Vengeance 10

In late afternoon the sun broke through to cast long pillars of light on to the sea. At seven o’clock he sighted a smudge of land. For a long moment the old fear rushed back. Neutral Sweden or Nazi-occupied Bornholm? There was nothing to do now but wait. He went below then to check on the girl and clean the machine pistol.

Francine was comatose; her skin was hot and dry to the touch, and her mouth worked with the effort to breathe. Fluid was filling her lungs with unbelievable rapidity. He sat helplessly on the bunk, holding one limp hand. There was nothing he could do other than to keep watch while she died.

When he went back on deck an hour later, the skies had cleared almost completely. The wind had dropped, and the sail slatted sullenly. The aircraft had apparently been circling for some time, engines throttled back. Memling grunted; its appearance had been inevitable. The plane had twin booms, three engines, and stabilising pontoons slung beneath the wings. He identified it as a Bv138 naval reconnaissance seaplane-an aircraft the Swedes did not use. Half-heartedly Memling waved, hoping they would think he was a Swedish fisherman. The plane made one more circuit and climbed for altitude until he lost it in the darkening sky. Radioing for instructions, he suspected.

The smudge of land had taken on definition in the time he had been below. A low range of hills were visible, as were one or two lights along the shore: Sweden, he realised, as Bornholm would have been blacked out. Not that it mattered much now. He judged that he was well within neutral Swedish territorial waters, but he also knew that such niceties would not deter the Nazis who could not allow him to escape with the information he had gathered at Peenemunde.

Memling began the preparations he had thought through earlier. He took the hatch cover off the engine compartment and punched a hole in the fuel tank, hoping that enough fuel remained to do the job. Earlier he had gone down and prised boards away to let the oil seep into the aft hold. He found two bulky cork life-belts and took them into the cabin. Francine was delirious and much weaker now. A matter of hours, he thought. He balanced the knife in his fingers and bent over her, easing her chin back. It would be so much kinder to slip the blade in quickly; death would be instantaneous. But he could not bring himself to do it. He did not even like her very much, and he doubted if she cared at all for him. They had been given a job to do. As she had seen it, sex was a part of that job, a part she enjoyed, but a job nevertheless. He, in turn, had used her, partly because she was willing, partly because he was reacting to his own problems with Janet, and partly because her magnificent body offered a relief from his own fear. Each had been a convenience to the other, nothing more.

He cursed himself as he slid her arms through the cork jacket and tied the thongs securely. He could kill when it was an enemy and there was no other choice, but not a helpless woman who had shared her body with him, for whatever reason. If there was any chance at all, he meant her to have it. Jan lifted her from the bunk, then, grunting in the confined space, carried her up and placed her on the deckhouse floor. He went below again for the alcohol stove and the dead SD man’s machine pistol. He poured a panful of diesel oil on the limp sail, lit the stove with difficulty, and sat down beside the feverish girl to wait.

The reconnaissance plane made its first attack from dead astern at sea level. Machine-gun fire chewed across the deck, and the aircraft swept past so close that Memling saw the pilot staring down at him. The gun turret forward of the cockpit swivelled as the pilot sideslipped to give the gunner clearance, but the burst went wide. The plane banked sharply, fell off one wing, and swept down on them, again at sea level. Memling knelt behind the engine compartment and held his fire until the last possible moment; a split second before the twin machine-guns opened up, he fired a long burst that exhausted the Schmiesser magazine. The turret shattered and the aircraft swept past without response. One dead gunner, he hoped.

Memling rammed home the other magazine and watched the aircraft sweep away low, then climb swiftly. The pilot would not make that mistake again. Regretfully he dropped the machine pistol and picked Francine up, easing her over one shoulder. She muttered something through cracked lips, and he held her tightly for a moment, then bent, picked up the stove, and opened the valve until the flame roared.

Far above he could see the Nazi turning towards them. Sun glinted for a moment, highlighting the aircraft, and he could even see the racks of bombs slung under each wing. As the pilot began his run Memling walked to the after hatch where he had put a cloth-wrapped stick that he had soaked in oil. He lit the torch from the burning stove.