TS01 Time Station London (24 page)

“If we have Clive here to back up our story, we can force Chamberlain out of government entirely. And silence Churchill’s critics.”

Incredulous, Dianna stared at him. “You mean not send him back? Regulations state clearly that we transport immediately.”

“I don’t mean keep him, Di. All we need is to have him around long enough for us to wring concessions out of Chamberlain and those lined up against Churchill. Then we beam Beattie back.”

Dianna displayed her stubborn streak. “It’s crazy. You’ll get us suspended.”

“Not necessarily. Let me have time to think this through.” He grew silent then, sorting the alternatives in his mind, weighing possible course of action. A plan formed. “Here’s what I think we can get away with…” said Brian at last, then he went on to tell Dianna his plan.

Time: 1030, GMT, October 15, 1940

Place: Buckingham Palace, London, England

Field Marshal Lord Mountbatten—the real one—received his decoration from the King two days later as planned. He lunched with Winston Churchill and the majority leaders of both houses of Parliament at 10 Downing Street. During the lull, Brian Moore paid a discreet visit on Neville Chamberlain. He brought with him the letters and photograph. Also photos of Clive Beattie as Lord Mountbatten, and as himself, seated beside Brian Moore.

Starting with the first edition, early the second day, the headlines screamed the news.

DR. CHAMBERLAIN STEPS DOWN!

The story that accompanied the bold, black letters referred to his leaving government due to failing health and a desire to retire to his country estate. It went on to review his political career and accomplishments. Not a word appeared about certain embarrassing correspondence.

Also that afternoon, Brian Moore spent three hours questioning Gunther Bewerber. He Iearned the names and locations of three previously unsuspected German agents. He also extracted a complete list of secrets Beattie had given to the Germans. When he had wrung all he could out of the time rogue, Brian heaved a sigh of relief.

When Brian took a transcript of his results to Sir Hugh, the MI-5 Home Office director was enormously pleased. He praised Brian highly and hinted that a more substantial form of reward would be forthcoming. Brian left his superior’s office elated on the surface. Yet one grim certainty continued to plague him. The bombing of Coventry. It would happen, he knew, the first day of November.

Time: 2243, GMT, October 31, 1940

Place: Apartment of Brian Moore,

Threadneedle Street, London, England

Despite increased pressure by many privy to the secret of Enigma, Churchill remained steadfast. He was moved by compassion to alter only a few conditions. Unseasonable storms rolled in the last week of October and made flying impossible. Nevertheless, the Germans would come the first good day. The Prime Minister contacted the Home Guard commander on the twenty-eighth of October, and urged him to have all available medical personnel and ambulances be moved under cover of darkness to military bases near to Coventry. He also saw to making available a large blood supply, medical supplies, and surgical instruments. When Brian Moore learned of the Prime Minister’s decision, he spent a long, haunted night on the thirty-first, no festive night for him.

He withdrew from everyone and paced the floor of his apartment, only too aware of the irony that the next day was called the Day of the Dead in Latin American countries. He drank too much and went to bed with the predicament still unsolved.

Time: 0500, GMT, November 1, 1940

Place: Apartment of Brian Moore,

Threadneedle Street, London, England

He awoke at five o’clock with a raging hangover and a resolution. First thing was to call Samantha. She answered on the third ring, her voice thick with sleep.

“Sam, it’s Brian. Get dressed and come into London at once.”

“But, Bri, I have tons of work at the office,” Samantha protested. “And it’s such a beautiful day for once.”

“I don’t care. This is vital. Don’t even go in today. Get dressed, grab some quick breakfast, and drive like the hounds of hell were after you to London.”

“What’s this all about?”

“I… can’t tell you. But it is important. Trust me. After, I’ll tell you all about it; we can have dinner and make fantastic love.”

Maybe, her jumbled mind suggested, he was going to pop the question? The offer of dinner and lovemaking decided her. “Oh, yes, I’ll be there. Give me three hours, all right, luv?”

“That’s cutting it close, but it might work. Just hurry.” He hung up with a sinking feeling.

Time; 0930, GMT, November 1, 1940

Place: 7,500 Meters Above the English Channel

A thin ribbon of foaming surf rolled ashore far below the port wing of the lead Messerschmitt 110 Bf. Colonel Werner Ruperle looked down on it with a heavy heart. At least, the weather had cleared at last. Even that failed to lift his spirits. These daylight raids were murderous. Their losses amounted to a 150 percent increase over night attacks. More than that troubled him. He had received a letter from home the previous day. Hilda had taken a turn for the worse. His mother had come down from München to care for the children.

