Kat and the Desert Eagle Page 17

  She watched as he banked the plane around. She could still see the mountains. They were pale and covered in a mist now, and so was the desert. A sand storm now raging on the desert floor, and she wondered what difference it would make, whether they’d still be able to see the air base.

  “Fly lower,” she commanded. “I want you down to 15,000 feet.”

  He shrugged. “As you say.”

  The plane settled, gradually losing altitude, the mountains drawing ever nearer. Kat knew how to open the bomb bay doors now, and fairly sure she knew how to release the bombs.

  She could see the airfield being battered by a sandstorm, the sand swirling around in the vortex created by the horseshoe of rocks. Dore’s mortars did a lot of damage to the hangar, the laboratory, even part of the cliff had collapsed. In less than two minutes, they would pass over the airfield.

  “Open the bomb bay doors!” she commanded.

  “Vat?” the pilot shrieked. “I am not bombing my own people.”

  “Sam!” she said, sharply. “Take over. And I mean now! Weber, get out of your seat. Jock! Take care of this, will you!”

  Dore, already on his feet, Grabbed Weber by the collar, he steered him into an adjacent seat. Kelly clambered into the vacated pilot’s seat and grabbed the controls. The Adler sank in a stomach-churning dip, then climbed again as Kelly took control. He banked the plane around, over the mountains and into the desert again.

  “What the hell are you doing?” she cried, “I want to bomb the airfield. We’ve got to destroy that bomb.”

  “I know we do, but you left it too late. I’m coming around. We’re also too high… I could miss the target… I’m going down to 10,000 feet.”

  “You’re kidding. They’ll shoot us down!”

  “Don’t be a pussy, Wolfy! Where’s your backbone?”

  “What!”

  He grinned at her. “I’m joking. There are no anti-aircraft guns.”

  “God, you’re lucky you’re flying this thing. And don’t call me Wolfy!”

  Gradually losing altitude over the desert, the roiling sandstorm sharply defined as they grew ever closer. Kelly banked the huge plane around again. He was getting the feel of it now, almost smiling as he played the controls.

  “This plane is bloody brilliant!” he yelled. “It’s incredibly versatile. I could go into a dive when we reach the airfield again. D’you want to do that? Shall we dive-bomb the airfield, just for the hell of it?”

  “Will you behave yourself!” she yelled. “Just bomb the bloody place. We don’t need to get tricksy about it!”

  “But it’s fun!” he shouted, suddenly banking left and right so she had to cling to the back of the co-pilot’s seat.

  “Lieutenant!” Dore shouted. “Stop fucking around!”

  “Bunch of old women,” Kelly murmured, grinning to himself.

  The plane leveled, sank a thousand feet, and then settled. The airfield dead ahead, ant-like figures scuttling around, vehicles being moved, a Junkers 52 heading for the takeoff point in a maelstrom of swirling sand. Someone was getting the hell out of there, probably Rommel, and if Kat knew her stepfather, Pernass, as well.

  There was a whining sound as the bomb bay doors opened. Kelly peered at the airfield now, timing the attack. After flying Spitfires for two years, he was in his element. With his lips pressed tightly together as he squinted into the distance.

  “You know how to release the bombs?” Kat asked.

  “Of course I do! Go and sit down!”

  “I don’t want to sit down!”

  “Then sit in the co-pilot’s seat! This could get very rocky!”

  “What d’you mean, rocky?”

  “Severe turbulence! Sit your arse down!”

  Diving into the co-pilot’s seat, she strapped herself in. The plane shuddered violently now, and when she glanced at the wings, they bounced up and down. “What’s going on!” she yelled.

  “Thermals, and a forty mile an hour cross-wind! It’s pretty bad down there!”

  She turned to look at the others. There were six of them again, except one was the enemy, and she wondered how long that would last, how long before Dore got fed up and threw the German out of the plane. He hated the NAZIs almost as much as she did. Would Kelly be the only person landing this plane, on a too short runway, and probably at night… if they didn’t collide with Barrage Balloons, if the British didn’t shoot them down as they landed. They needed to operate the radio.

