“Willa!” he cried. Her seat was on the other side of the rocket. He could see her lying there, unconscious. He pulled himself to his feet and, using the rocket to hold on to, started to make his way back up the plane. The whole fuselage was gradually filling with water.
There was no sign of Krüger. Tygo hoped he’d broken his bloody neck.
Tygo edged around the back end of the rocket, then sat down and slid all the way along the floor of the plane, down to where he could see Willa slumped in her seat. He hoped she hadn’t broken her neck! The water was up to her knees, and Tygo had to grab the chair’s frame to stop himself from slipping. It was freezing cold too. He took ahold of Willa’s shoulder and shook it.
“Willa! It’s me, Tygo … Wake up.”
She gave a moan, and then slowly opened her eyes. Tygo saw that she had a cut above one of them, and a line of blood had slid down one cheek. He scooped up some of the water in his hand and chucked it at her face. She moaned again, but at least he’d washed the blood off.
“We’ve crashed, Willa. We have to get out of here before it explodes, do you understand me?”
Just then, he heard the dull crump of petrol igniting somewhere. Through the window he saw the nearside engine enveloped in flame.
“Can’t,” said Willa, trying to push him away.
Tygo leaned forward and released her waist belt. She started to slide out of the seat, and he caught her under her arms. “Please, Willa, you have to help me.” He let go with one of his hands and slapped her across the cheek. The water continued to rise. He dragged her forward off her chair, and she managed to find her legs, coming awake now.
“Okay, Tygo,” she said weakly. “I’m trying …”
“Hold my arm, don’t let go …” Tygo grabbed ahold of the chair frames with one hand, keeping hold of Willa with the other. Slowly he began to pull them both up the plane toward the exit ramp. The whole cabin was starting to fill with acrid smoke, but as the water continued to rush in, it was starting to act like a counterweight, leveling the plane out. It made it a little easier to climb.
When they reached the rocket, Tygo used the thick canvas straps that had been employed to lash it down to keep pulling them up. The seawater was creeping all the way up the plane, faster and faster, and the angle it was resting at was starting to drop more and more. They kept going; they needed to get the ramp down and be out of there before the whole cargo area flooded to the ceiling. But maybe it didn’t matter, thought Tygo: The plane would probably have exploded by then. It sounded like an engine on the other side had just caught fire.
Finally they reached the ramp. The running lights were still on; Tygo prayed there was still power to the hydraulics and they would work. He pressed the black knob marked Öffnen on the control panel. There was a whining sound, followed by a grinding one, and then the outer doors started to swing back and the cold night air rushed into the smoke-filled compartment. Relief washed over Tygo. Now they just had to get the ramp down.
He glanced down to check on Willa; she was slumped against the side of the fuselage. He leaned down and lightly slapped her face. “Willa? Come on, we’re nearly free.”
She took his hand. “It’s okay, I’m all right … We did it, Tygo.”
Then she opened her eyes wider and let out a piercing scream.
Tygo turned just in time to see a flash of steel and fling himself to the side. The ax-head embedded itself in the soft metal skin of the fuselage.
Krüger was holding on to the handle, frantically trying to pull it out. His eyes were wild with rage, his tunic ripped to shreds, his face ribboned with blood. He looked demonic in the red light as he kept pulling at the ax-head, working to get it free.
Tygo charged toward him, using the angle of the plane to his advantage. He slammed into Krüger with his shoulder at waist height, and Krüger lost his grip on the ax. The two of them fell back, landing on the cargo bed, and started to tumble down the length of the plane, trading blows and kicks as they did.
They careened past the rocket and warhead and plunged back into the rising water, disappearing beneath the surface. Krüger was the first to emerge, blowing water from his mouth; he staggered up the fuselage, but Tygo surfaced seconds later. He clambered back out and the two of them faced each other on opposite sides of the fuselage. The door to the private compartment was hanging off its hinges.
Tygo looked at Krüger. Neither of them was armed, except with their fists and feet and teeth. But whatever happened, only one of them was going to live.
“Why?” yelled Krüger. “Why?”
Flames were licking along the cabin roof above their heads, the paint blistering and steam hissing. The smoke bit at Tygo’s throat.
“What was I supposed to do? Let you blow up a city, murder all those people?”
“What you were supposed to do was survive, you fool, survive! That was the plan. How many million people are dead already? What’s a few more to add to the pile?”
Krüger threw himself at Tygo, swinging his fists. His right caught Tygo’s chin, and he fell back against the side of the private compartment. Krüger grabbed him and pinned him there, his hand around Tygo’s neck. Very slowly he eased him up the metal-skinned wall, till Tygo’s feet were kicking free of the floor.
From higher up the fuselage came a sharp clang of metal striking metal. Neither of them looked to see what was making the noise. Tygo couldn’t, and Krüger was too focused on the task at hand.
“You know,” he whispered, “this is the best way to kill a ferret, by wringing its neck.”