She wrote in rather harsh, terse form that she had been visited by a deputation from the
Gymnasium.
“The principal and a teacher, a Herr Wittenauer, behaved with only the barest civility and demanded that I produce Bruno. Then in front of me, they demanded that he join the
Hitler Jugend.
There would be no more delays, they said. He should have joined a year ago. Now, with his mother dying—they actually said that in front of Bruno—that as a good grandmother it was my duty to Führer and Fatherland to see the boy did the right thing. Bruno was the only boy in school not a member.”

Werner’s mother went on to say that she had protested that she could do nothing. Wittenauer produced a package and opened it. “He handed Bruno the uniform: brown shirt; short, black trousers and kneesocks, and that hateful armband.” Werner had read on, his eyes filled first with tears, then the fire of rage.

“Liebling,
they made him strip right there and put it on. Then raised their arms in the Nazi salute.
‘Heil Hitler’
they chanted. The poor boy stood there, his face white, lips pressed together, and refused to respond. Herr Wittenauer reached out and slapped him. He kept on slapping Bruno until he complied. I wanted to kill the
Schweinehund,
but being an old lady, I was powerless. When they left, Bruno wept hysterically and swore never to wear the uniform again. I am afraid for him. Can you do anything to help? Your loving mother.”

With a grinding of teeth, Col. Ruperle broke the spell that letter could still draw over him. It was only those with Wittenauer’s sort of mind that could so casually select his target for today. Only the morally dead could pick a peaceful village like Coventry.

Time: 0933, GMT, November 1, 1940

Place: Over Lincolnshire, England

Static crackled in the earphones clamped inside the leather flying helmet worn by Wendall Foxworth. A voice quickly followed. “They’re coming all right, lads. Just like the man said it would be. I make it five squadrons of medium bombers and two of Stukas. Let’s give ’em hell.”

How unlike Captain Marsh, Wendall thought. Usually he was all code names, the numbers for tactical maneuvers, like some bloody footballer forward. Maybe it was because Marsh had a wife and two small kiddies in Coventry. Nothing like a little personal involvement to get a man’s fires lighted.

A second later, Wendall’s Vic nosed up and started a climb for the bellies of the German aircraft. He closed to five hundred feet… four… three… two-fifty. His gloved finger closed on the firing switch and eight .303 Browning machine guns shuddered to life. Holes stitched along the underside of the port wing and across the fuselage, then the other wing. Wendall flashed past, still under the Me-110, and saw the shattered Plexiglas windscreen of the bombardier’s cupola. Bright red smears coated the shards of plastic, still in their frames. A leather-jacketed figure lay slumped over the bomb-sight.

“Got the bastard!” he shouted delightedly into his throat mike. “That one won’t be dropping any bombs.”

He made a steep vertical climb and roll, then did a wingover into attack position again. This time he raked the Me-110 along the airfoil from starboard to port, with a withering burst into the cockpit area. Gushing fuel ignited in both wings and streaked back along the fuselage. Immediately the aircraft began to lose altitude. Rising, ticked plumes of black smoke followed it earthward.

Mottled green-and-brown wings flashed ahead and below the
Flotte.
Moving at a combined speed of over 500 mph, the squadron of Hurricanes had closed with his Me-110’s by the time Col. Ruperle registered their significance. He sensed the first bullet impacts through the control column, then his feet on the rudder pedals. Then bits of sheet metal flew inward, propelled by the armor-piercing .303 caliber slugs from eight Browning machine guns. In an eye-blink his bombardier’s left chest twitched, then a huge chunk of the right side of his back erupted in a gout of scarlet fluid.

Ruperle watched in fixed horror as his friend’s legs spasmed in a grotesque, seated dance and the side of his head flew off. It all happened in a whirlwind of flying shards of Plexiglas. All thoughts of his son’s humiliation at the hands of fanatic Nazis fled from Werner’s head as he fought the suddenly sluggish controls. To his right, his copilot fought the wheel also, eyes wide, the whites large with fright. Then the Hurricane that had wounded them flashed past three hundred meters off the starboard wingtip. It impudently did a vertical roll and wingover, then leveled out into a shallow dive back in their direction.

Skin around the eyes of Col. Ruperle tightened as he counted the muzzle flashes. He did not need to be a fighter pilot to know that those guns had been tuned to converge at a point less than the present distance. The first impacts chewed a hand’s length off the starboard wingtip. Inexorably they marched toward the cockpit.

Forgetting his intercom radio, Werner Ruperle shouted at his copilot. “Down! Get her downl We’re too shot-up to make it back to France. I’ll pick a field and we’ll land her fast.”

Radio traffic trampled one bit on the other in his earphones as the rest of the
Flotte
reported being engaged. In the next second, the bullets slammed into the cockpit. Miraculously, they passed behind the copilot’s seat and trashed a bank of fuses and safety switches. Then the port wing caught it. Flames sprang up in an engine nacelle. The fire extinguishers went off automatically. To his surprise, Col. Ruperle found the aircraft easier to control.

