s nose rise a fraction before the G-forces compressed his body, forcing the blood into his feet, and building until his head felt heavier than a sack of coal and the sea rushed to meet him.
Marlowe, in pursuit, broke through the clouds expecting the smoke column from the 163 to lead straight into the grey waters below. Instead there was nothing. No trail. No wreckage. No oil. The Komet had disappeared.
His gaze focused on a sea bird far away, skimming the waves, pulling up, hanging there, falling, twisting and turning back towards the water. In that moment of disorientation and anxiety, it was one of the most beautiful things Marlowe had ever seen. Mesmerized, he squinted against the sunlight that streamed through the clouds. Then he laughed till the tears rolled down his cheeks.
It wasn’t a sea bird. It was the 163.
* * * * * * * *
At eight thousand feet Kruze pulled round in a wide turn that would bring him ba
ck on a heading for Farnborough’s long runway. Because of the Komet’s high sink rates on the glide path, he knew he would need plenty of height for the approach; the Rostock scientists had warned him it was an unforgiving aircraft to bring in to land. He glanced out over his wing. Marlowe was there, his hand raised in salute.
The test had been a complete success. Not only did the 163C have the considerable range of which Mulvaney and Staverton had spoken, it was also the most manoeuvrable aircraft he had ever flown at high speed - and its speed was awesome.
This was where he really felt alive, where every nerve ending was ready to respond to any situation that could develop within a split second in the cramped confines of a high performance fighter aircraft. The world outside was fickle, ever-changing; but here, he knew where he stood. The elements were unforgiving and a moment’s lapse on his part could spell disaster. It was a constant challenge, but it was the way that he liked it.
Farnborough’s runway grew in his windscreen. It was time to extend the landing skid.
At first he thought he was flying through thin cloud. Then he realized that the smoky wisps were inside the cockpit and seemed to be emanating from the floor. He looked past the cumbersome asbestos suit and felt the hair rise on the back of his neck as he saw the source of the trouble.
He called up the tower.
“Sunflower, I’ve got a big problem. The T-Stoff tank appears to have ruptured inside the cockpit.”
“Say again, Kingfisher.”
Kruze cursed. “I’ve got a split fuel tank dammit, but I’m coming into land. Alert the crash trucks.”
Before the youthful officer in the tower could respond, Marlowe cut in on the RT.
“Kruze, don’t be a bloody fool. You’ve got plenty of height. Bale out now. Forget bringing the 163 in, that fuel will eat through you in a second if you get a serious leak in there.”
Kruze could now see the tiny pinprick hole in the starboard tank where the fuel was spilling onto the floor of the cockpit. He watched, half fascinated, half in horror as the hydrogen peroxide began to eat through the rubber cover at the base of the control column, sending noxious contrails spiralling up against the clear canopy. Even beneath goggles, his eyes began to run as the vapour worked its way through the tiny gaps between the glass and the frame.
He looked around for an extinguisher, but couldn’t see one. It was quite useless anyway. Once the chemicals started to eat their way into the aircraft, nothing could stop them except hundreds of gallons of water.
He estimated that he was about one mile down range of the runway now, at an altitude of a thousand feet.
Fifty feet to his left, Marlowe could scarcely see the hunched figure of Kruze for the swirling fumes inside the cockpit. He yelled another warning.
Kruze heard but ignored the desperate pleas. He disconnected the lead that ran from his headset to the instrument panel. The silence enabled him to concentrate on his dials and his badly obscured view of the runway. He looked down quickly and saw the colourless liquid seeping from the widening hole in the tank in little spurts, like blood pumped from a severed vein. T-Stoff sloshed around the floor of the cockpit. It had completely dissolved the rubber where the joystick met the floor and Kruze imagined it eating through the linkages that ran from the bottom of the control column to the hydraulic lines leading to the control surfaces. Once those were damaged he’d lose all control, the 163 would peel away and hit the ground. If that happens, may it be instantaneous, he thought. Anything but a slow death in the acid bath that surrounded him.
He was down to a few hundred feet. If he had wanted to bale out, now it was too late.
Concentrate. You’re committed now a hundred per cent. There’s no going back.
He looked for the flap selector lever, remembering that it was somewhere near his left leg. The flaps deployed, but the aircraft felt as if it had barely slowed. It was hurtling for the runway at over 200 mph.
It was then that he saw the quick-dump lever for the fuel. How could he have been so bloody stupid? He pulled the handle hard and felt the aircraft buck as the remaining pounds of the lethal T-Stoff fell away harmlessly, evaporating over the Hampshire countryside. He kept his heels at the top of the rudder bars, avoiding the fuel that still glistened on the floor.
He crossed over the airfield perimeter fence at over 170 mph. He couldn’t get the bitch to slow down any more than that.
