The Cairo Code (33 page)

“Right you are, buddy. OK, let's go down and take a look.”

Carlton nudged the stick down and to the right, and at the same time eased the throttles forward, giving him a burst of power. The nose tilted down and he picked up speed. Carlton loved the Beaufighter. A two-seater, it was a real thrill to fly and one of the fastest in its class. And right now he knew he had the advantage; the target was ahead of him and low, and probably wouldn't see him approach. Within two minutes, he was less than a quarter-mile behind it, and he recognized the unmistakable outline of a sand-camouflaged Dakota C-47, the Stars and Stripes on the wing and tail, and the USAAC legend. He relaxed a little.

“It's a Gooney Bird—one of ours,” he said on the intercom.

“I see that, sir.”

“The question is, what the heck's he doing up here?” Carlton had requested a traffic update from the tower only ten minutes before, and there was no report of aircraft in the vicinity.

“OK, let's give him a call.” He flicked the radio switch to transmit. ‘‘C-47, this is coastal patrol on your rear, high at five o'clock, identify yourself. Roger and out.”

There was no reply. Carlton tried again. “C-47, identify yourself, please. I'm behind you, high, at five o'clock. Roger and out.”

When he still got no reply, Carlton did a quick check on the other three communications channels. One was for the tower and base, and the other two were distress frequencies, used solely for emergencies in case an aircraft was in trouble. He scanned each, just in case the C-47 was trying to transmit. All the airwaves were dead.

“Maybe their radio's out,” he said to Higgins.

“What do you want to do, sir? Show him the colors of the day?”

Recessed into the Beaufighter's fuselage were three dome-covered lights; red, green and white. They could be flashed on in different combinations to display a coded identity signal, which was changed each day. There was no way an enemy intruder could know either the code or the correct reply, and by such a simple method genuine Allied aircraft could still identify each other, even if their communications channels were unserviceable.

But Carlton was still cautious. The C-47 could have a technical problem, and the last thing he wanted to do was destroy one of his own planes. But the preflight briefing had been very specific. An intelligence report suggested the Germans were likely to try to breach Allied air defenses along the North African coast, and
any
aircraft encountered on patrol was to be verified. Carlton intended to flash the C-47 with the colors of the day, but first he wanted to be certain there was no stray traffic in the area. “Hold off on the colors of the day for the moment,” he said to Higgins over the intercom. “Call up Alex Tower quick, and find out if there's a C-47 in the area.”

Carlton heard Higgins call up the tower, and got the reply in his earphones moments later.
“Larchtree, this is Alex Tower to Coastal Patrol Beaufighter. No reported Allied C-47 in your area. “
There was a pause, and then the voice said,
“You better bring him back.”

Carlton perked up with excitement. For the last three months he'd seen no action. What had started out as a dull patrol was turning into a lively one. The C-47 could still be legitimate, but he knew the Germans weren't beyond using captured Allied aircraft. Either way he was going to find out, and quickly. The C-47 was unarmed and slow. The Beaufighter was fast and had four twenty-millimeter Hispano cannon under the fuselage, another four .303 machine guns in the port wing, and two more .303s starboard. Carlton could easily outrun him and blow him out of the sky, if necessary.

He flicked open the red “Fire” cover on the stick that operated the machine guns. “OK, just to be on the safe side, let's flash our friend with the colors. If there's no response, I'll fire a warning burst and we'll take it from there.”

•  •  •

The Dakota hit a pocket of turbulence, then settled again. Rachel awoke in the cold, a dim white dome light on overhead. She looked across and noticed that the two SS men were asleep, just as Halder came down the cabin with a Thermos of coffee.

“I thought you could do with some of this. It'll put some heat into you.”

She accepted the coffee without comment, and Halder said, “Am I really that repulsive?”

“Maybe it's the uniform you represent. The man I'm not quite sure about yet.”

Halder smiled. “That's a slight improvement, at least.” He saw her shiver. “Cold?”

“A little.”

He knelt and pulled the blanket around her. “Are you afraid, Rachel?”

“I don't know what I feel.”

“It does seem odd, the two of us together again under these circumstances. I can still hardly believe it myself.”