“I’ve got it, Fritz. I’ll feather the propeller. You get down there and salvo that bomb load. It will give us more lift.”

His copilot looked at him in consternation. “But, Colonel, the arming wires have not been—“

“Never mind. Unless you wish to become a red smear on the English countryside, dump those bombs.”

Fritz unbuckled and scrambled below. He hit the switch to activate the bomb bay Doors, then put a hesitant thumb over the red button marked “GB” for
Ghrenbehalt.
Fritz took a quick gulp, and pushed it. With an eerie, metallic click, the whole stick salvoed. Immediately, the Me-110 ascended three hundred feet.

Pressure on the controls eased. For the first time since the attack began, Col. Werner Ruperle began to believe they would make it. Then smoke and flames began to billow up from the wing root and inside the cockpit.

“One-oh-nines! One-oh-nines!” The panicked voice had an accompaniment of gunfire.

Immediately he heard it, Wendall Foxworth swiveled his head and jinked his Hurricane in an attempt to search the sky. He saw them then, high above, peeling off in a breath-catching maneuver that held his gaze until the lead plane loomed frighteningly large in the canopy panes of Wendall’s cockpit. He could clearly see the green, yellow, and white bands painted on the spinner of the three-bladed prop. In a rush of clarity, Wendall dropped his port wing and gave full left rudder.

His Hurricane began to dive. Twin streams of 7.9mm bullets from the Messerschmitt’s MG 17s, and 20mm cannon shells from the three MG FF/Ms burned through empty sky above, where he had been three seconds ago. Gulping air, his forehead awash in sweat, Wendall brought the nose up, leveled his aircraft, then turned to starboard. Right! The German had overflown him. He shoved in full throttle and pulled the stick back into his crotch. The Rolls Royce Merlin III engine screamed at him as its twelve cylinders churned the propeller through the air.

Wendall almost made it. Had he gotten to the top and made his loop, he would have come up behind the Me-109. Instead, another Messerschmitt caught him in his climb. The cruciform, forty-foot wingspan of the Hurricane made a perfect target.

Hammer blows rammed into the Hurricane. Wendell’s radio exploded in front of him and he felt a tremendous burst of pain in his left thigh. Flames leaped up between him and the instrument panel. Smoke began to fill the cockpit.

“Get out! Get out!”

Wendall did not realize that it was he screaming aloud until he had hit the canopy release lever. The greenhouse rolled back smoothly a ways, then stopped. Wendall put the Hurricane in level flight, oblivious to the danger of the prowling Me-109s. He reached up with both hands and shoved backward. Nothing happened. He pushed harder. It yielded a precious six inches.

Wendall put the wounded aircraft. In a shallow dive, descending at about 300 feet per minute. He unbuckled his harness and stood upright. Instantly he collapsed as new, hot pain shot through his left leg. He looked down and saw his trouser leg saturated with blood. Desperately, he tried again. This time he let his arms take the load.

His head raised into the slipstream. Oddly, the wind did not seem to roar as he had expected. Then he remembered his headset. Sheepishly, he reached back down and disconnected his throat mike and earphone cables. Then he levered himself up out of the cockpit. He swung his good leg over the side and sprawled ungainfully down the fuselage. With a last look back, and a prayer, he let go and fell free of the trailing edge of the port wing.

Like the black shadow of death, the tail empennage flashed overhead. And then Wendall was alone in the sky, falling through the madcap swarm of contesting aircraft. He counted to four, then pulled the D-ring handle of his parachute. It deployed smoothly and opened with a sharp crack and crotch-jarring tug. A brief cloud of white formed from the static-resistant powder the factory invariably packed in the older chutes. Wendall checked the canopy then looked down.

The ground did not seem in any hurry to rush up at him. Then he recalled, the last time he had looked at his altimeter, it registered 8,670 feet. He had over a mile and a half to fall. God! Would he drift out over the Channel?

No, his mind told him, wind’s from the southeast. Another thought chilled him. Like many pilots, Wendall had heard stories of German fighter pilots following a pilot down in his chute and machine-gunning him while he hung helpless in his harness. One fellow from 53 Squadron had claimed to witness such an act of barbarity. The sounds of battle had drifted far off now. Even so, Wendall nervously looked around him in all directions.

Not a Hun in sight. He looked down again. The ground was coming up a hell of a lot faster now. Training took over and Wendall pulled his belt free. Quickly, he fashioned a tourniquet for his shot-through leg. That accomplished, he wondered if his kit bag had one or more field dressings in it. He could do nothing until he got to the ground, but he would need help quickly when he did.