THE KILLER OF THE DARKNESS

EPISODE NINE

The police moved in a calm orderly way down the narrow streets to the harbour, Roome and me leading. The column moved forward with purpose but without the noise obtrusiveness of the military of the 29th century that I belonged to.

Big-George lived up to his name.

A huge man with black beetling brows and a bald head, waited for us on his twenty-six sea-going cruiser, fired up, the diesels thumping and gurgling over the stillness of the harbour, and echoing off the walls of the stone houses. Several figures stood at dreary lit windows and two or three people on the quayside.

The police, chequered caps with chin straps down, rifles slung over their shoulders, scrambled aboard.

Irritated, Roome checked his watch.

"Where's Doctor Walton? We're five minutes late!"

I tightened the canvas belt that held my revolver in the holster outside the jacket. It loosened on the way down to the boat.

"The man's getting on in years."

Roome frowned.

"He's used to getting up all hours don't forget. If anybody left ..."

He nodded in the direction of the North Sea; the blazing Coastguard Station couldn't be seen from the harbour.

"... then we must be away as fast as we can. Always a risk of exposure in this weather if that 'Thing' hasn't got to them first."

"How do you know it's involved. It might be a natural accident, couldn't it?"

"Yes."

I almost tasted the lack of conviction in Roome's voice.

After another two minutes waiting in the cold, in which Roome checked his timepiece at least ten times, the overweight figure of Doctor Walton, scarf flying out like Biggles, bag at his side, scurried into the square and on up the quay. Puffing and panting he joined us.

"Sorry I'm late. I asked Doctor Dunmore cover for me."

Roome stamped his cold feet on the ground.

"Well, you're here now, Doctor. Let us get on board."

We assisted the Doctor, holding him by both elbows, and passed him into the care of the police on the deck. Then we stepped across him.

Big-George nodded to the men holding the lines fore and aft, who threw them into the boat. The engine roared and the deck vibrated as they took her out into the middle of the harbour, stern first, the dark water churning up white with millions of tiny bubbles.

The engine noise died away, leaving only the hiss of the bubbles lifting to the surface. Big-George pushed the gear handle into forward drive, and slammed on the throttle. With a roar, the bows lifted, the police grabbing for rail support as the deck canted.

Leaving a white wake, the boat headed straight out between the twin grey stone arms of the jetty and down to the open water.

Big-George understood these waters well.

On a morning like this, dark as doomsday, snow blowing down and a thickening mist making it impossible, for me, at least, to tell the difference between a natural breaking sea and a wave foaming over a reef, Big-George showed what a rare-breed he is.

A rare breed of naturals to whom the sea is his true home.

Twenty years' daily polishing and refining in every conceivable condition a rare bestowed gift with which you must be born with in the first place.

His huge hands on the throttle and wheel showed the delicacy of a moth. The night-sight of a barn owl and an ear which infallibly distinguished between waves breaking in the open sea, on reefs or on shores.

All this to keep us safe. Without this knowledge, the patrolling U-Boats wouldn't even attempt to stick this close to the coast, without having to give their positions away to the Typhoon patrols.

Foaming white-fanged reefs reached out at us, bare few feet away, on either side. Big-George didn't notice them.

Roome, Walton and I sought solace inside the cabin, out of the cold wind and spray lifting back from the thumping bows.

Nobody spoke until I remembered something important.

"Hey, did you find Corporal Turner's recording?"

Roome and Doctor Walton exchanged concerned glances.

"Yes, we did."

"Anything on it?"

For a moment, I thought the two of them ignored me, and I almost repeated myself when Walton answered.

"We did. I tell you I never want to hear anything like that ever again."

The sea rained down on the cabin. Walton, pleased to be distracted, glancing out of the porthole. Mystified, I turned to Roome.

"Well?"

Roome stared at me, with a fixed expression.

"Apart from the terrible noises of a man being killed, we heard a background of grunts and whistling sounds; nothing definite."

Walton wheeled around, indignant.

"Don't be daft, man. There's no doubt about it."

"Well, I say there is. The whole thing is indistinct and full of burst of interference or something?"

I raised my arms.

"Hey, hang on a minute. What are you two arguing about?"

Frowning, Roome passed a hand across his brow.

"Doctor Walton maintains he heard something else."

I turned to Walton.

"What?"

The old Doctor took a deep breath.

