by Ted Bell
“Duly noted. It won’t be any picnic for sure. But listen, old boy, if anyone in this man’s outfit can do it, it’s you. And that’s not flattery. It’s the bloody truth.”
“Don’t be so modest. You could do it, too, Peter.”
“Thanks for that. By the by, procuring this Nazi flying machine was a breeze for us. I think you had a little help at the Air Ministry from on high. From Number Ten Downing Street. Apparently, despite a lot of pushback from the backbenchers that Operation SKYHOOK is plainly a foolhardy scheme that will no doubt lead to disaster. But the prime minister is very optimistic that you can pull this thing off, if anyone can. I’m inclined to go along with Winston’s assessment, sir. You can do it. And it will be such an enormous step forward in the war effort. Those wolf packs in the Channel will get a jolly good taste of their own medicine. That much is certain!”
“Thanks, Peter. And thanks ever so much for finding that damn Luftwaffe bomber for me. I wasn’t quite sure how this was all going to come together, to be honest. Still not, actually.”
“Well, as I said, I had a great deal of help procuring the necessary equipment. I looked through mountains of captured enemy equipment at Cardington and acquired suitable German uniforms and weapons. You’ll look the part. I can guarantee that.
“At any rate, the lads of the eighteenth are glad they might get a chance to say hullo whilst you’re here at Archbury. Wish you luck, that sort of thing. Everybody’s rooting for you and your Deep Six crew, sir.”
“Appreciate that, Peter. Now, tell me about the crew.”
“You’ll meet them this morning. All five of them handpicked by the air vice marshal at Whitehall. They’re all here for a familiarization tour of the airplane with yours truly.”
“You’re happy with the lot of them?”
“Beyond happy. These lads are all first-rate. Every one of them as good as they come. And straining at the traces to get under way.”
“Remind me to ring up the old man, give him my personal thanks.”
“Of course. Happy to oblige, Alex. I can’t tell you how much I’ve been looking forward to this very moment. A lot of us believe this idea of yours has been long overdue, too long on the shelf.”
“Well, we’ll see, won’t we? I just hope the Nazi bomber you got me is airworthy.”
“Oh, I think you’re going to be more than pleased. What we’ve found for you is a sterling example of its kind, to tell you the truth. Never shot down. Not a bullet hole anywhere. Virgin.”
“How the hell did you come by such a find?”
“Simple. The Krauts on her inaugural mission across the Channel ran out of fuel after an extended bombing run at Canterbury. Had to ditch her just off the cliffs of Dover. Pristine condition. Royal Navy boys plucked the crew out of the water, some of them still alive. Then they towed the old girl back to Portsmouth Harbour, where she was first mothballed. The Air Ministry was reluctant to let her go, to be honest.”
“Where is she now?”
Hawke stood back as a mud-spattered RAF four-door sedan, with big RAF roulons on the back doors, rolled to a stop on the tarmac. The driver, a sergeant who looked hardly old enough to be in long pants, saluted the two officers smartly. Mainwaring pulled open the rear passenger door for his friend.
“Hop in the back, and we’ll go have a look at your new bird. She’s on the other side of the field, just outside the officers’ club, where everyone can get a good look at her.”
“Delighted, let’s go,” Hawke said as Mainwaring climbed into the backseat next to him. The driver engaged first gear, and they roared off down the runway where the gallant Spitfires would shortly be lined up for takeoff, headed up into the skies for the day’s sorties against the Nazi flyboys.
“Tell me more about my new joyride, Colonel,” Hawke said above the unmuffled roar of the engine. He found himself strangely excited about the prospect of actually, finally, seeing his grand scheme come together. “A Heinkel, I would imagine?”
“Most certainly. The Heinkel HE One Eleven is the most numerous of the German bombers we see daily over England. Actually, it’s been the primary Luftwaffe bomber at this stage of the war as Göring brings the new Junkers on line. How much detail can you stand, Commander Hawke?”
“All you got, Colonel.”
“All right, then. Don’t say I didn’t warn you. I eat, dream, and sleep these bloody things, so stop me if I bore you to tears. . . .”