She said quietly, ‘Tell me about your wife. Did you love her very much?”

There was an instant look of grief on Halder's face. She touched his arm lightly, brushed it with her fingertips. “I meant it when I said I was sorry, Jack.”

A burst of machine-gun fire shattered the air and the aircraft rolled violently. Halder said, “What in the . . . !”

There was another long burst, the Dakota rocked again, and Halder was flung forward, landing on Kleist and Doring, who came awake.

“What the—?” shouted Kleist.

“Stay where you are, all of you,” and Halder got to his feet and hurried towards the cockpit.

Falconi looked worried when Halder burst into the cockpit. “What's wrong?”

“We've got an RAF Beaufighter on our tail,” Falconi cried over the engine noise. “It came out of nowhere and flashed us with a color code. When I didn't reply, he fired a couple of tracer bursts across our nose and flew round behind us. You should see him on our starboard side, any second now.”

Halder looked out and saw a fighter come abreast of them on the right, the pilot and navigator visible in the cockpit glow. The fighter started to waggle its wings, and moments later its undercarriage was lowered.

“What's he doing?” Halder asked.

“Telling us politely he wants us to follow him into Alex and land. If we don't, he'll blow us out of the sky.”

“Terrific. Can you do anything about it?”

“The Beaufighter's got us for speed, Jack. There's no way we can outfly him.”

“Can't you try and flash a code in reply?”

“It's pointless, Jack. There's absolutely no way we can know the correct color sequence. The Beaufighter's skipper might suspect we have a technical problem, but if you ask me, he's already smelled a rat.”

“How far are we from the coast?”

“About thirty miles. Less than ten minutes' flight time.”

Halder said frantically, “We have to get away from him, Vito. Do whatever you can.”

“Easier said than done.” Falconi wiped perspiration from his face and tightened his seat harness. “I'll see what I can do. But you'd better warn the others. Tell them to hold on tight and expect trouble. Then come back up here and strap yourself in. Things may get pretty rough from now on.”

•  •  •

Carlton watched as the C-47 lowered its landing gear, its nose tilted down gently, and the aircraft started to descend. Its cockpit was in darkness, but he could just make out the shadowy forms of the crew. He said to Higgins, “OK, he's following orders. Keep your eye on the sonofagun. Don't lose him.”

“Got you, sir.”

Carlton retracted his landing gear and flaps and applied enough power to gain on the C-47 by half a mile. “Can you still see him?”

In the navigator's seat, Higgins twisted round, looking back through the laminated glass. “Yes, sir.”

Carlton scanned his instruments, pushed the stick forward and began to descend. “OK. Let's take this guy into Alex and find out who the heck he is.”

•  •  •

When Halder came back from the cabin and buckled himself into the wireless operator's seat, Falconi was sweating badly. “You warned the others?”

“Just like you told me.”

“How are they?”

“Worried, as you'd expect. What happens now?”

Falconi pointed towards the coast. “See that?” In the faint glow of sunrise, Halder noticed the swirling, orange-brown tint of a ferocious sandstorm, dust rising high up into the atmosphere and stretching all along the desert coast.

“We're about ten miles from land,” Falconi explained.

“The only slim chance we have of shaking off our friend is to head straight into the storm. If we go in fast and keep low, we just might lose him.”

“Isn't that dangerous?”

“Deadly was the word I would have used,” Falconi answered soberly. “A storm like that can be fatal for an aircraft. Sand can affect your engines and before you know it you're dropping out of the sky. And that one looks pretty bad to me.”

“Any other good news?”

“Visibility can be down to almost zero. And if we try to fly too low, we risk crashing into a sand dune. But we really have no option, unless you want to follow our friend and face the consequences?”

“No way, Vito. Can our aircraft take the punishment?”

Falconi shrugged. “The Dakota is reliable enough, a bit of a workhorse, really, but I'd guarantee nothing in these conditions.”

They were very close to land, and at eight thousand feet the dark Mediterranean below them looked a churning frenzy of white-topped waves. The coastal wind seemed to be whipping up the desert with awesome ferocity, the orange-brown cloud swirling up to a thousand feet. The Beaufighter was still ahead of them by about half a mile, its navigation lights on. Moments later it banked left, parallel to the coast and away from the sandstorm, heading towards Alex.

