“I’m not convinced,” Welland said.
“Then come down to Farnborough tomorrow morning and watch the rocket fighter in action. If you’re not impressed, I’ll drop my plan.”
“Which is?” Deering asked.
“Ship the Komet to a forward operating strip, fly it under the Soviets’ defences to Branodz and hit Shaposhnikov in his headquarters with two thousand pounds of Trope.”
“But,” Deering objected, “even if your man did get through in this wonder-aeroplane, how on earth could he surprise Shaposhnikov, let alone be sure of hitting the target?”
“Speed, George, it’s all about speed. At 55omph, Shaposhnikov would never see him coming. Even if our man only came close — and remember, Ivan’s going to believe it’s the Jerries doing it, not us — Shaposhnikov’s going to think twice about launching Archangel without supremacy of the skies.”
“But there’s no guarantee—”
Welland’s aide, a bespectacled commander from Naval Intelligence, never got any further. After almost forty-eight hours with no sleep, Staverton snapped. “Of course there’s no fucking guarantee. There’s no guarantee that this madman is going to carry through with Archangel, there’s no guarantee that Shaposhnikov is on his own in all this, there’s no guarantee that an antidote will work. But we’ve got to stop pissing in the wind and do something. If nothing else, this will buy us time.” The aide withered under Staverton’s hostile gaze. He looked to his boss for support, but found none.
“What I’m offering you tomorrow,” Staverton said, his composure returned, “is a chance to see German technology in action — a demonstration flight of the 163C rocket fighter.” All eyes were on him. “If you’re impressed, we go ahead and I run the show. If it leaves you cold, then I concede we have to stop Archangel by some other means.”
“How long before the rocket fighter’s ready?” Deering asked.
“I’ve got my men working flat out on it right now. They’re preparing it for testing tomorrow and I want you to be there to witness the flight. You must be convinced before we get the PM to sanction a mission into Czechoslovakia.”
Deering said: “Do they have any idea what it’s being readied for, your people?”
“None,” Staverton said. “I would only need to bring two of my staff into the picture, if the plan is sanctioned.”
Deering removed his glasses. “I, for one, like the sound of it. But before I’m convinced, I’m going to have to be persuaded by the performance and reliability of this rocket fighter of yours at Farnborough.”
“You hold the casting vote, George,” Staverton said, simply.
“Well let’s see what happens tomorrow, then,” Deering said. “I’ll be there.”
Welland nodded, grudgingly. “Very well. So will I. I’ll see to it the PM is notified as well. Any slip-ups, Staverton, and we kill the plan.”
Staverton felt a surge of relief. “Agreed,” he said. “The preflight briefing’s at nine o’clock. I think both of you should attend it. The flight is scheduled for midday.”
Chairs scraped across the floor, papers were shuffled into piles and into briefcases and folders. Deering’s aides were taking the pins out of the Archangel map and preparing to fold it away.
“There is one more thing we should do tonight,” Deering said. An uneasy silence fell across the room. “I think we should put a routine call through to our embassy in Moscow and get someone to monitor Shaposhnikov’s whereabouts. At least when he makes a move for the front, we know we have to start worrying.”
“Good idea,” Welland said. “I’ll see it’s done straight away.” He picked up his papers and walked from the room.
As the others followed the Admiral, Staverton drew alongside Deering. The Army man had never seen the AVM so drawn.
“Thank you, George,” Staverton said, with uncharacteristic humility.
“Don’t thank me, Algy, just make sure you get it right. I stuck my neck out for you tonight. The old sea-dog has got it in for you, it seems.”
Staverton headed down the long dark corridor that led to the Bunker and his camp bed. For the first time in two days and nights, he felt he might be able to snatch some sleep.
CHAPTER THREE
Fleming awoke with a start. He expected to find himself in the freezing tin shed at Kettenfeld, covered by the dirty blankets that Bowman had managed to dig out.
Instead, he felt clean, warm sheets against his skin. There were curtains on the windows and sunlight showed through a crack between the black-out material and the windowsill. He lay still, listening to the sound of voices and aircraft engines in the distance.
He had slept soundly; no, better than that. He couldn’t remember waking so well rested, with such a sense of well-being, in over a year. Sometimes he had woken with the same feeling of excitement when he was a boy, when he just knew in his bones that something wonderful was about to happen.
There was a sharp knock at the door. Fleming looked at his watch. A little before eight. They had let him sleep in.
The door opened and Staverton stuck his head into the room. He looked like he had aged ten years in the few days Fleming had been away.
“How are you feeling?” the AVM asked.
“I’m fine, sir.” Fleming was still trying to hide his surprise at seeing the Old Man. “Never felt better. I could ask the same about you.”
“It’s been a busy few days,” he said. Staverton had slept during the night, but not for long. Before the sun rose he had commissioned a car to drive him from Whitehall to the RAE. The 163CS maiden flight was all he could think of. He needed Fleming badly as back-up.
“You’ve done a great job, Robert, I’m proud of you.” He hesitated. Fleming had never seen him as tense.
“Thank you, sir. Any word from Colonel Jewell?”
“They all made it to the ships. They’re on their way to Chatham, so we heard.”
Staverton seemed to regain some of his composure. He went over to the window and drew the curtains. “A damn fine job,” he said, looking out over the airfield. “But there’s work to be done.”
“What sort of work?” Fleming asked. He expected to be debriefed on the operation that day back in the Bunker, but he was not sure that that was what Staverton had in mind.
“We’re flying the 163C today. Here, at Farnborough. Get some clothes on. There’s a briefing I want you to attend in an hour.”
Fleming sprang out of bed. “But that’s madness. I know we have to move quickly on this one, but there are checks to do, manuals to read, pilots to prepare.”
Staverton swung round to face him. “You’re right, it is madness. But the Komet’s the only answer.” He ignored Fleming’s look of incomprehension. “The aircraft’s been assembled, we’ve got fuel and we’ve got a pilot. And now I need you, so get dressed.”
Fleming grabbed his clothes, which had been thrown carelessly over the end of the bed. “What the bloody hell’s been going on here while I’ve been away?”
“This isn’t the time,” Staverton said. “As soon as we see the thing fly, we go back to the Bunker. I’ll tell you all about it then, in the car. For the moment, as far as you are concerned, this is a big day. We fly the aircraft that you stole from the Nazis. People will be excited. So will you, and quite rightly, laddie. But I don’t want a word of this conversation to filter out beyond these walls, do you understand?”
“But you haven’t said anything yet, sir.”
“I will, boy, I will.” Staverton walked to the door.
Fleming stopped him just before he turned the handle.
“I wanted to get word to my wife, sir. She must have been worried sick these past few days not hearing anything from me.