“And it would be suicide for the army to try and storm those mountains and valleys,” Fleming said.
“Exactly, Robert, suicide. The alternative is to put the Alps under siege and starve them out, but that could take years.”
The drone of the air-conditioning system suddenly seemed to fill Fleming’s ears. “What can we do?” he asked.
Staverton sucked the end of his pencil.
“I agree with the conclusions in your report. We have no way of knowing whether this new aircraft is a prototype, or fully operational, but we need to find out fast. Churchill has made it clear that it’s up to us at the EAEU to produce an answer to whatever it is that’s out there. I think there is only one.”
Staverton paused. Fleming was used to such dramatic gestures. There was still something of the showman in the Old Man.
“We will have to recover one from the Reich. We must find out if we’re right about the 163C, and what makes it tick.”
Fleming went still.
“You can’t mean it, sir.”
“It’s the only way, Robert.”
“I know that one of the EAEU’s responsibilities is to ensure that as many German aircraft, aero-engine and armaments factories get captured by the Allies before the Russians get hold of them, but isn’t this taking our duties a bit far?”
“Not at all. We came within a hair’s breadth of pulling off a similar operation several years ago. It was late 1942 and a new version of the FW 190 was making mincemeat of our latest Spitfire. We had to capture one and take it apart at Farnborough. We had a test pilot ready to parachute into France close to an FW 190 base, but at the very last minute the whole thing was called off.”
“Why?”
Staverton smiled.
“It was a remarkable stroke of luck, really. An FW 190 pilot got completely lost over the channel, took a reciprocal bearing and landed his brand spanking new Focke-Wulf in the mist at RAF St Athan in Wales. He was so stunned when they came to arrest him that he didn’t even attempt to set fire to the aircraft.”
“But that was an operation to bring a conventional aircraft out of France,” Fleming said.
Staverton was unperturbed. “This operation is certainly going to be different. It’s required a great deal of planning and we haven’t got much time. So this is what we’re going to do.”
Fleming put the coffee down.
The Old Man got to his feet and walked over to the map of western Europe that adorned most of the wall behind his desk. He pointed to a small area south of the Danish Peninsula.
“As you know, the Nazis have carried out most of their rocket research on the Baltic coast at these two test centres — Peenemunde, here,” Staverton stabbed his finger at a spot on the North German shoreline, “and Rostock here.
“We’ve had a crew on a Danish trawler keeping Peenemunde under surveillance for several weeks and it’s been dead. Not a squeak since they did their last A4 rocket tests there over two months ago. So it’s not Peenemunde — I double-checked with the trawler last night.”
“That leaves Rostock.” He stabbed his finger once more on the map.
“This morning, at 3 a.m., an RAF Mosquito took off from a captured airfield in Germany on a routine recce mission of Rostock harbour, only the docks were not its real objective. The pilot was briefed to cause a hell of a stir above the harbour, attract a bit of flak and then to all intents and purposes head home, hugging the trees until he was beyond the range of Rostock’s gun batteries. By sheer chance, his course takes him slap over the test centre just outside Rostock and that’s where he really gets busy. Those cameras work like billyo over the airfield, but the enemy, of course, doesn’t know that. He’s convinced that it’s the harbour that we’re interested in.”
Staverton halted for a moment, pleased with himself. It was a favourite trick of the reconnaissance boys.
“One of our own chaps from the EAEU at the Mosquito’s base sent back a coded message just before you got in. The photographs are positive. At least, our man Bowman has good reason to think so. The only trouble is, he has no data with which to compare them.”
That was logical enough. Fleming was one of only a handful of people, even within the EAEU, who was allowed access to archive material on new enemy equipment. He’d given up counting the number of bloody evenings he’d spent peering through stereoscopic pairs at a maze of black and white dots that some boffin claimed formed the image of some new enemy weapon.
He was half expecting what came next.
“I want you, Robert, to get over to Germany right away and positively identify those photographs, one way or another. Find out if that thing is the long range rocket fighter.”
“Yes, sir.” He thought of Penny.
But Staverton hadn’t finished. “And if it is, I want you to co-ordinate the extraction operation. I’ve already set the wheels in motion. I need to ensure that it’s carried through to the letter and you’re the best qualified man to do it.”
The drab walls of the bunker seemed to cave in for Fleming, but the AVM was in full stride.
“There’s a Dakota waiting for you at Northolt. Your travel documents are at the airfield. With your papers are a further set of instructions which set out all the objectives of the trip. Read them carefully. I don’t have to tell you how important this whole thing is.”
Fleming wanted to move, but his legs felt like lead.
“I’ve got great faith in you, my boy. I know you can do it.”
The Old Man, now with his back to the wall chart, arms crossed, stared fixedly at Fleming who had not moved from the hard, straight-backed chair.
“That’ll be all, Robert. There’s a car waiting outside that will take you to Northolt. Good luck.”
Fleming got to his feet and left. For once, he forgot to salute.
As the Riley staff car swung off the Oxford road into Northolt aerodrome, Fleming felt a tinge of sadness. The wide highway slid out of view and was all but obscured by the guardroom where they drew to a halt.
He turned round for a last look at the road. Endless convoys were sweeping into the centre of London, only a few miles away, but there was little traffic heading in the direction of Oxford. It was ironic that Staverton had chosen Northolt as his point of departure. In better days, Penny and he passed it regularly on the way home to the cottage.
The corporal tapped on the window.
“Wing Commander Fleming?”
Fleming pulled back the glass and let the raw wind catch him full in the face. He nodded.
“Papers please sir.”
On the far side of the airfield Fleming could see his DC-3 transport taxiing over to the dispersal point. A ray of sunshine broke through the clouds and raced across the runway, passing directly over the Dakota as it drew up alongside the control tower.
“Thank you sir,” the corporal said as he handed back Fleming’s papers. “Please make your way over to the tower and report to the duty orderly. You can pick up your travel documents there.”
Fleming entered the tower building and found few signs of life. A middle-aged WAAF corporal was typing with her back to him behind the reception desk. The room was shabby. Fleming straightened a picture of the King which had been blown crooked by the wind as he had opened the door. The WAAF turned round to see who it was.
“I’m Wing Commander Fleming. I believe you should have some travel documents for me.”
The WAAF delved her hand into a pigeonhole and produced a thick bundle of papers which she handed over. Fleming went through them. A travel pass that would give him rights of passage through Northern Germany and a thin carnet with his photograph on the inside front cover which was the standard-issue passport. Also, a thick manila envelope with Not to be opened until airborne typed on the top left-hand corner. That would be from Staverton. He tucked the papers into his inside jacket pocket.