"I just don't know for sure. As Roome said, the whole thing is confusing and horrible, but there is this sound. To me, laughter, demented bursts of ape-like screeching. Human? I couldn't swear to it, but yes. Pretty certain."

*

The vibrating clangour from the four great piston engines set teeth on edge and made an intolerable assault on cringing ear-drums. The decibel-level Müller calculated, must be about that found in a boiler factory, and one, moreover, that worked on overtime rates, while the shaking cold in that cramped, instrument-crowded flight-deck almost Siberian.

On balance, he reflected, he would go for the Siberian boiler factory any time .

Whatever its drawbacks, it isn't liable to be shot out of the sky or crash into a mountainside which, in his present circumstances, seemed a likely enough, if not imminent contingency for all that the pilot of their Junkers Ju 52 appeared to care to the contrary.

Müller turned away from the dark opaque world beyond the windscreens where the wipers fought a useless battle with the driving snow and stared again at the man in left-hand captain's seat.

Oberstleutnant Jan Bomken , a man at home in his environment. Any comparisons with a Siberian boiler factory he would regard as the ravings of an unhinged mind.

It appeared obvious, he found the shuddering vibration as soothing as the ministrations of the gentlest of masseurs, the roar of the engines soporific and the ambient temperature just right for a man of his leisured literary tastes.

Before him at a comfortable reading distance, Mein Kampf. He turned a page.

"Großartig!"

He puffed on an ancient briar that smelt like a fumigating plant.

"By heavens, the Führer can write."

He spoke to the fresh-face youngster in the co-pilot's seat, Oberstleutnant Wenger, while he broke off, fanned the smoke-laden to improve the visibility.

"Oberstleutnant Wenger, you possess that expression of pained apprehension on your face again."

"Yes, Oberstleutnant. That's to say, no, Oberstleutnant."

"Part of the malaise of our time, Wenger, is the young lack so many things, like appreciation of a fine pipe tobacco or faith in their commanding officers."

He sighed, marked the place in his book, folded the rest away and straightened in his seat.

"You think a man would be entitled to some peace and quiet on his own flight-deck."

He slid open his side-screen. An icy gust of snow-laden wind blew into the flight-deck, carrying with it the deepening roar from the engines.

Bomken grimaced and thrust his head outside, shielding his eyes with a gauntleted right hand. Five seconds later he shook his head hastily, screwed his eyes shut as he winced what appeared to be considerable pain, and withdrew his head.

Once he closed the screen, he brushed the snow away from his flaming red hair and twisted round to Müller

"It's no small thing, Hauptsturmführer Müller to be lost in a blizzard in the night skies over the East of England."

"Not again, Oberstleutnant."

Wenger protested.

"No man is infallible, my son."

Müller smiled politely

"You mean you don't know where we are, Oberstleutnant Bomken?"

"How should I, Hauptsturmführer Müller"

Bomken slid down in his seat, half-closed his eyes and yawned .

"I'm only the driver. I have a navigator, with a radar, and no faith in either."

"Well, well."

Müller shook his head.

"To think they lied to me at Luftwaffe Headquarters. They told me you flew three hundred missions and knew the East Anglian coastline better than any taxi driver knows his London."

"Gossip put about by unfriendly elements who are trying to prevent me from getting a nice safe job behind a desk in Berlin."

Bomken glanced at his pocket-watch.

"I'll give you thirty minutes warning before we shove you cut over the dropping zone."

A second glance at his timepiece and a heavy frown.

"Oberstleutnant Wenger, your gross dereliction of duty is endangering the entire mission."

"Oberstleutnant?"

An even deeper expression of apprehension filled Wenger's face.

"I should be drinking my coffee over three minutes ago."

"Yes, Oberstleutnant. Right away, Oberstleutnant."

Müller smiled again, straightened from his cramped position behind the pilots' seats, left the flight-deck and moved aft into the Junker's fuselage. Here in this cold, bleak and forbidding compartment, he got the impression it resembled an iron tomb.

The noise level sounded even higher here, the cold intense and the metal-ribbed walls, dripping with condensation, made no concessions whatsoever to creature comfort. Neither did the six metal-framed canvas seats bolted to the floor, functionalism gone mad.

Huddled in those six chairs sat six men, Müller reflected, without doubt the six most miserable men he ever knew. Like himself, each of the six wore the uniform of the German Alpenkorps, identified by the edelweiss insignia worn on their sleeves and caps. Like himself, each man wore two parachutes. All shivering , stamping their feet, and beating their arms, and their frozen breath hung in the ice-chill air.