  They were almost there. The Junkers in the air now, it’s tiny form climbing to avoid the churning clouds of sand. She thought of the caves that they’d slept in, the caves where the rock paintings remained untouched for thousands of years. Would they be destroyed?

  “Sam,” she cried, gripping his arm. “Please be careful where you bomb. Don’t destroy the caves.”

  “Sod the caves!” he yelled, gripping the bomb-release lever. “I’m trying to save London! Who knows… Maybe the world…”

  A low hum of dull whirring sounds as the bombs released, Kelly’s arm jerking as he shut off the supply again and pulled back the stick. They were climbing and banking when the bombs detonated, and she saw the inferno that erupted. The encampment simply vanished in a thunderous pandemonium of destruction. She saw roiling fire, smoke and rubble billowing outwards. Nothing could have survived the onslaught, and it reminded her of films she’d seen of high-level bombing over Germany, entire city blocks disintegrating.

  “We’re done!” Kelly yelled. “Any last requests before I climb to 25,000?”

  No one answered. They all peered down at the destruction. Even the German pilot peered through one of the windows, his expression grim, no doubt wondering how long before he too was killed.

  The minutes ticked by in a drone of whining turbines, ten minutes, half an hour, an hour. They flew at 500 miles an hour. In less than two hours they would reach the Mediterranean. But something was wrong. A banging noise was coming from the bomb bay and getting louder.

  “You are flying to England?” the German pilot shouted.

  Kat glanced back at him. “That’s the idea!”

  “Because vee haf a problem!”

  “I can hear it! What’s wrong?”

  “Ze bomb bay doors not closed. Vee haf to close zem, or vee not reach England.”

  Kelly looked back at him. “Why not?”

  “Because ze doors are jammed and ze bombs are rattling around in the vind. Zey could explode.”

  “Fine! We’ll offload the bombs.”

  The pilot shook his head. “Zat does not verk. Zey could still explode.”

  “We’ll remove the fuses.”

  “If zay fall off racks, vee could get crushed by zem. We haf to land.”

  Kelly laughed. “You’re not serious! With all those rocks and sand dunes?”

  “Zere are salt flats. Zey are completely flat. I haf landed on them before when zey ver building ze runvay.”

  Kat glanced at Kelly. “You think he’s telling the truth? It could be bullshit.”

  Kelly sighed. “No. I think he’s telling the truth. We have to fix it. You want to land it?” he shouted back to the pilot. “If we can find a salt flat?”

  “Why can’t you land it?” Kat yelled, over the increasingly loud banging sounds.

  “I wouldn’t know how to. The airspeed is completely different from a Spitfire! I could easily pancake it!”

  “Okay, Hans, you’re on!” she yelled. “Start looking for a salt flat!”

  Slowly, Kelly lost altitude and airspeed until they streaked across the desert at 300 miles an
hour, the wings of the Adler bouncing up and down unnervingly, as they rode the corrugated thermals rising from the dunes. They passed a craggy range of hills, a lonely camel train and, seconds later, a large oasis.

  “There!” Kelly shouted, now sitting in the co-pilot’s seat. “Is that a salt flat?”

  “Jar. Is salt flat!” the pilot yelled. “I come around and land!”

  The Adler banked around in a wide arc, the engines roaring as Hans lined it up with an immense and glistening salt flat, a dazzling plain that looked more like a frozen lake than a salt flat. Extending the flaps to maximum, the pilot eased back on the power, the whine of jets slowly descending as the airspeed dropped, the wings almost flapping in the blustery headwind. Then they landed. There was no sudden bump, no rumbling of tires on gravel. Only a roar of jets as they fought to slow the aircraft. The salt flat was as smooth as a full-size pool table.

  CHAPTER 25

  Dore was the first out of his seat. Stalking down the aisle, he leaned over the bomb bay doors and cursed. There were six SC 1000s. Six 1,000-kilogram bombs named the Hermann, by the Germans referring to their portly Luftwaffe Commander, Hermann Göring, still caught in the release mechanism, all suspended eight feet off the ground.

