by David Evans
They had come to see him the morning after she had been taken. Two men in suits, grim, hard-faced, and his Sector Commander. They went over and over the same questions, about what he had told her, and when. About his relationship with her and how long they had been intimate. When his nerves frayed enough, he angrily demanded to know what this was all about. That’s when the suits dropped their bombshell.
“It’s about espionage, Sergeant Foxworth. Sandra Hammond is a Nazi spy.”
They might as well have driven a stake through his heart. Since that day, he had gone through the motions of his daily routine mechanically. Carefully he clutched his wounded feelings to him. Damn this war! Damn it all to hell. Wendall closed his eyes to squeeze back the tears that always came. When he opened them, the Messerschmitts were there.
Time: 0830, GMT, October 8, 1940
Place: 10 Downing Street,
London, England
Prime Minister Winston Churchill held his legendary caustic tongue when he sat at the large table in the well-lighted breakfast room with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking a well-tended garden. Already the anecdote circulated around the halls of government, regarding a confrontation between the Prime Minister and a woman of quality who sought a deferment from military service for her beloved only son.
When Winston declined to intervene on the boy’s behalf, the dowager sniffed the brandy-fumed atmosphere surrounding the Prime Minister. In a shocked tone she was supposed to have declared indignantly, “Mr. Prime Minister, you are drunk.”
To which Winston was reported to have replied, “Madam, you are ugly.”
Shocked, but not to be outdone, the woman replied, “Mr. Prime Minister, you are very drunk.”
To which Churchill had been recounted as saying, “That may be true, madam, but the fact remains that tomorrow I shall be sober and you will still be very ugly.”
For all this reputation, Winston listened with unaccustomed politeness to the imprecations of a delegation made up of members of Parliament privy to the secret of Enigma, who represented the university dons and the city fathers of Coventry; some officers of the Royal Navy; and a number of bureaucrats within the government. After they had spoken, the representatives from MI-5 had their say. Again, Winston listened politely.
Notwithstanding the impassioned and meritorious arguments of those insisting that Coventry be evacuated, the Prime Minister remained steadfast. After waiters had removed the last dish—a puff pastry covered, baked brie stuffed with apple slices, almonds, and grapes—he lighted a cigar and blew slate-gray smoke at the ceiling. For a long moment, he drummed thick fingers on the white linen tablecloth. At last, with much hurrumping and throat clearing, the PM spoke his decision.
“I can appreciate the logic and sincerity behind your appeals. Which, as I understand it, are shared by Sir Hugh Montfort and at least one other member of his staff. Common human decency demands that we spare suffering to our civilian population.
“Unfortunately,” he went on, changing position in the large chair, “the exigencies of war interfere in the application of the humanitarian solution you champion. I must stand behind my original decision to protect the secret of Enigma. As much as I hate the potential loss of innocent lives, to do otherwise would compromise Enigma; the Germans would be alerted and change their codes, possibly costing us what the Fleet Street mavins are calling the Battle of Britain, and ... perhaps the war. Let me remind you that we have not once evacuated Portsmouth, Liverpool, or London. The people of Coventry will have to endure what the Germans will rain upon them. I can, and will, insure that the RAF provides extraordinary protection. We can make the Germans pay dearly for the raid. But we cannot let them know about Enigma.” He came to his feet, signaling the meeting to be concluded. “Thank you all for coming.”
Time: 0830, GMT, October 8, 1940
Place: Enlisted Women Personnel Rest Room, Offices of MI-5,
Coventry, Warwickshire, England
Samantha Trillby set aside the mirror after inspecting the light pink smudges of blush that emphasized her cheeks. Her thoughts spanned the distance to London and Brian Moore. She had been back twice to Vicar Mull. He had counseled her well, strengthening her resolve in regard to her relationship with Brian. She now believed the time to be right. This weekend, when Brian came, she would ask him to marry her. It might set him back. But, given a while, he would see the reason behind it. Then they would be married right before Christmas.
