Kat and the Desert Eagle Read online

  “Ah!” Capetti said. “Apologies. She is not daughter, she is wife. Very bad wife. You don’t-a want.”

  Kat backed slowly towards the ladder. She doubted the Tuaregs would draw their weapons, they weren’t stupid… They had modern rifles and didn’t need to risk their lives. The Tuaregs would withdraw to the dunes and then attack. They had one problem, the dunes were too shallow to hide their camels, and camels were far more valuable than a woman.

  “Then we… wish you good life,” the man said, and as Kat suspected, cantered towards the nearest sand dunes.

  “Into the plane!” Dore hissed. “As fast as you can.”

  Kat scrambled up the ladder, Dore hot on her heels. “Weber!” he shouted. “Get us out of here!”

  Weber already in the pilot’s seat, pushed the throttle forward, the whine of turbines rapidly rising.

  “Grabbing the Thompson, Dore threw himself onto the floor. Within seconds, all five of them aimed their guns. But they last saw the Tuaregs cantering across the desert. They had no intention of making war on the monster from the mountains.

  Returning to their seats for takeoff, Kelly said, “Well, that was a missed opportunity… We almost found you a husband.”

  CHAPTER 26

  Kat watched the desert slowly turn to green and become more mountainous. They flew over Morocco, heading for the Atlantic Ocean at 12,000 feet. Kelly had found a case of oxygen tanks with individual masks, presumably to be used at high altitudes, but there were no anti-aircraft guns in the Atlas Mountains and by nightfall they would be flying over the sea. It was a longer route to take, but it would avoid flying over Italy and France, where Ack-Ack guns could shoot them down, or force them to fly at 30,000 feet, although the likelihood of a single plane being fired on was remote, especially at 500 miles an hour.

  Speed turned out to be a problem, and at one point they slowed to 300 miles an hour, just to give them time to study which airfield to land at. Incredibly, the Adler’s document compartment contained maps that listed every airfield in the British Isles, no doubt with the intention of bombing them. Unfortunately, the maps gave no indication how long the runways were. The team had been on enough British Airfields to know that many were little more than well-mown fields, initially built for bi-planes. Even Spitfires often took off and landed on grass runways. The British Royal Air Force was primitive.

  What they needed were airfields chosen for Bomber Command. If a Lancaster, or an Armstrong Whitworth could takeoff, the Adler might be able to land there. But where were these damned airfields? The names on the list sounded like something out of Tales of King Arthur… Binbrook, Alconbury and Kelstern. Some were in Cambridge, and even Weber knew where that was, but where the hell was Lincolnshire? Kat grew up in Germany, Dore came from Scotland, Atkins a Cockney, Capetti Italian and Kelly grew up in India.

  Kat burst out laughing. “For a team of British spies, we’re absolutely hopeless. How did we ever get chosen? We’re a bunch of bloody foreigners.”

  She peered into the cockpit. Capetti sat in the co-pilot’s seat, Kelly was taking a break, although neither of them would land the plane, Weber had far more experience, and if he wanted to be seen favorably by the SOE, he needed to bring the Adler in safely. She squinted through the starboard window. They were passing Spain. She saw the lights of Vigo in the distance. In half an hour they would be heading into the English Channel. They didn’t have long.

  “Why on earth are we flying up the English Channel?” Kelly asked. “It must be one of the most heavily defended areas in the whole of the British Isles. We’ll be blown to pieces.”

  Kat shook her head. “I don’t think we will. The German air raids fly in from the East. We’ll be coming in from the Southwest. I’m sure we’ll come up against anti-aircraft fire, but it won’t be anywhere near as bad.”

  “Why does it have to be bad at all?” he argued. “Why can’t we fly further North and come in from the West, pass over Wales, for example?”

  “Because we won’t know where the hell we’re going. It’ll still be dark and the English will be on blackout. At the speed this thing flies at, we could end up in Sweden.”