  “So what do we do with the damned things?” he shouted. “They look bloody heavy!”

  Weber sauntered up to him with his hands in his pockets. He shrugged, “ve drop zem onto the ground. But only vile ze plane is moving.”

  Dore turned to Harry and asked, “Captain, can you take care of the fuses while I help release the bombs?”

  Stewart nodded and worked on removing the fuses.

  “Hey, Lieutenant!” Dore shouted. “Get the plane moving, but like really slowly, then release a bomb when I tell you!”

  The whine of turbines climbed a little and moments later the Adler began to move.

  “Okay!” Dore shouted, hovering over the bomb rack. “Release a single bomb!” There was a dull clicking sound and the metal jaws holding one bomb tried to open. He reached down and tugged at one of the hinge mechanisms, but the jaws remained firmly clamped. He pulled harder, and then really hard, and suddenly the bomb fell with a dull thud onto the ground below.

  “One down, five to go!” he shouted. “Release another!”

  One by one, he released all the bombs. With the rack empty, Kelly closed the bomb bay doors. Dore had a satisfied smile on his face, but Weber looked even more ecstatic. It was hard to understand. They didn’t even need him anymore. The salt flats were long enough and wide enough for a whole squadron of Adlers to takeoff. Even Capetti could have got it off the ground.

  “What are you smiling about, Hans?” Dore asked, with a puzzled frown. “You look like you just won the jackpot at Bingo.”

  Weber shrugged, his smile remaining. “I saw tanks. I sink zey are German.”

  “What!” Kat shrieked. “I didn’t see any tanks!” She waved at Kelly sitting in the pilot’s seat. “Sam! Where are we?”

  “Five hundred miles south of Algiers. Why?”

  “Hans says there are German tanks nearby!”

  “Yeah, I saw them. They’re about ten miles back, heading east!”

  “Jar, they vere heading east,” Weber said, his smile widening “But if zey saw ze Adler landing…”

  Capetti wandered up. Also smiling, a reserved, knowing smile. The kind of superior grin he used when they’d met the Germans in the mountains… with their noisy dog.

  “Is not problem,” he said, with an aloof air. “In this terrain, it take one hour for tanks reach here. Make choice, Signor Weber. You come with us, land plane in England, or take chance in desert. We don’t-a mind.”

  Weber’s smile vanished. “Zey are ten miles avay?”

  “At least,” Capetti confirmed.

  He stared at Capetti, suddenly anxious. “I am Schultzstaffel. Ze English vill execute me.”

  “Actually, they might not,” Kat said. “You could even be a hero… depending on what we tell the SOE, of course. You’d be respected for refusing to drop a nuclear bomb on London.” Stepping past everyone, she headed for the cargo door.

  Dropping to the ground, she scanned the horizon. In the distance she saw the oasis they’d flown over, otherwise this part of the desert was just mile upon mile of rolling sand dunes, their lunar curves broken only by the occasional rocky outcrop. She started walking. She thought about the German tanks. Weber was right, when they saw the Adler roar overhead, a huge futuristic bomber, clearly intent on landing, they would come looking for it. After all, what else was there to do in the middle of the Sahara Desert? To make matters worse, the Adler had no markings to indicate which side it was on. It could be British. It would be ironic if the most extraordinary plane in the German Air Force was attacked by its own side.

  Besides the distant oasis which seemed no more than a thin scattering of palms, there was no sign of life. Then she saw something. At first, she thought she was mistaken. In the shimmering heat haze, it’s easy to imagine movement. She squinted at the aberration. Half a mile away, something was definitely moving, a white, irregular caterpillar crawling across one of the many sand dunes. Except that it wasn’t a caterpillar, it was a line of heads, bobbing up and down.

  The row of heads became a column of people, their camels trotting in rhythmic unison. She almost jumped. Tuaregs, and they were heading in the Adler’s direction. They too had seen it landing and were likely intent on investigating the strange apparition. Scrambling down the sand dune, she broke into a run. Tuaregs were usually armed, and by the looks of it, there were maybe ten of them.