Time: 1035, GMT, October 8, 1940
Place: Offices of MI-5, Bayswater Road,
London, N.W. 1, England
Brian returned to his office grossly dissatisfied. The plan to allow Coventry to be bombed deeply worried him. Samantha was there. She could be killed. He also knew that Coventry was bombed. What could he do?
Blinded by love, he thought of violating his directive and notifying everyone in the Coventry office to get out on the evening of October 30. Offer no reason, nothing even hinted at, that could give them a clue as to why. Simply tell them, “When you leave work today, leave town. Do not go back until told to.”
That would work. And it would also leave him with his rear end hanging way out.
Time: 2200, GMT, October 8, 1940
Place: The Sky over Lincolnshire, England
Messerschmitt 110 Bf-1’s swarmed the sky. It was worse even than the previous night, Sgt. Wendall. Foxworth thought, his palms sweaty inside their flying gloves. The pilots of 57 Squadron swept across their cruciform silhouettes. Streams of tracers sought out and punched holes in the fish-belly white undersides. Wendall Foxworth centered his sights on the wing root of one medium bomber and then slacked off to port to allow for the proper lead. His finger tightened on the trigger.
Hammer blows vibrated the cockpit as the eight .303 machine guns fired in synchronized order. Despite the nearness to the enemy, Wendall looked on fascinated, as eleven tracers disappeared into the point where the wing joined the fuselage. At the last instant, he turned off, circled wide, and blasted the center of the black-and-white Prussian cross on the side of another. A slight raise on the nose and he hopped over that one.
Around again and in on the one he had first fired upon. This time he stitched four lines along the top side of the damaged wing. The new incendiary rounds did their work on the fuel already spilled by his first strafing run. Tongues of orange flickered feebly, then bloomed into a huge ball as the fumes exploded, ripped the wing off, and sent the Messerschmitt into a mortal tumble through the sky.
Wendall had to hand it to Capt. Marsh. For all his unpleasant ways, he knew his combat gunnery. At his instigation, the entire squadron had reregistered their guns to converge at 250 yards, rather than the regulation 600 yards. Their kill ratio had quadrupled within a week. It was a tactic worked out by Wing Commander Douglas Bader. One which Capt. Marsh had agreed with wholeheartedly, much to the relief of Sgt. Foxworth. Wendall dropped a wing and turned to starboard to find another target.
A high-pitched whine alerted him to his sudden danger. An Me-109 had lined up on his tail in a diving sweep that soon put the German pilot “in the slot.” Hail on a tin roof, Wendall Foxworth thought as the 7.9mm bullets tore into his tail assembly. He did not hear the roar of the three 20mm cannons when they fired, though he became immediately aware of the result. His entire aircraft began to vibrate violently, the stick a live thing in his hands.
“Able Leader, Able Leader, this is Able Nine. I’ve been hit badly. Over.”
“Able Nine, can you maintain aggressive action? Over.”
“Not bloody likely. There’s this great bloody hole in my port wing. I’m leaking petrol like a ruptured barrel. Over.”
“Able Nine, I see you now. Got a one-oh-niner on your tail. Break off. Break right now. There’s a Spit on the way. Able Leader out.”
Wendall eased his wounded bird to the right and sighed with relief as he saw a Spitfir
e swoop down from above and take on the Messerschmitt nose-to-nose. The Spitfire won. Wendall knew it when a great orange balloon flashed behind him. The Spitfire dropped his starboard wing and turned sharply. Wendall fumbled with a knob on his radio and dialed the Spitfire squadron frequency.
“You’re a right rare bloke. Thanks, mate. I owe you one. Over.”
“Get yourself home now. You can come up to our digs and stand me a couple of pints in the Mess. Over,” the Spitfire pilot responded cheerily.
“I’ll do that, believe you me. Able Nine out.”
Wendall Foxworth fought the controls all the way to Hamphill. With the loss of nearly half his fuel, the rest mostly burned, he was flying on fumes when the soft blue glow of the runway boundary lights came into view. Slowly he eased downward. Judiciously he applied throttle to maintain air speed. Gradually he lined up the white line down the center of the macadam strip. Three hundred feet now. His port wing kept wanting to rise. Wendall dropped the flaps. Gear down. His air speed bled off in a rush. The stall warning blared at him. He gave it more throttle. The braying horn silenced. A hundred feet. Fifty. Twenty-five. He could feel the ground effect. Twenty. Fifteen.
