The Collectors - Book Four: Diamonds and Sand (The Collectors Series 4)

The Collectors

(Diamonds and Sand)

Book Four

By

Ron A Sewell

ISBN-13: 978-1500111410

ISBN-10: 1500111414

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage system and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

The Collectors
–Book Four is published by Appolonia Books, who can be contacted at
[email protected]
.

The Collectors – Book Four is the copyright of the author Ron A Sewell 2014. All rights are reserved.

The cover is designed by Berni Stevens Design. All rights are reserved.

All characters are fictional and any resemblance to anyone living or dead is accidental

Also by Ron A Sewell

A Basketful of Sleepers

The Angel Makers

You Can’t Hide Forever

The Collectors Book One

The Collectors Book Two (Full Circle)

The Collectors Book Three (Tower 34)

The Collectors Book Four (Diamonds and Sand)

The Collectors Book Five (Finders Keepers)

Diamonds and Sand

Part One

Chapter One

Luderitz, Namibia, September 1941

The morning sun cast long dark shadows over the dunes. A shabby dark blue truck rattled along the temporary runway and at the far end stood a Junkers 252. Alongside, the flight crew dressed in khaki outfits stood and smoked cigarettes. Automatic weapons hung from their shoulders.

             
The truck stopped and two middle-aged men wearing black overalls jumped to the ground. “Who’s the pilot?” said Arno Fischer.

A tall, good-looking
man, in his early twenties, with short blond hair spoke. “I am Hauptman Geller. You’re late. My plane, refuel it at once.”

“Hauptman,” said the
short, dark-haired, round-faced, overweight Arno. “I supply, I do not load fuel.”

Geller scowled. “I
’ve flown this machine for twenty-four hours. If you believe my men and I are going to refuel, think again.”

“Then you will stay here
,” said the ruddy-faced Alphonso Schulz.

Eyes blazing,
Geller slipped his MP 38 from his shoulder, cocked and pointed the firearm.

Arno
shivered but covered his fear with a shrug. “Hauptman, two things may happen if you shoot us. We die and are no longer a problem. The fuel will burn and explode. If you want to stay in this God-forsaken place, go ahead. You can explain to the Fuehrer why his diamonds are not in Germany. But I do not load.”

Geller
regarded the two men in silence before he lowered his weapon. “Is there anyone who can refill my plane?”

“Hauptman
. These are strange times. The Fatherland is at war but in Luderitz live a few people and no threat exists. You and your men are safe. Rest, and when you’re ready, prepare your plane. I’ll bring you food and water. My good friend Alphonso will stay with you.”

“It’s
the devil’s choice and I need rest. One of my crew will keep guard with your man.”

“Be
fore you sleep, Hauptman,” he pointed to the back of the truck, “these drums of fuel must be unloaded.”

By the time
Arno clambered back into his empty truck, four of the crew slept in the shade of the plane’s fuselage.

“
Hauptman, I’ll come back at dusk with the food and water.” He glanced at his watch, he noted, not yet eleven.

***

The sun split by the horizon, continued a westerly path as a steady breeze formed spirals of sand which spun across the hard-packed ground. Arno returned with meat stew and two loaves of black bread. He shifted his gaze towards the fuel drums. “Hauptman, when are you going to refuel?’

“
At sunset, for the moment, my crew can rest.”

‘Hauptman, is it easy flying at night?”

“The new autopilot assists us on long straight flights. With a tail wind, our time in the air to Tripoli will be twenty hours or more. I’ll be in the cockpit and when my co-pilot is rested, I’ll sleep. My engineers work shifts to make sure the engines keep running.” He pointed to the plane. “You see the middle section where bombs are carried?”

Arno
nodded.

“That
’s a fuel tank for long-range patrols.”

“
Your package.” Arno handed over the brown leather suitcase. “Inform your commandant. In three months, I’ll have more.”

Geller took the
heavy case and climbed into the cockpit. Two minutes later he gave Arno a satchel. “Your money.”

Arno
opened the bag.

“
Count it, every Reich-mark is there,” said Geller.

Arno
closed the bag. “Hauptman, what is your departure time?”

             
“When our tanks are full and the spare drums loaded.” He turned. “Men, time to go home.”

Two stood and rolled the drums into position
, while the other prepared a battery-driven-pump. Arno and Alphonso sat in the truck, smoked, talked and waited.

             
A few hours later, one by one the three engines turned, fired, stuttered, and settled into a regular rhythmic roar.

             
With the check for obstructions complete, Arno positioned his truck with its headlights on full beam at the end of the landing strip.             

The
aircraft nudged over the sand. With the brakes released the engines at full power, it charged along, leaving a cloud of dust in its wake. The tail lifted, the fuselage shook, and they were airborne. Geller laughed as he flew low, enveloping Arno’s truck. On reaching a height of six thousand metres, he set course for Tripoli and switched on the auto device. He turned to his co-pilot, signalling for him to sleep. The engines droned and alone with a clear starlit sky, he relaxed.

***

Geller shook his co-pilot awake and to make sure, he placed a warm cup of coffee in his hands managing a grin as he did so. “Hans, weather’s getting up and I don’t trust this new-fangled auto- technique in a storm.”