  The Adler came into sight, and with it, the whine of its turbines. Kelly and Dore inspected one of the bombs as Capetti took a leak. A ladder leaned against the plane and Atkins stood in the doorway. Everyone except Weber was armed, but only with pistols. Tuaregs usually carried rifles, and they were no longer flintlocks. With the war going on, they were likely .303 Lee-Enfields. It was hard to know what you faced when dealing with Bedouins. Often, they were friendly. Then again, sometimes they weren’t… at all.

  “Jock!” she shouted. “Sam! Sandro! We’ve got company!”

  Dore straightened, peered at her for a moment and then looked around. “The tanks are here? Already?”

  “No! Tuaregs. About ten of them!”

  He batted a hand at her. “That’s okay. We’re not at war with the Algerians.”

  “Jock, they’re Tuaregs and they’re not always friendly.”

  At that moment, the tribesmen came into view. They were at the far end of the salt flats, no longer in a line, their camels galloping. They were an impressive sight in their flowing robes, bristling with rifles. This was no family outing.

  Dore glanced at Kelly. “Ever met any Tuaregs?”

  “Not that I’m aware of.”

  “Oh, you’d know if you met one. Get on the plane and take the Major with you.”

  Capetti didn’t need to be asked. He climbed the ladder, disappeared for a moment, reappearing carrying a Thompson submachine gun.

  “Where the hell did you get that?” Dore asked.

  “It belonged to Harry. Atkins kept it.”

  Kat watched as the Tuaregs drew closer. They’d slowed to an ungainly trot and she could count them now. There were eight men carrying rifles and ammunition belts that glistened in the morning sun. They were dressed all in white, their faces masked beneath their turbans. She decided not to draw her .45. It would have looked aggressive, and she knew it was there.

  The lead Tuareg reined his camel to a stop. She could only see his heavily creased eyes that looked fierce. “Welcome,” he said, in English. “How many are you?”

 
She stiffened. It was a provocative question, and not one to be answered by a woman, especially as he’d glanced aloofly at her bare legs. She studied the other men. Their camels looked skittish, as if wanting to run.

  Dore sauntered forward, gazed at the man for a moment, and with Scottish bravado, held up five fingers. He smiled and held up the other hand. “Good morning.”

  The man didn’t react, but his eyes seemed to betray a foxy smile, as if thinking, perhaps considering the odds. A Gewehr K43 rifle slung across his chest, and when she glanced at the others, they carried similar weapons, as if they’d raided a German armory, or perhaps been given them for services rendered.

  Leaning the Thompson against the doorframe, Capetti stepped forward and gazed down at the man. He had a strange look in his eye, and Kat couldn’t help but wonder if he’d overdone it on the coffee. He certainly looked stern, plus extremely German in his SS uniform.

  “How can we help you, gentlemen?”

  “I… hear stories,” the Tuareg said, flicking away a fly.

  It was an opening gambit. Something threatening was coming.

  “What sort of stories?” Capetti asked.

  The man jutted his chin at the Adler. “Your machine. It fly in sacred mountains. News come to us.”

  The man was talking about the carpet-bombing, perhaps even the destruction of the airfield, although that only happened an hour ago. Perhaps news traveled fast in the desert.

  “Capisco,” Capetti said. “Profound apologies, but we are… different people. We leave now.”

  The Tuareg camels skittered again, their riders straight-backed and alert. They expected something, and the way they kept glancing at Kat, what they wanted was becoming unpleasantly obvious. They wanted recompense, and not in the form of money.

  “You have… gift?” The leader asked, ominously. “We will accept and leave in peace.”

  Capetti smiled and waved at the row of bombs strewn across the ground. “Please. Take what you wish.”

  The Tuareg slowly shook his head, brushing away another fly. “We wish for beauty, not ugliness.” He seemed to smile. “We will accept your daughter.”