“Hardly likely. I’m all ears.”
“The HE One Eleven is a fast medium German bomber designed by Siegfried and Walter Günter in the early nineteen thirties. She was built in secret and in direct violation of the Treaty of Versailles. The Germans insisted it was merely a transport aircraft, causing it to be dubbed a ‘sheep in wolf’s clothing.’”
“Are they any good? The Heinkel One Elevens, I mean. By our standards?”
“I’d say so, yes. Up to a point. It’s been a moderately successful war fighter, but its weaknesses became all too apparent when our fighters started engaging them with a will as soon as they crossed the Channel. That’s when the One Elevens’ weak defensive armament, relatively low speed, and poor maneuverability left them exposed to aerial attacks. Continue?”
“Please.”
“Nevertheless, the twin-engined HE One Eleven, despite all of its shortcomings, is the workhorse of the Luftwaffe. With their distinctive ‘greenhouse’ noses, the One Elevens have been used in a variety of roles not only in the air war here in England, but on every front in the European theater. Göring used them as strategic bombers during the Battle of Britain, but as a torpedo bomber during the Battle of the Atlantic, and a medium bomber and a transport aircraft on the Western, Eastern, Mediterranean, Middle Eastern, and North African fronts. . . .”
“Is that it?” Hawke said, leaning forward to peer more closely through the dirty windscreen. “All I need to know?”
“Indeed it is. I ordered her parked over here so the lads at the officers’ club could have a good look-see.”
The sedan slowed coming around the side of the officers’ club and braked to a halt at the port wingtip of the Luftwaffe bomber. Hawke had to blink rapidly to make sure he was seeing what he thought he was seeing.
The men looked like hell. Five rugged young men, bloodied, battered, and bandaged, stood beneath the broad portside wing. They all snapped to attention and saluted as the two young officers emerged from the rear doors of the sedan and approached them.
Each man was dressed in the authentic uniform of a Nazi Luftwaffe airman. They all looked like they’d been through hell, having barely survived a horrific crash dive into the English Channel. They looked so authentic, Hawke felt like pulling his sidearm.
“At ease, gentlemen,” he said. “Which one of you dashing young characters is Flight Lieutenant Alastair Stauffenberg?”
“I am, sir,” a lanky young pilot with curly blond hair said, stepping forward.
Hawke stuck out his right hand, and Stauffenberg shook it vigorously. “Wie geht’s, mein Herr,” Hawke said, smiling at the fellow.
“Sehr gut, danke shön, mein Herr! Und sie?”
Hawke said, “Alles gut. Bitte, haben-sie eine rot Kugleschriber?”
“Habe nicht, Commander Hawke. No red ballpoint pen at all, I’m afraid, sir.”
Hawke laughed. “You knew that was a test,” he said. “I thought if this boy wonder knows the English word for Kugleschriber, he’ll be good enough for me!”
The young flyboy had passed his first test. When the nut-cutting moment came at last, when they were all yanked from the sea and hauled aboard the German minesweeper, the young lieutenant would be known as Kapitän Fritz von Richter. He would represent the crew until they had gained the confidence of the German officers aboard.
“Let me ask you a question, Lieutenant,” Hawke said, “seeing as how you’re going to be sitting
in the right-hand seat next week. . . .”
“Yes, sir?”
“How many flying hours do you have in this old bird?”
“Just over a few hundred, sir.”
“Do you think that, in your wildest dreams, you could crash-dive this bird into the drink at a realistic and believable angle and still get the entire crew out of the aircraft before it sinks like a bloody stone?”
“Absolutely, sir! I’m convinced of it. I’ve been thinking of little else during the last month of training. Got it all figured out, sir!”
“Good answer,” Hawke said. “I’m glad at least one of us bloody has.”
The crew erupted into spontaneous laughter at Hawke’s self-deprecation.
He added: “When we have a spare moment I’d like you to share the basis of all that youthful optimism with me, would you? I’ll tell you one thing, Lieutenant Stauffenberg. This thing’s going to be dicey. A real bitch. It’s been keeping me up at night for weeks! I’ve convinced myself no sane man save myself could ever have come up with such a harebrained scheme.”
