A thousand suns

Max watched the subdued light from the torch flicker faintly through the plexiglas canopies at the front of the plane and watched as the three young men clambered up into the cockpit and examined, with fascination, the interior.

‘We’ve modified the plane in several ways. Inside the cockpit the instrumentation has been relabelled in German, the Browning M2 machine guns have been replaced with our MG-81s.’

‘Why?’

‘Shell calibre. We would need to manufacture our own supply of 7.9mm shells to use them.’

‘Of course.’

‘And inside we’ve added additional fuel tanks to extend her range.’

Max looked quizzically at Rall. ‘These planes have a long range already.’

‘Yes, we know they have a range of four thousand miles; the extra tanks will give this one another thousand miles.’

Max turned back to look at Rall. ‘She’ll have a range of five thousand miles?’

The Major nodded.

‘I presume my men and I have been brought here to fly this plane.’

Rall nodded again.

‘Five thousand miles?’ he said again. ‘So where exactly are we going to fly her?’

The faint, flickering torchlight spilling from the bomber’s cockpit lit up enough of Major Rall’s face to show he was smiling.

‘I think perhaps it’s time you and I took a walk outside, and then I can tell you about our little plan.’

Chapter 16

Watched

Chris walked out of the rear entrance of the motel towards the quayside parking area. He was halfway across the parking lot on his way towards the Cherokee, weaving his way between two ‘Runcies Fish’ delivery trucks parked side by side, when he saw them.

He surprised himself with his sudden paranoid decision to duck back into the evening shadows between both vehicles. That telephone call yesterday out of nowhere from the mysterious ‘Mr Wallace’ had definitely done a number on him. He was getting jittery. Another week in Port Lawrence and he could see himself hugging his knees in a closet and wearing his favourite tinfoil hat.

The two men stood beneath one of the bright floodlights that lined the jetty. A sharp pool of white light picked them out in stark clarity. His first impression was that they had the appearance of ex-military types. Both were physically fit. They looked like they had the kind of whippet-lean musculature that comes from decades of genuine fitness, not the bloated Mr Universe-like bulk that any fool can build up in a few months with the help of a fitness instructor and a supply of steroids.

He had seen idiotic thugs like that in virtually every bar in Sarajevo. Pumped up wannabee-John McLanes, some of them ex-soldiers, many more who had never been, all attracted like wasps to a Coca-Cola can, looking for mercenary work. Not for the money, but for the thrill. Most of them had signed up to fight for the Kosovans.

Chris had done an assignment with FHM magazine, for an article entitled ‘The Shooting Gallery’. He had photographed quite a few of these thrill-chasers for the piece. Most of them had revelled in the attention, posing in their combat fatigues, brandishing their guns for the camera and enjoying the temporary celebrity status. They had boasted openly about the action they’d seen, their kills, or ‘frags’ as some of them casually euphemised the act of killing. They discussed their bloody business like excited trainee managers after a paint-ball game.

It hadn’t taken him very long to work out that he was dealing with the poseurs, the weekend warriors, big boys playing at being soldiers, and he soon learned to take with a pinch of salt most, if not all, of their Hollywood-inspired combat claims.

He’d moved on to find the genuine mercenaries in that wrecked city and had the shit kicked out of him on one occasion when he’d pulled out his camera in a bar. The three men that had cracked several of his ribs, split his lip and trashed his camera, they’d been the real deal. They had worn smart casual clothes — sports-casual, not combat fatigues — and they’d looked a lot like the two men across the quay, standing patiently under the light.

Chris watched them. They were talking and looking around, looking for something or someone. There was no mistaking their furtive manner; no mistaking the fact that they looked like pros… not just a couple of ‘scroats’, as an old police buddy of his used to refer to suspicious-looking civvies on the street, up to no good.

Chris found himself debating whether cowering here in the shadows between these two trucks was paranoia gone too far or a sound precaution. On the one hand, he felt there was already enough to this bomber story to speculate that even after sixty years some agency out there might want to ensure it wasn’t splashed across tomorrow’s newspapers. On the other hand, whatever happened, it all went off sixty years ago. Who would possibly care now? Who would care enough to send out a couple of heavies?

Chris shook his head. It probably was paranoia on his part, and he was glad Mark wasn’t here. The bastard would relentlessly take the piss out of him for wimping out like this.