  “Guys.” Dore cut in. “This isn’t getting us anywhere. We need to get on the radio. Someone has to guide us in, and pretty dammed soon.”

  “Have you seen the Adler’s radio?” Kelly said. “It’s like something out of Jules Verne. I wouldn’t have a clue where to start.”

  “Weber must know.”

  “He doesn’t. I’ve already asked him. When he flew the Adler down from Italy, he used charts to find Algeria, and then he followed a radio beacon.”

  “Well, for Christ’s sake, experiment. Fiddle around with the dials until you find a military frequency. We’ll be in range in the next twenty minutes. Explain your problem and ask for their help. If they tell you to fuck off… and they probably will… throw a few names at them.”

  Making her way to the drinks container, originally supplied for Weber and the Guards, she poured herself a coffee. The whole situation was infuriating. They’d managed to get Stipa on their side, procured a trawler out of Genova, blown up the docks at Palermo, by a miracle found the testing site for the Adler and then actually managed to steal it, but after all that, they had no idea where they were going.

  “I’ve got someone!” Capetti yelled.

  Racing back to the cockpit, she grabbed the microphone. “Who is this?”

  “Corporal Pritchard, Home-Guard in Southampton. Who’s that?”

  “Pritchard,” she panted, “You’re an absolute gem. Thank you for taking this. We’re a covert team, working for the SOE. flying an experimental Bomber towards England and we have no idea where to land. We don’t even understand how the radio works and we’re panicking. Can you patch me through to the SOE?”

  A moment of silence. “I don’t mean to sound stupid, but… who are the SOE?”

  “It stands for Special Operations Executive. They have an office in Baker Street. They must be somewhere on your list.”

  A crackle of static, Pritchard muttering to himself. “I’ve got a code for someone in the War Department. Would that help?”

  “Brilliant. Patch me through.”

  More static, people’s voices coming and going. “War Department.”

  “Wonderful. Who am I speaking to?”

  “Sorry, madam. Not allowed to say. How can I help?”

  She repeated what she’d told Pritchard, and she needed to speak to Commander Fleming or his assistant at the SOE. “This is really urgent. In the next few minutes we’ll be flying up the English Channel. If we’re all killed, there’ll be some very angry people in Whitehall.” More static, but this time it was prolonged, and she began to wonder if she’d lost contact all together.

  “Weber, do you know where we are?”

  “Jar. Ve are fife minutes from Cornvall.”

  “Holy crap! Bank left, Hans. Head out to sea.”

  “Commander Fleming.”

  She’d been so engrossed by the view through the pilot’s screen, where, exactly they were now heading and whether they’d find their starting point again, it took a moment to realize she had Fleming on the line.

  “Commander? Is that you?”

  “Commander Fleming here. Who the hell is this?”

  “It’s Kat, Commander. Kat Wolfram. We’ve got the Adler and we’re bringing it in.”

  “You’ve got the what!” he exclaimed. “You actually managed to steal it? Jesus H. Christ! That’s incredible! Where the hell are you?”

  “That’s the problem. We know where we are, we’re off the coast of Cornwall, but we have no idea where to land and it’s night time. We
can’t see a damned thing. But there’s another problem, this plane is enormous and needs a very long runway. We think RAF Binbrook has a long enough runway, but we don’t have a clue how to get there.”

  “Hold on a minute.” She heard Fleming shouting at someone, the murmur of voices, the swish of paper. Fleming consulted a map. “Okay. You might have to fly around until you can see. When you can, fly to Plymouth. It’s the biggest port on the south coast of Cornwall. But don’t fly too far. If you overshoot and reach Portsmouth, they’ll blast you out of the sky.”

  “That’s the other problem, we have no identifying marks. The Adler could be English for all they know.”

  “No markings?”

  “Absolutely nothing. It’s just painted black.”

  “Then you really could be in trouble. You’ll be flying over heavily defended airfields. What’s your airspeed?”

  “About 500 miles an hour.”

  “God almighty! How much fuel do you have?”