“Yes, sir.” Stauffenberg saluted. “Shall we take the old girl up in the wild blue yonder for a dry run over the Channel, sir?”
Hawke said, “I’d say that’s a cracking good scheme, son! Colonel Mainwaring, you’re welcome to come along for the ride.”
“I’d like nothing better, Commander. Let’s get aboard this ugly Nazi bitch, and she what kind of tricks she can do, shall we?”
CHAPTER 23
Dragonfire Club, the Bahamas
Present Day
Amorning shot through with azure skies, the surrounding seas below a resolute blue, and great clouds of swirling white seagulls riding the wind, hovering just beyond his reach at the rail of his rooftop terrace. All the swooping white birds were crying what sounded very much like “mine-mine-mine-mine-mine!” and greedily eyeing the lavish repast laid out on the table. No bubble and squeak for this boy, nosiree.
Out on his spacious terrace, Hawke’s splendid breakfast of French toast, smoked Canadian bacon, and his beloved Blue Mountain coffee from Jamaica was just what the doctor hadn’t ordered. He ate con both brio and mucho gusto, all of his senses awakened, his heart pumping away like a finely tuned engine, good health returning every day now, it seemed.
And with it, a vast improvement in his moods.
Enjoying the fresh sea breeze, laced with a whiff of iodine, he was leafing through yesterday’s Times and all that jolly old rag entailed: the current dustup with Iran, a surprise state visit to North Korea by the American president, Britain’s Brexit mess, the Chelsea Flower Show, et cetera, et cetera, as the King of Siam would have put it.
His attention span fluttered like a darting hummingbird through the newspaper pages, skipping from page to page out of sheer habit, bored by the news of the day, which was already old news by the time the Times arrived here in the Bahamas from London.
Then his symphonic mobile rang, an all-too-brief snatch of ringtone, one of Puccini’s ravishingly beautiful arias from Madama Butterfly. He answered, somehow already knowing while reaching for the device who might be calling. He wasn’t disappointed. It was Miss Tang, of course.
“Hullo?” the voice said. “Lord Hawke?” A female. Had to be her. Had he not told her he never used his bloody title? He decided to have a little fun at the dragon lady’s expense. He said: “Oh, so sorry. His lordship is not available. He’s not here. This is his alter ego. My name is Big Al.”
There was a pregnant pause. Hawke thought he sounded a bit posh for a chap named Big Al, but he was having fun with her and decided to roll with it. Besides, he’d told her very specifically not to use his title and she’d deliberately disregarded his instructions, naughty girl.
There was a pause, and she said, “I’m sorry. Did you say, Big Al?”
“I did, lady,” Hawke said, in his punch-drunk boxer from Manchester voice. “It’s my name. You got a problem with that?”
“Fine, uh . . . Big Al. But could I please leave him a message? This is Miss Tang calling. He knows who I am.”
“Oh, yes, Miss Tang. Matter of fact, he mentioned you to me! Yes, he did! Had some very nice things to say about you, actually. Said you were quite attractive. I believe the word ‘babe’ crossed his lips. Oh! And some other things I’d best keep to myself, really—don’t you see? We have to keep our secrets, don’t we? Anyhoo. You have a message for him, sweetie? Fire away.”
“Yes. Please tell his lordship that I have a lovely surprise for him. If he’s not busy this morning, I could swing by and pick him up around eleven. His surprise is over at the marina, but please don’t mention that. All right?”
“Of course not. So I should tell him to expect you around eleven?”
“Better make it eleven, sharp.”
“Don’t you worry your pretty little head about a thing. I’ll be sure to let him know. Ta-ta for now!” he trilled gaily.
And hung up.
That wasn’t very nice, Alex, he thought to himself. Pulling that girl’s leg like that.
He had to smile, though. Happy to be back in a sunny mood in a sunny place in life where he didn’t take every damn thing to heart. The recent loss of someone in his life he had cared for, for instance, or like living for one more day with the pain of his injuries.