Wheels down! Abruptly the Hurricane engine gave a polite cough and quit running. The momentum kept the wounded craft hurtling down the runway even so. Only a short way. A Land Rover appeared at an intersection. A yellow flare of torchlight illuminated the FOLLOW ME sign. Wendall applied brake. The plane would not obey, due to no power. He waved at the ground crewmen as the Hurricane flashed past. He would have to let it run itself out.
Ahead the end of the runway loomed large in Wendall’s sight. It grew nearer with terrible swiftness. Then he sensed a slowing, a rocking of wings. With a final creak and groan, the Hurricane came to a stop, three feet from the grass verge. Trembling with exertion, Wendall Foxworth lowered his head to the instrument panel and released the long held breath that threatened to burst his chest.
Time: 1040, GMT, October 11, 1940
Place: Time Station London,
Thameside, London, England
Dianna Basehart entered the Time Station twenty minutes after she had called Brian Moore at his MI-5 office on the morning of October 11. The sparkling light in her cobalt eyes testified to her success. She waved a sheaf of papers under Brian’s nose. “I’ve got a solid lead on Clive Beattie.”
Brian smiled with sincerity. “Good. How did you do that?”
“Finished the last notation in the Cordise diary. They were to have had a meeting two nights ago. So the Abwehr knows by now that Cordise has been taken.”
Brian’s worried frown surprised Dianna. “Yes. And they’ve acted upon it. We’ve had an Enigma intercept from the headquarters of Admiral Canaris. The head of the Abwehr has authorized Beattie’s cell to proceed with the assassination of Churchill, as scheduled. It is in retaliation for the loss of an agent named Freiadler, whom we know as Rupert Cordise, The message was sent to an agent with the code name Chamäleon, or Chameleon. Any bets that it’s none other than our face-changing friend, Beattie?”
“What does that buy us?” a doubtful Dianna asked.
“Possibly a chance to get a look at the illusive Clive Beattie. It instructed him to meet a U-boat at certain coordinates tomorrow night. He is to get reinforcements, and a special weapon.”
Through a spreading grin, Dianna completed his thought. “And we’ll be there to meet them.”
“Sort of. If it looks right, we’ll take the whole lot right there. If not, we can follow Beattie and grab him later.”
“That’s awfully close to the fifteenth.”
“I know, Di. I’d like to have a lot more time, too. Remember, there will be a number of MI-5 agents there. We simply can’t grab Beattie and whisk him off to the future. I’d like for only the two of us to handle this—” He stopped abruptly, then brightened as he recalled his conversation last Monday with Sir Hugh Montfort. “Maybe there is a way. If so, the door is open to handle Beattie with no one knowing what actually happened.”
“Are you going to tell me?”
“Yes. It has to do with you volunteering to join Ml-5.” At Dianna’s startled elevation of eyebrows, Brian hurried on. “Only temporary. Sort of call this a trial balloon. Surveillance on Beattie. You’ve shown that you can get close to these dangerous types and maintain an outward calm. Also dazzle them so much they don’t know they’ve been diddled until the cuffs are snapped into place. You can tell Sir Hugh that you want to see this one through to the end, then you’ll take the school.”
“Only instead, I hop back to the Home Culture and disappear from this Now in London forever.”
Brian smiled, nodded. “Can you think of anything better?”
Dianna knotted her brow. “Not right offhand.”
“Right, then. We had better get this in motion.”
Time: 1330, GMT, October 12, 1940
Place: The Strand, North of Skegness,
Lincolnshire, England
Brian Moore and Dianna Basehart crouched behind twin thickets of salt grass at the edge of the strand north of Skegness on the east coast of the Midlands. Armed with hampers of thick ham sandwiches, wedges of cheese, crackers, sweets and vacuum bottles of coffee, they had taken position in early afternoon. The sun beat down, unseasonably warm for this time of year. Only once was their stakeout jeopardized, when a gaggle of six small boys, who appeared to be about eight or nine, came down to brave the chill waters of the English Channel.