Tygo’s face felt as if it were on fire, inside his brain was pounding, and his ears felt like they would burst. Big red dots swam in front of his eyes. He tried to swing his fists at Krüger, but the Oberst batted them away easily. There was another clang of metal on metal. Tygo was starting to lose consciousness; a black curtain was drawing across in front of his eyes.
“Tygo!” Willa screamed his name. It brought him back for an instant, and he looked up the plane. So did Krüger.
Willa raised the ax above her head and slammed it down. It severed the last remaining canvas strap securing the rocket to the floor of the plane. It shot forward toward them.
Krüger let go of Tygo in alarm, and Tygo leaned against the wall. He raised his right leg. The missile was hurtling down. Tygo kicked out and hit Krüger in the stomach.
Krüger staggered back, realized where the kick had put him, and screamed in fear.
The rapier tube on the front of the rocket ran him through, straight through the middle of his torso. He grabbed helplessly at it, but the rocket kept going, driving him and itself beneath the water and into the bowels of the submerged plane. Krüger was gone. For good.
Tygo struggled back up the plane. The engines were well on fire by now. Willa was waiting for him by the wooden crate, still holding the fire ax.
“You saved my life,” he croaked.
“Not if we don’t get out of here soon,” Willa said, and she took his arm and pulled him toward the ramp.
He grabbed the control button and pressed it. There was no response. He pressed it frantically. “We’ve lost the hydraulics,” he said.
Willa glanced around. “Look.” She pointed to a metal handle secured to a bracket on the side. It was a hand winch.
Tygo ripped it free and searched for the bolt head to fit it onto. There it was, on the other side. He slid the handle on and started to crank it. The ramp dropped down a little bit. It would take a while to get it completely open.
“Just open it enough so we can crawl out,” Willa shouted, clearly thinking the same thing.
Tygo kept on turning, and the ramp dropped away until he stopped, and the two of them clambered up it and fell over the side into the water below.
It was the second time that night he’d been dunked in freezing water, but Tygo still couldn’t get used to it. His head broke the surface, but he couldn’t draw breath—or rather, all he could do was draw breath—he couldn’t exhal
e. Willa’s head burst through the surface next to him. The beach was about twenty yards from them. Tygo took in a big gulp of seawater, coughing.
“We can make it, Tygo … Kick, kick hard,” Willa urged him on as he floundered.
The two of them struck out toward the beach. The tide was with them, a strong, new-moon tide pushing them in on the surf. The water crashed over Tygo’s head, the undertow pulling at his legs. Tygo felt himself going under, swallowing water, then Willa grabbed his hair and yanked his face back above the surface.
“Keep going, Tygo!”
He found the last of his strength and kicked hard. Ten yards out, they touched bottom and could stand. They waded in from there.
The flames from the burning plane lit up the sand. Both of them dropped to their knees. Tygo suddenly felt terribly nauseous. He retched, the seawater coming back up, a horrible sour, briny taste. He retched again, felt something hard in his throat, gagged. The Red Queen shot out of his mouth and lay on the sand.
Willa crawled over to him. “What’s that?”
Tygo grabbed the stone and rinsed it in the shallow water. It glittered in the light of the burning plane. Willa stared at it, then at Tygo. “You swallowed it?”
“Seemed a good idea at the time. Here, take it; it’s yours.”
Willa looked at it for a moment or two. “I don’t want it, Tygo.” She looked back at the plane. “Come on, we need to get out of here, that bomb …”
“You must take it. It’s yours, it’s priceless.”
“Not to me.”
“But it’s your future …”
“Now you sound like him, like Krüger.”
Tygo dropped his head. “You’re right. I’m sorry.”
Willa leaned over and folded his fingers back around the stone. “Why don’t you look after it for me, Tygo, keep it safe?”
Tygo smiled. “I can do that. I can absolutely do that.”
“Right, now can we get out of here?”
Tygo nodded and climbed unsteadily to his feet.
“Come, I’ll race you to the woods!” Willa made it sound like they were on a day out to the beach.
“I can’t …” Tygo felt dizzy.
“Don’t tell me the great Tygo Winter is giving up?”
Tygo stared at her, her blond hair plastered flat against her porcelain skin, her topaz eyes staring down at him. They were no longer filled with fear as they had been when he had first looked into them. Now they were smiling at him.
“Never,” he croaked.
She took his hand and pulled him forward, and they started to run along the sand.
Behind them the plane was engulfed in flames, like some Viking sacrifice.
At 2:57 a.m. the Nazis’ first and only nuclear bomb exploded inside the burning wreckage of the Arado, almost six months to the day before the Americans’ Trinity test in Nevada.
The Führer’s convoy had successfully retreated back onto the main road to Haarlem. The vehicles were grouped together, their engines running. When the bomb had exploded, the light had illuminated the line of cars as if a battery of searchlights had been parked in front of it and switched on. Then a roaring wind had hit them, filled with dust, sand, leaves, sticks … anything that could be picked up and hurled their way. It was accompanied by a sound like a dozen express trains driving straight through them.