“OK, he's about starting his approach. He's expecting us to follow him in, but this is where we make a run for it.” Falconi gave a wave to the Beaufighter.
“Arrivederci,
amico.”
He looked back grimly at Halder. “Hold on to whatever you can. And if we don't make it, it's been nice knowing you, Jack. Gear up,” he called out to Remer.

The copilot retracted the undercarriage, and at the same time Falconi pushed the throttles full forward, nosed down the Dakota, and they descended with frightening speed towards the sandstorm. Halder saw the Beaufighter still off to the right, continuing to make its approach, but at the last moment the RAF fighter turned in a tight circle and came after them at speed.

“No, he's seen us!” said Falconi. “Now we really are in trouble.”

There was a sudden explosion of machine guns from the Beaufighter as it spewed scarlet flame, tracers arcing across the sky off to their left. Falconi dived down to a thousand feet, quickly leveled out, and flew straight over the coast and right into the storm, the Beaufighter diving after them, guns blazing.

•  •  •

It was like flying through grainy, thick yellow smoke. The visibility was down to several hundred meters and sand flurries crackled against the windshield, the noise like static electricity. The Dakota shuddered violently in the buffeting and Falconi had to concentrate hard to keep the aircraft straight and level.

Halder saw a scarlet blaze of red-hot tracer fire streak past them on the left. “What the—he's still after us.”

“With a vengeance, it seems.”

There was another burst, and a couple of holes punctured the left wing as a volley of tracers hit them.

Falconi grimaced, his face bathed in perspiration. “He's not going to let us off easily. Which means we'll have to try something very dangerous. And if this doesn't work, then I'm afraid it's
ciao.”

•  •  •

Chuck Carlton was sweating. The Beaufighter was being buffeted like crazy in the sandstorm and he knew the engines didn't like it. He hadn't expected the target to make a run for the coast, because it didn't stand a chance, and definitely not in weather like this. He was certain now the intruder was an enemy aircraft, and his adrenaline was flowing, anticipating a kill. The C-47 had a slight advantage: Its twin Wasp twelve-hundred-horsepower radials were probably better able to withstand a sandstorm than the Beau's twin fifteen-hundred-horsepower Hercules engines, whose carburetors and oil coolers were more likely to clog. But even so, the C-47 pilot was taking an almighty risk, flying so low in such extreme conditions. Carlton was determined not to let him get away. Besides, he'd flown in America's Dust Bowl, in weather almost as bad, and he reckoned he could handle it as long as his aircraft could.

“He's picked the wrong guy to mess with,” he roared to Higgins.

In the back, Higgins was ashen-faced, watching the rush of golden sand on the laminated glass, barely able to make out the tail of the C-47, dead ahead, maybe four hundred meters from their nose. His nerves were on edge. If the C-47 dropped speed, they'd crash right into his tail.

“Maybe—maybe we should get out of this, sir,” he called anxiously over the intercom.

“No way,” Carlton answered above the snarl of the engine. He had the C-47 directly in his line of fire. “He's a fox, trying to lose us, but I'm going to blow him to kingdom come.” And with that Carlton pressed the fire button again, the six .303 machine guns crackled across the wings, and tracers zipped towards their target like angry red hornets.

•  •  •

A tracer shot into the right side of the cockpit, and punched its way out through the fuselage. It hit Remer in the side, spinning him round in his seat. He screamed as he clapped a hand on his wound, and Halder went to help him, but Falconi roared, “Leave him! Don't distract me!”

Remer was moaning in pain, bright red blood pumping from a gaping hole in his side.

Halder shouted, “Vito, you have to get us out of this!”

Falconi didn't answer, his eyes fixed dead ahead, as if he were looking for something in the middle of the frightening storm, and then another burst of scarlet tracer tore past their left-hand side. Falconi nosed down to avoid the blazing gunfire until the altimeter read eighty feet. They were barely skimming the ground now, low sandbanks rolling like golden waves directly underneath the aircraft, and then Halder saw a huge sweep of sand looming straight ahead, rising up several hundred feet.