He got up from the table and grabbed his encrypted mobile as he left the room.
He speed-dialed one of his most well-loved friends and comrade in arms.
“Stokely Jones,” he heard that basso profundo voice in Miami say.
“Stoke, it’s me.”
“Alex?”
“Yes. Of course, Alex.”
“If you say so. How are the Bahamas this time of year?”
“Swell. Wish you were here.”
“Ditto. I’m all alone here at Casa Encantada. Fancha got herself a big fat two-week singing gig at the Palms Casino Resort in Vegas. Calling her show, ‘Moon over Fancha’s Miami.’ Must be some joint, boss. You know how much the top suite out there goes for? A night?”
“No idea.”
“Hope you’re sitting down for this. One. Hundred. And. Forty. Large. Per. Night!”
“Hold those horses, Stoke. Are you serious?”
“Yessir.”
“Stoke. Reason I called is I could use a little help down here. Dragonfire Club is a very big place, a lot of ground for one man to cover. Crawling with heavily armed security forces, a couple of Chinese missile frigates patrolling night and day. Sounds like you’re all by yourself for a while . . . so I thought maybe you could—”
“I’m on my way.”
“How soon can you get packed?”
“I’m prepacked. I’m always prepacked for this kinda thing. You know that. You want me to bring along some firepower?”
“Right, I do. I anticipate trouble when the Tang brothers return here. I want you to call the boys in Costa Rica, Thunder and Lightning. Tell them I want them on standby effective immediately. Also, Harry Brock. I’ve ordered my captain aboard Blackhawke to steam to Nassau Harbor immediately and put the crew on a war footing. My new pilot, Colin Falconer, just landed at Pindling Airport so my plane’s already over in Nassau. I could ask Colin to gun it to Miami and probably touch down at Miami Jetstream Aviation around noon. That work?”
“You got it, boss. See you when I see you.”
Hawke smiled and rang off. He was glad Stoke was coming. He was going to need help. Maybe the Costa Rica boys, too. But, maybe not. He’d have to see how things played out.
To get out of the fierce sun, Hawke was standing among the many potted hibiscus bushes beneath the porte cochere at the Hotel di Qing entrance. He heard a melodious toot and looked up to see the sleek black Bentley Spur piloted by the lovely Miss Tang pull up under the porte cochere and roll to a stop. She got out, resplendent in her powder blue chauffeu
r’s livery and mirror-polished riding boots, and pulled open the rear passenger door.
“Good morning,” she said with a bright smile. “So glad you were free this morning!”
“Well, I could hardly say no when I heard you had some brilliant surprise for me. I’m quite keen on surprises, you see, always have been. Fair warning. I hate—no, I loathe—surprise parties. Throw one of those for me, and you’ll live to regret it.”
“Duly noted, sir. Hop in. We’re headed over to the marina.”
“Marina, eh? I do like the sound of that.”
“You’re going to like it even better when you see what I’ve left for you there.”
“Don’t tell me. You found me a motorcycle.”
“Yes! You guessed it! It’s an old one, I’m afraid. But the man at the garage told me it was quite a good one. It’s a called a Vincent. I believe he said a Vincent Black Shadow.”
“You’re kidding me.”
“I never kid.”
And, as it turned out, she wasn’t kidding at all.
CHAPTER 24
Dragonfire Club, the Bahamas
Present Day
Zhang climbed behind the wheel inside the deeply aromatic Bentley interior, turned her head round to smile at him, and said, “Well, we try, we try. How are you enjoying Dragonfire Club so far, Alex?”
“So far, it’s very refreshing. Bermuda owns my heart, but she lacks for all this chic glamour and . . . What do the Americans say . . . ? Uh . . . they call it . . . pa—something or other . . . like pizza!”
“Pizzazz.”
“Precisely so. Pizzazz, it is! Good for you.”
“We get many Americans. Politicians and movie stars looking for a certain kind of . . . stimulus, shall we say? A taste for the exotic they cannot find at home.”
“Fascinating,” Hawke said, his mind somewhere else entirely.