Facing them, along the upper starboard side of the fuselage, ran a taut metal wire which passed over the top of the doorway.

On to this wire, clipped snap-catches, wires from which led down to folded parachutes resting on top of an assortment of various shaped bundles, the contents of only one which could be identified by the protruding ends of several pairs of skis.

The nearest parachutist, a fair-skinned blonde-haired man who grew up through the Hitler Youth Movement, glanced up at Müller's arrival.

"Well?"

Friel's voice sounded just as unhappy as his face.

"I'll bet he's no more bloody idea where we are than the rest of us."

"He does seem to navigate his way across the North Sea to England by opening his window and sniffing the air from time to time."

Müller admitted.

"But I wouldn't worry."

He broke off as Oberstleutnant Wenger entered from the rear, carrying a can of steaming coffee and enamel mugs.

"Neither would I Hauptsturmführer "

Wenger smiled tolerantly.

"Oberstleutnant Bomken got his little ways. Coffee? Back at base he claims that he reads Mein Kampf and depends upon one of the gunners or bombers telling him from time to time, where we are."

Müller cradled frozen hands round the coffee mug.

"Do you know where we are?"

"Of course, Hauptsturmführer "

He seemed genuine in his surprise, and nodded to the metal rungs leading to the upper machine-gun turret.

"Just nip up there, Hauptsturmführer and glance to your right."

Müller lifted and enquiring eyebrow, handed over his mug, climbed the ladder and peered down to his right through the Perspex dome of the turret cupola.

For a few seconds only the darkness filled his eyes then after a gradual process, far below and seen through the driving snow, he could make out the dark breaking waves of an uninviting indigo sea in the night. For a brief moment only Müller's face registered total disbelief and then returned to its normal dark stillness.

"Well, well."

He retrieved his coffee.

"All I can see is water."

"We're sailing down the East Coast from Scotland, Hauptsturmführer "

"Scotland?"

I stared at him.

"I don't remember the flight plan routing us this way. We're miles off course."

"Yes, Hauptsturmführer "

Wenger unabashed, by what they thought of his superior.

"Oberstleutnant Bomken says he doesn't understand flight plans."

He grinned, half -apologetic.

"Don't worry, Hauptsturmführer he will get us to the drop zone on time."

"I hope so, we are due to rendezvous Commander Hubert A. Werner and some of his crew by late afternoon."

"We'll make it, Hauptsturmführer "

Before Müller could respond, Wenger returned to the flight-deck.

The Junker lurched as it hit an infrequent air pocket, Müller grabbed a rail to steady himself and Obersturmbannführer August Dänzer, Müller's second-in-command, cursed unabated as the better part of a cup of scalding coffee emptied itself over his thigh.

"That's all I need."

Dänzer,s voice filled with overwhelming bitterness.

"It could be worse, Obersturmbannführer Dänzer,"

Friel observed with moroseness. He transferred his gaze to Müller and gave him a long considering stare.

"This whole set-up stinks, Hauptsturmführer "

"I don't think I understand."

Hauptsturmführer Müller spoke.

"Suicidal, is what I mean, Hauptsturmführer I mean, what a bunch of misfits we all appear to be."

He gestured to the three men sitting nearest to him on his left. Klaus Hergershimer, a flaxen-haired brute of a Bavarian. Max Von Ribbenstein, a short dark-haired Berliner. Both those men seemed amused, and last but not least, Hergen Gesetze, a languid aristocratic German, with the deadest eyes Müller ever seen before.

"Why are we here on a rescue mission, Hauptsturmführer "

"Paul Schmidt."

"Who the hell is he, Hauptsturmführer "

"A braver man than you, Friel."

Müller felt his temper start to bubble up inside him.

"Paul Schmidt is seconded to test-flying long-distance variants of the V-1 Fieseler Reichenberg, and it crashed somewhere off the Suffolk coast. Wreckage spotted, and it is believed that Schmidt somehow survived the crash and is at loose on a remote Suffolk island. What with many details of the V-1 Fieseler Reichenberg with him, and if that information fell into the wrong hands, then all hell would break loose."

Friel gave no reply and none of the others spoke, but Müller didn't need to be a clairvoyant to know what happened to be in the minds of all of them. Trying to forget this mission been born from the sheerest desperation.