  She glanced at Weber. “How much fuel do we have?”

  “Four hours… I sink.” Weber replied in his broken English.

  She spoke into the microphone again. “We’re fine for fuel.”

  “Good. Stay over the sea until it’s almost light, then plot an East-North-Easterly course and head for King’s Lynn, although what altitude to fly at is anyone’s guess.”

  “I was going to suggest 1,500 feet. At 500 miles an hour, no one can chase us and we’ll be gone within seconds.”

  “Sounds dangerous. Watch out for hills. In the meantime, we’ll set up a beacon. Tell the pilot to home in on it.”

  Slumping into the seat next to Kelly, she put her head in her hands. “Well, I did my best. If we get shot down by Hurricanes, you can’t say I didn’t try.”

  “Hey, Kat, you’re totally my hero.” Atkins said. “You’ve got more balls than Manchester United.”

  The plane lurched and banked hard. “Hurricanes!” Weber shouted. “Ve are being attacked! Vat I do?”

  Kelly leapt to his feet. “You give the controls to me. Move your arse!”

  Diving into the pilot’s seat, Kelly hauled back on the stick, wound the engines up to full power and banked in the other direction. With the engines roaring at full throttle, he put the Adler into a steep climb.

  “What hell you doing?” Capetti called out. “You slow us down!”

  “They can’t climb at this rate!” Kelly yelled, exuberantly. “And then I’m going into a long dive! They’ll never keep up with that! I can leave them behind at three miles a minute.”

  The Adler leveled off, seemed to hover for a moment, and then the starboard wing dipped as it slipped sideways and went into a steep dive, the engines roaring at full bore.

  A Hurricane suddenly appeared in the cockpit window, banked away and disappeared. Another zoomed into view before it too vanished. Seconds later, the fuselage was strafed with machine gun fire, unidentified fragments floating in the air. Another Hurricane briefly appeared. More strafing, more floating fragments. The Adler banked to the right and then left.

  “Holy crap!” Kelly shrieked. “We’re doing 600 knots! The bloody wings are going to fall off when I pull out!”

  The Adler climbed again, banked to the left, then to the right and then left again. Kelly dodging imaginary bullets, playing it safe. He couldn’t see behind him, so he was making the Adler tough to hit.

  The G-force sucking Kat into her seat. She’d never experience aerobatics in a plane the size of a football field.

  When he pulled out of the dive, the Adler flew as smooth as silk. It was getting light now, a gray, almost non-existent, English light that allowed you to see the shape of things, but not the details.

  “I think we’ve lost them!” he shouted. “I’m going down to 1,500. That should wake a few people!”

  Kat thought about the first time she saw the Adler. One moment the mountains had been silent, and then a massive deluge of noise as the huge plane came out of nowhere. It sounded like a volcano erupting. She imagined what it must be like for the English, all asleep in their beds… until the roofs were practically torn off. At this height, English fighter planes wouldn’t even have time to takeoff, let alone give chase. It would be over before it even started. Even Ack-Ack guns would be helpless. Their aim would be so shallow, they’d be in danger of shooting their own people.

  She peered through the cockpit window. They flew at 1,500 feet off the deck at 500 miles an hour, fields and forests rushing towards them, the plane rumbling on the frequent thermals. It was like driving on a corrugated surface, except wildly exhilarating. Then they were flying over water again, skimming over it, the thermals behind them. They’d reached the North Sea.

  “Weber!” Kelly yelled. “D’you want to land this thing? I’m all out of skills!”

  Weber switched seats with him and banked around. Kat saw the airfield now. Surrounded by fields, in line with the coast, a small control tower, a row of hangars, Lancaster bombers parked on the apron. Weber looked nervous as he followed the beacon, probably because he wore his SS uniform. But so did Capetti, so did Kelly and so did she. The ground crews would get a shock when they disembarked. She only hoped that Commander Fleming would be there to meet them.