Quickly stripped bare as the day their mothers birthed them, the little imps cavorted on the sand and splashed in the shallows. Then one of them, in the lead of a footrace, spotted Dianna and Brian in turn. He stopped in a shower of sand to turn full face to them, completely oblivious to his state of undress.
His mouth formed an “O” of surprise and the bare toes of one foot scratched idly at his other calf. A mop of snowy flaxen hair waved in the onshore breeze and he gazed at the couple with wide, sky-blue eyes.
“Gor, you two out here to fool around som’at?”
“C’mon, Tommy, why’d you fall behind?” another lad chirped in the distance.
The interruption gave Brian time to frame a proper reply. He gave the boy a big wink as he confided, “If we were here to fool around, it wouldn’t do for a lad your size to be watching, now would it?”
A nail-bitten thumb stole to Tommy’s mouth. Swiftly as it happened, he forcibly abandoned the childish habit. “I sees me sister an’ ’er boyfriend from time to time.” He winked back.
Brian put a little heat in his words. “Then you’d bloody well be satisfied with that. Be good for you to show me some heels right now.”
Gulping, the lad spun to his right and streaked down the beach. “Hoy, fellows! You won’t believe what I saw back there,” he squeaked excitedly. “There’s a man an’ his girl about to do it.” Though in truth, he had not the first idea what it was.
“Damn, how do they get so worldly-wise at so young an age?” Dianna queried rhetorically.
“It’s the war,” Brian suggested.
“Do you think they’ll sneak back to watch?”
“I wouldn’t doubt it, Di.”
“They’ll sure be disappointed.” Her fleeting smirk drew a laugh from Brian.
“We don’t have to disappoint them.” Brian’s rejoinder brought him an intense stab of pain. Instantly the specter of Samantha raised between them. He made hasty retreat. “Forget it. I didn’t mean it at all.”
Dianna chuckled, though she agreed. “Yes, we are on a mission. Wouldn’t do for Beattie to come upon us in the throes of wild passion.”
They laughed together and resumed their watch. After a short while, Brian offered a question. “It isn’t all over for you, Di, is it?”
Dianna’s smile lasted only a short while. “No, it’s not. I still… think about you a lot. What about you?”
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“I could never forget you. We have had many a good time together. I haven’t given up hope that we can again.”
Dianna favored him with a soft, happy expression. “I’ve not either. That’s a sweet thought to fill the empty hours with, isn’t it?”
Time: 0001, GMT, October 13, 1940
Place: The Strand, Outside Skegness, Lincolnshire, England
Clive Beattie arrived at long last. If indeed the hunchbacked, balding man of late middle age who shuffled through a stand of mixed walnut and yew was Beattie. He lacked any resemblance to the Aryan superman in the holograph from the future. Not a sliver of moon lighted the scene, so Brian could not be certain. A short while after the newcomer walked out onto the beach and shined a flashlight across the water, the thrumming swish of electric motors and brass propellers drifted in on the tide.
A few moments later, a foam of alabaster bubbles caught the starlight and the black silhouette jutted up out of the water. The truncated periscope and antenna masts of a U-boat took on a patent-leather sheen in the white frost of the constellations. The hull glided majestically above the waves and the submarine came to full stop.
Figures appeared on the deck. Brian and Dianna watched in fascination while they inflated a rubber raft. Five figures came from a hatch and went over the side into the bobbing boat. With a faint sputter the craft swung shoreward and made headway toward the sand. Beattie walked to the waterline and caught the painter tossed to him.
He backed up to ground the vessel, then greeted the occupants. One of the U-boat’s crew handed a small box to Beattie, who pocketed it. Three of the men remained, while the other pair turned around the rubber boat and headed back to the sub. Watching through night glasses, Brian studied the faces of the new arrivals. He needed to memorize them in the event something went wrong. Dianna moved over beside him.