             
Hans rubbed his eyes, sipped the hot liquid and focussed on the black clouds in the distance. “We’ve been through worse, Hauptman.”

             
“My right knee hurts.”

             
“Your knee can tell the weather?”

             
“When it aches I know.”

             
With a power direct from Hades the storm struck and visibility reduced to zero. The plane dropped, rose, twisted and levelled out five hundred metres lower. Geller corrected their heading. An up draught grabbed, lifted them a thousand metres at the speed of an express train. His eyes watched the altimeter stop and spin as they fell into a hole. His body dug into the metal seat. Noises from tormented metal struck his ears as the storm battered the craft.

             
“Hauptman, a big one.”

             
Wild, uncontrolled air currents buffeted the craft and the visibility remained grim.

             
“Sand storm,” said Geller. “Keep an eye on the engine gauges. A blocked air intake is the last thing we need.”

             
“Hauptman, I didn’t think sand storms came this high.”

             
“Check our height. Maybe we have room to climb.”

             
“Four thousand metres and dropping.”

             
“It can’t be.” Geller heaved on the controls. “Help me.”

A
dark wall of dust shrouded the aircraft.

             
“Hauptman, port engine’s losing power. Three thousand, two.”

             
The controls responded. Geller levelled the craft.” Where are we? There should be an oasis airfield ahead of us.” The fuselage shuddered as if struck by a nameless force.

“One
thousand metres and dropping.”             

             
“Sunlight,” shouted Geller. “We made it. Find Ali Wigi airfield.”

             
The reassuring roar of three engines filled their ears.

“
I can’t see it and we’re still losing height.”

             
Geller’s eyes strayed to the altimeter. “Impossible.” He struggled as the altimeter continued to turn in the wrong direction. “I’m going to land this crate on the first bit of flat ground we see.”

             
“Port engine’s stopped.”

             
The remaining two engines strained as they banked left then right. “Hans, we’re three hours from Tripoli. Send a message. Thank God we made it through the mountains.” He pointed. “I’m going to land over there.”

             
With haste, Geller completed the landing checks.

             
The wheels touched, ploughed deep into the soft sand, and ripped from the wings. On its belly, it bounced, struck hidden rocks and split apart. Wings, full of fuel, somersaulted through the air before ending in a tangled metal web. Shock waves pulsed through the two men’s bodies. Propellers bent and ground into the desert floor. Then nothing.

Chapter Two

Blood dribbled from the gash on Geller’s forehead into his eyes. With a handkerchief retrieved from his pocket, he spat on it and wiped them. He peered left; Hans remained slumped with both hands over his face. “My God.”

             
“If you mean am I still breathing? Yes.” Hans stared at the controls where the radio transmitter and receiver units hung as scrap metal from their wires. Bruised and in pain, he dragged himself from his seat, turned and gasped. “It’s gone.”

             
Geller released his straps and swivelled. “What the hell?”

             
It took time for them to scramble out of what remained of the cockpit and jump to the ground. Geller swayed but remained standing. Hans fell to his knees. For a few minutes, they rested but the intense heat forced them into the shade of the wreck.

             
“Better check the others,” said Geller.

              Both stood and lurched towards the main section of the plane, a hundred metres away.

             
“You’re limping, Hans.”

             
“Twisted it when we hit.”

Geller
stopped, his hand resting on the shattered metal. “Anyone there?” He waited but only the sound of the desert wind flapping torn metal disturbed the silence. “I’m going inside to check my crew.”

             
“I’ll stay here if you don’t mind.”

             
“Hauptman’s privilege, I suppose.” With apprehension in his eyes, he stepped over the bent, twisted sheets that once formed the fuselage. In a few minutes his sight adjusted to the dimness of the interior. His nose twitched at the stench of blood mixed with fuel. His stomach heaved as he took in the sight of his engineers strapped to their metal-framed seats, backs straight, arms by their sides. Shards of steel protruded from blood-soaked uniforms. He needed to throw up but he checked each man for a pulse. For a moment he stood and saluted. “What a waste.” The disgusting smell of death made him gag. He stumbled out into the fresh air, sat on a rock and heaved. He bent his head as vomit splashed on the ground.

             
On wiping the sweat from his eyes, he saw dried blood on his flesh. “They’re dead, Hans.”

             
“You sure?”

             
“Dead is dead, Hans.”

             
Hans, his expression one of disbelief, sunk to the ground, shoulders stooped as he buried his face in his hands.

             
Geller scanned the base of the mountains. With the storm gone, the lower slopes appeared a dull green. “We need shelter.” He groped in his trouser pocket and removed his lighter. He didn’t stop to analyse his actions. With long strides, he returned to the broken section, found a few rags and entered. He set them alight, dropped them on top of the leaking fuel tank and ran out.

             
“Why?” said Hans.

             
“We haven’t the tools to bury them. Cremation is better than ending up as food for scavengers.”

             
A plume of black smoke snaked out each end of the fuselage. In minutes, flames enveloped and spiralled towards the cloudless sky.

             
“With luck, headquarters received your message. The fire will let those searching know where we are. Come on, let’s grab our flying jackets. I’m told the temperature drops a fair bit at night.”