  The Adler, now at 1,000 feet, made its final approach. Fields of cows streaking by, the rooftops of a small village only feet beneath them, barns and haystacks, the wings trembling. Kat gripped the arm rests as the runway came up to meet them. They were landing too fast.

  An almighty thump, a shriek of tires, Weber clutching the stick with whitened knuckles. They were down, but they were moving at an alarming speed. The control tower flew by, a row of Lancasters, the end of the runway rushing towards them. The Adler shuddered as it slewed around. Then suddenly, they were on grass, the landing gear making terrible thumping sounds, a coppice of trees racing towards them. Kat braced herself.

  There was an almighty bang as she flew from her seat.

  Then nothing.

  She could smell antiseptic, hear whispering sounds and something pressing against her leg. Her ribs hurt, and it was hard to breathe.

  “She’s coming around.”

  She opened her eyes. A white ceiling, a single light bulb, somebody bending over her legs, a face, a vaguely familiar face.

  “How are you feeling?” the face asked.

  Slowly, the face came into focus. She knew that face, something to do with the desert. Was she in the desert again? Then it came to her in a huge rush of relief. It was Harry Stewart. By some miracle, he survived.

  “Oh my god, Harry,” she croaked. “You’re alive. I thought we’d lost you.”

  “It was close,” he laughed. “Very close… Some fool in a gigantic plane was dropping bombs on me…”

  “But… how did you get back… and so quickly?”

  “It was easy. I climbed back up the cliff while you were still taking off. The Germans were watching you, not me. I was going to hide in the caves, then I saw the Jeep, and the keys were still in it.”

  “We blew up the airfield. Didn’t you get hit?”

  “So it was you dropping bombs on me… Not sporting of you at all, I must say…” he joked. “I was driving the Jeep, and your bombs practically blew me off the trail.” He shrugged. “But they didn’t, and I managed to find the DC-3. The rest was easy, although fuel was touch and go. I just made it back to Benghazi. Squadron Leader Graham was ecstatic to get his plane back. He wanted me to remind you of your promise to requisition some Spitfires for him.”

  “How did you get here so quickly?”

  “It wasn’t that quick. It took me two days, which is how long you’ve be
en unconscious. How do you feel?”

  “I don’t know, I… I hurt.”

  “Bloody sure you do. You’ve a broken leg and you’ve got three cracked ribs.”

  “Oh, so that’s why it hurts to breathe. Where am I?”

  “At a hospital in a place called King’s Lynn. You should feel fine in a couple of weeks. You remember the flight back here?”

  It all came rushing back, the dogfight, Kelly doing his aerobatics. “Yes, I remember. Is everyone all right? Am I the only casualty?” she asked, looking around.

  “Sam has a fractured skull and four broken ribs, but he’ll recover. He’s in the room next to yours. Everyone else is fine, although I’m afraid the pilot bought it. The cockpit hit a tree.”

  “And the Adler? Is it ruined?”

  “Oh, I’m sure they can repair it. Out of my league really. In fact, it’s…”

  He stopped speaking as a tall figure shadowed the doorway. It was Commander Fleming, his long cigarette holder gripped in his grinning mouth. Backing out of the doorway, Stewart said he’d see her later and made a hasty retreat.

  “Good, you’re awake,” Fleming said. “Thought you’d never wake up.”

  She grunted, which was just about all she could do with three cracked ribs. “I probably needed the rest.”

  “I’m sure you did, although the rest of your team don’t seem to be feeling it. They’re all in a pub getting pissed, which is where Stewart’s likely heading.” Revealing a pint of Guinness that he’d been concealing, he placed it on her bedside table. “They asked me to give you this. Said it would put hair on your chest.”

  “Oh yeah, just what I need.”

  “Sorry I can’t stay. They want me back at HQ. When you’re feeling better, I need to talk to you.” He turned to go. “Oh, one more thing.”

  She gazed at him. He fitted a cigarette into the elaborate holder and she wondered if he would light it in a hospital.