*

We experienced a false dawn, with the sky lighter to the east just as we turned in for the narrow entrance between the towering cliffs of the Coastguard Station.

By the time we entered the channel it became dark again, only the dull red glow from the remains of the coastguards' hut to steer by.

The tension increased as the dank, smelly columns of ancient stone, reflecting the dull red in a wet manner, seemed to swallow them up. With the noise of the sea closed out, and the engine throttled right back, they drifted in uneasy silence. The boat grated against the small jetty.

The first policeman ashore, a sergeant, leapt on to the stone flight of steps and scrambled up to the top, soon joined by a second and third, and then the craft became tied up. The rest of the party filed on to the jetty. I joined Roome, having helped Walton on to the steps. The Inspector looked around at his small force.

"Who's got the lights? Turn them on."

Two great beams cut into the darkness, the light bouncing back off the cliffs and lighting up the faces of the men.

"Right, let's move on."

In single file, rifles at the ready, we wound our way up the tight little path. As we reached the top, Roome halted the column and raised a loud-hailer.

"This is the police. McQueen, can you hear me?"

We waited. I noticed the sky beginning to lighten again. No reply appeared to be forthcoming.

Roome said nothing more, he just waved the column forward, indicating for me to lead a second group alongside him. I drew my revolver and, crouching, advanced on the other side of the now widening path.

The real dawn came on at speed, the sky turning pink behind the black gaunt ribs of the burnt-out building.

The men fanned out in silence, circling the still glowing wreckage with extreme wariness.

Roome raised his hand, freezing the surrounding men.

"Listen."

I stopped my men.

The sound of the tapping reached them in bursts. Roome moved his head around, trying to find the direction.

"It's coming from over there."

He moved forward again, at a slow pace, picking his way with caution past the misshapen lumps of twisted steel.

"Maybe somebody's trapped."

Doctor Walton's face as he checked around showed, if Roome could see it, that he thought very unlikely.

The tapping grew louder as we approached a strange-humped area. The sweet sticky smell of burnt flesh reached up into his nostrils. Before us something that we did not recognize, and then a black charred torso took shape, hanging over a twisted metal window sill which sunk into the crumbling incinerated meat.

A bony hand devoid of flesh, tapped against metal in the wind.

One of the constables turned away, face shocked, as Roome bent down to the body with hesitation, and shone his torch on the hideous, disfigured, hairless head.

Swollen to half again its normal size; cracked open and shiny like baked clay, except for the white brain glistening in the bottom of the cracks, the whole thing looking like a well-done potato from a bonfire.

"I can't be sure, but it seems to be Rodwell. The poor fucker. He tried to escape."

I stood beside Roome, my men began to face outwards, protecting man rifles at the ready, as it became apparent that nobody, no 'thing', lurked in the ruins.

Roome turned towards me, like an old man full of a lifetime of weariness.

"Find anything."

I shook my head.

"Nothing. I'll tell you one thing, though. This appears to be the fierce blaze from hell. The oil storage tanks blew up. Nothing left except the radio room. It is protected by a special door."

Roome nodded at the remains.

"I think that might be Rodwell. No sign of McQueen or Pendergrass?"

"No."

We both looked around at the mess and the red-hot still smouldering centre.

"If they are in there, it will take a month of Sundays to find them."

Roome looked up at the surrounding snow and rocks.

"Sergeant, take four men and look around over there. See if you can find any trace of the other two men."

"Sir."

The sergeant pointed out the nearest men.

"You lads come with me."

He started to move when Roome called after him.

"Sergeant?"

"Sir?"

"Look out."

"I will, sir."

Roome turned to another man.

"Take the rest and search in the opposite direction. Don't go too far."

"Yes, sir."

Left alone, Roome turned to me.

"You're thinking what I am?"

I kicked at a piece of flaky timber.

"If that this is no ordinary fire, then yes."

Roome nodded.

"No doubt about it in my mind. No visible survivors, and I can't see any sign of any attempt to fight the fire. And this..."

He waved around at the twisted steel.

"...more like an aircraft crash than a building. And, we've experienced a few of those since 1939."

I stiffened.

"That's it. The fuel been set on fire, and it seems to be deliberate. The place is overflowing with it."

Roome's despair turning to anger.

"That f*****g thing murdered them."

Both of us could not help but look down at the victim at our feet. Our agony cut short by a shout from over the cliffs.