The Komet banged the runway hard, spraying the hydrogen peroxide all over the cockpit. Horrified, Kruze saw parts of the Perspex canopy begin to dissolve. Vapour hissed from his suit where the acid tried to eat through the asbestos. He prayed that the aircraft would not flip onto its back.
He pulled the emergency canopy release cord while the Komet was still bumping along the runway. The slipstream tore it off the fuselage and it skidded across the concrete, coming to rest on the grass perimeter, where the T-Stoff carried on gnawing great holes in the Perspex.
Kruze released his safety straps and sprang out of his seat. He rolled over the side of the cockpit, across the wing and onto the ground as the rocket fighter came to a halt. Then he was on his feet, desperately trying to tear the smouldering suit from his body. He pulled the hood off his head and took in great gulps of air. Then the fire trucks were around him, hosing him down with cool, clear water. It splashed over his face, bringing him out of the nightmare.
The 163 stood a few yards away. One crash truck filled the cockpit with water, while another sprayed down the wings and the fuselage.
Jeeps and lorries tore across the runway towards the aircraft. Kruze stepped out of his soaking asbestos suit and strode off in the opposite direction, towards the debrief room.
If Staverton wanted his report, he could give it to him right now. The Messerschmitt 163C was a killer.
CHAPTER FOUR
Lavrenty Beria, head of the NKVD, watched the sun start to slip behind the dilapidated roof of the Art Theatre across the way from his small apartment on Kuznecki Most. It was going to be another crystal clear evening, the ebbing, wintry sun casting golden spears of light onto the tops of the spires and domes that were scattered amongst the drab living blocks that remained on Moscow’s decimated skyline.
Beria liked to escape to this, his ‘other’ apartment, when his duties allowed. Surrounded by luxurious furnishings and an abundant supply of vodka, he would while away the small hours here, in a city where two thirds of the population was on the brink of starvation.
Tonight, as always, he was not alone. The girl whom he had spotted at the gymnastics competition during a morale-boosting Young Communist League festival the previous summer was still his favourite, but the general’s daughter who now lay in his bed in the next door room came close, very close. His body ached at the thought of her, but first he had to work. It would increase his appetite for what would come later.
He flipped through the pages of the dossier. It was an exercise he pursued regularly. It not only helped him watch Stalin’s back, but also his own.
As he did so he was once more impressed by the breadth of his intelligence-gathering network. Information was power. It was also insurance. His NKVD men had furnished him with every detail he wanted to know about each senior officer in Frontal Command. If any one of them so much as played with himself at night, Beria knew about it.
He sensed a movement to his left. The girl was beside him, shielding her eyes from the glare of the lamp on his desk. She looked slightly ridiculous in the shirt that he had given her as a nightdress, but he patted her on the buttocks as if to tell her to run along back to bed. In a few more minutes he planned to be with her.
“Why, that’s Uncle Nikolai,” she said in a sleepy voice, pointing at the photograph in the file.
“I did not know Nikolai Ivanovich was your uncle, beloved.”
“He’s not really,” she replied. “It’s just that he used to come round and see Papa a lot. He was nice to me. He used to bring me cakes from his wife. I liked him, so I called him Uncle. He was nic
er to me than the others.”
“What others?” He eased her round and on to his lap, slipping a hand up under her shirt.
“The friends of Papa. They used to come to our apartment. I did not like them very much because they took Papa away from me.”
“What do you mean, beloved?”
“They talked for hours and hours. They would not let me or Mama go near them. Then Papa went back to the war. Now my mother cries every day and I hear her at night, too. She thinks she will never see Papa again.”
A tear bulged in the corner of her eye.
“Who were these men?”
“I do not know their names. They never used to talk to me. Except for Uncle Nikolai. The old man scared me especially. There was something horrible in his eyes. I used to hate to look in his eyes. They gave me nightmares.”
“What old man?” Beria asked. There was more than idle curiosity in his voice now.
“He was tall and thin, with grey hair and wrinkly skin. And cold blue eyes. My father was scared of him, I think.”
“But your father is a general, beloved. He should be scared of no man.” Except for Stalin. And me, Beria thought.
“I think it is because the old man is senior that Papa was scared,” she said defensively.
“Senior to your father? That would make him a marshal.” He was thinking aloud. The girl began to inch away from him, startled by his change in mood.
Something within Beria told him to go on. Clandestine meetings of army officers, one of whom was a marshal; what was this? His mind raced. Since the purges, even brothers over the rank of lieutenant would restrict their visits to each other. If Stalin ever got to hear about such gatherings he would want to know what was so interesting that groups of officers could not talk openly in the staff room or in the halls of the Kremlin. Comrade Stalin distrusted such men. They usually did not last very long.
He grabbed the girl by the shoulders and shook her until she cried with the pain.