Müller staggered forward to the Führer’s car, his eyes still dazzled. He had failed to reach Krüger on the radio for the last hour, and now he knew why. In the distance was a column of smoke.
He reached the car; Bormann stared out at him from the back. He put up his hand for Müller to wait. Müller caught a glimpse of the Führer; his face was incandescent with rage. After several minutes the passenger door opened and Bormann climbed out.
“Did you see the power of it?” Müller shouted, his ears ringing.
“Yes, truly it is a wondrous weapon. Once again, the Führer’s genius has been demonstrated.” He shook his head bitterly. “And once again his trust has been betrayed!” He swore loudly, using every filthy word he could think of.
Müller waited until he had finished. “What are the Führer’s orders?”
“Operation Black Sun is finished. The plane is gone, the bomb is gone. Now it is the Führer’s wish to continue the fight from Berlin.”
“We can get another plane,” said Müller. “There are more bombs.”
“It is too late now. The Führer has decided: He will stay and fight, fight until victory is achieved.”
“But that is impossible.”
“Those are the Führer’s orders.” Müller could see that Bormann felt the same.
“Of course.” Müller nodded. It was all over now. Time for him to make his own separate travel plans.
Pieter and Alisa had made it to the outskirts of Haarlem when the whole night lit up for an instant, like a switch had been thrown from above. The street they were standing in was suddenly washed white, and then the darkness returned, accompanied by a murderous thunder rolling toward them.
“What was that?” said Alisa.
Pieter shook his head and coughed again, tasting blood.
“Whatever it was, it’s gone now,” he said. He was feeling light-headed from the loss of blood. He sagged against Alisa, and she caught him, pulling one of his arms over her shoulders to support him. He was a dead weight.
“No, don’t you dare!” she said. “Big strong brute like you … We’re nearly there.” The safe house was in the next street. She would call a doctor; he would take care of Pieter. She would save him, like he had saved her.
“Come on, now.” Alisa started to sing softly to him. “Poor old man …”
At first light, Tygo and Willa found a gap in the barbed wire and made their way up through the dunes. The sand was rock hard, covered in snow, and the tufted grass that grew on the hillocks was iced with frost.
They were glad that hellish night was finally over, but neither of them would ever forget the moment when the darkness had turned to a searing white light. The roaring blast of the wind, throwing them to the ground, the sound like the earth being torn apart.
Shaken, they had gotten back to their feet and seen in the distance a tall, thin column of smoke rising up in the dark sky, the top of it forming the shape of a mushroom. It was horribly beautiful.
“Do you want to rest?” Tygo asked.
“No, I’m okay.” Willa took his hand. Her fingers were freezing. Cold hands, warm heart, that was what they said. In Willa’s case Tygo was sure it must be true.
“Look, what’s that?” Willa pointed to something farther up on the beach.
Tygo squinted. “It’s a little boat!” he exclaimed. He sprinted down through the dune on to the beach. Willa ran after him.
The two of them examined it. It was a clinker-built skiff with a bench seat in the middle, and a little mast with a tatty sail forward of that. Tygo looked inside.
“There’s a pair of oars.” He looked at Willa, excited. “Let’s see if it’s seaworthy.”
The two of them pushed the boat down into the surf. The icy water bit into their feet and shins.
“Seems sound enough to me,” Tygo said. “Come on.”
He helped Willa clamber on board, then pulled himself in. He fit the oars into the boat’s rowlocks.
“Where are we going?”
“Wherever we want,” Tygo replied with a grin.
And with that, the two of them dropped their oars into the water and heaved.
As you may have realized, this is a work of fiction, and of course none of what takes place in the plot actually occurred, although some things in the story are true.
The Winter of Hunger was a very real event for the brave people of the Netherlands, and many thousands died of malnutrition, cold, and disease. Many were also shot for their Resistance work or in reprisal actions. Although the south of the country was liberated by the end of 1944, Amsterdam and the north were not freed from the Nazi yoke until May 1945.
In particular, much mystery remains about an enormous secret weapon project called the “Bell.” It is believed to have been some sort of anti-gravity device, and perhaps is the reason for so many reports of flying disks and flying balls by Allied pilots at the end of the war. They gave rise to the nickname “foo fighters,” based on the French word feu, meaning “fire.” Modern stealth and drone technology is directly attributable to these experimental designs and prototypes.
Of the people in the story:
GENERAL “GESTAPO” HEINRICH MÜLLER
General Müller was head of the Gestapo to the very end of the war. He escaped from Hitler’s bunker in Berlin and disappeared as the Soviets closed in. It is generally believed he survived the war and either went to work for the Americans or the Soviets, depending on whose propaganda and counterpropaganda you believe.
HAN VAN MEEGEREN
Van Meegeren was a celebrated Dutch forger and art dealer who was put on trial by the Dutch authorities after the war for his forgeries of Vermeer paintings. He managed to make himself something of a folk hero from the case, claiming that by making the Nazis pay a fortune for his works he was contributing to the war effort.
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