"Sounds like they found something."

Roome wasted no time in running in the direction, leaving me to catch him up. Roome puffed like a wheezing asthmatic as he reached the other policemen.

"What is it?"

"Down there, sir."

We followed the direction of the outstretched pointing hand. There, nestling in the dark beach, reflecting back like metal the light from sea and sky, lay something which looked a like a cross between a bomb and a small aircraft.

"What the f**k is that?"

Roome's voice shook with concern.

Slipping the gun back into its holster, I took the initiative.

"No idea."

I lied. I knew what I happened to be looking at. A Fieseler Fi 103R, code-named Reichenberg. A crewed version of the V-1 flying bomb, produced for attacks in which the pilot to parachute down at the attack site. This exclusive plan needed to be carried out by the Leonidas Squadron, V. Grippe of the Luftwaffe's Kampfgeschwader 200.

The Leonidas Squadron, Is a suicide squadron. Volunteers required to sign a declaration which said, 'I hereby apply to be enrolled in the suicide group as part of a human glider-bomb. I understand that employment in this capacity could entail my death.'

"Let's get down there."

I tried to curb my enthusiasm. I travelled almost 900 years back in time to stop the successful development of this craft. I knew the future, and it isn't bright.

One of the policemen stepped forward.

"The easiest way is back down to the jetty and along, sir."

"Right."

*

Hermann Göring tapped his cane against a wall map of the East Anglian coastline.

"We lost one of our pilots, test-flying a long-distance variant of the V-1 Fieseler Reichenberg, and it crashed somewhere off the Suffolk coast, England. We think he came down around about 2 a.m. Thursday morning, but my staff in their all-knowing wisdom, didn't let me know until today."

He shook his head in anger, tapped the map again.

"He's here. Onehouse Island. A remote island off the Suffolk coast."

"How sure are you he's there, Reichsmarschall?"

"We're certain. Wreckage spotted by one our U-Boats patrolling the area."

"What happened, Reichsmarschall?"

"His Reichenbergs attempted a successful air-launch from the back of an Arado Ar 234 Blitz. From a 'piggyback' position, atop the aircraft. He used a pilot-controlled, hydraulically operated dorsal trapeze mechanism that elevated the missile on the trapeze's launch cradle about 8 feet clear of the 234's upper fuselage. This is necessary to avoid damaging the mother craft's fuselage and tail surfaces when the pulse jet ignited, as well as to ensure a clean airflow for the Argus motor's intake."

"Couldn't they come up with something less ambitious, Reichsmarschall?"

"You need to take that up with Oberst Max Wachtel, commander of Flak Regiment 155, who is responsible for the V-1 offensive, Mũller"

"Yes, of course, Reichsmarschall."

"The plan is to perform an extraction, Mũller The Wehrmacht wants you to take in a handful of hand-picked troops and get Paul Schmidt off that island."

"Of course, Reichsmarschall. There is of course, another way."

He paused, then went on.

"A way with a hundred per cent guarantee of success."

Göring looked at Mũller in an odd manner. The Hauptsturmführer heard the rumours concerning Goring's morphine addiction but never believed it until now. His eyes watered and the pupils dilated. He appeared to be sweating copious amounts of perspiration. Well-known for his Irritability and agitation, he also sometimes showed signs of confusion and disorientation."

"I do not claim to be infallible, Mũller, did I miss an alternative? Do you know the answer to my problem?"

There appeared to be spite in his voice.

"Yes, Reichsmarschall . Use the Kampfgeschwader 200. The payloadange capacity of the Heinkel He 177 is almost like the four-engine heavy bombers used by the Allies, and a higher cruising and maximum speed than its Allied Counterparts."

"Hauptsturmführer Mũller Heinkel He 177 suffers from many design function flaws, one of which is the need for at least 2,000 horsepower engines. The engine's size is unproven, and the Daimler-Benz BD 606 system is collected in addition to cramped nacelles, which catch fire with ease. The bomber is now known as the Reich's lighter."

Mũller didn't agree or disagree, nothing else to say.

Göring cleared his throat.

"That's it then, Hauptsturmführer Mũller. Ten o'clock tonight at the airfield."

Mũller stood up, clicked his heels together, and lifted his right-arm out straight.

"Yes, Reichsmarschall. Heil Hitler!"

Göring mirrored Mũller's salute and then sat down behind his desk.