Where Eagles Dare - Страница 2

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“That's all I need,” he said bitterly. “I've no morale left. I wish to God we would crash-land in Switzerland. Think of all those lovely Wienerschnitzels and Apfelstrudels. After a couple of years living among you Limeys, Spam and powdered eggs and an ounce of margarine a day, that's what Mama Schaffer's little boy requires. Building up.”

“You'd also live a damn sight longer, friend,” Carraciola observed morosely. He transferred his gaze to Smith, gave him a long considering look. “The whole set-up stinks, Major.”

“I don't think I understand,” Smith said quietly.

“Suicidal, is what I mean. What a bunch. Just look at us.” He gestured to the three men sitting nearest to him on his left: Olaf Christiansen, a flaxen haired first cousin of Leif Ericsson, Lee Thomas, a short dark Welshman—both those men seemed slightly amused—and Torrance-Smythe, as languidly aristocratic-looking as any ci-devant French count that ever rode a tumbrel, a doleful ex-Oxford don who clearly wished he were back among the University cloisters. “Christiansen, Thomas, old Smithy and myself. We're just a bunch of civil servants, filing clerks—”

“I know very well what you are,” Smith said quietly.

“Or yourself.” In the de-synchronised thunder of the engines the soft-voiced interruption had gone unnoticed. “A major in the Black Watch. No doubt you cut quite a dash playing the bagpipes at El Alamein, but why the hell you to command us? No offence. But this is no more in your line than it is ours. Or Lieutenant Schaffer here. An airborne cowboy—”

“I hate horses,” Schaffer said loudly. “That's why I had to leave Montana.”

“Or take George here.” Carraciola jerked a thumb in the direction of the last member of the party, George Harrod, a stocky army sergeant radio-operator with an expression of profound resignation on his face. “I'll bet he's never as much as made a parachute jump in his life before.”

“I have news for you,” Harrod said stoically. “I've never even been in a plane before.”

“He's never even been in a plane before,” Carraciola said despairingly. “My God, what a bunch of no-hopers! All we need is a team composed of specialist Alpinists, Commandos, mountaineers and safe-breakers and what do we have?” He shook his head slowly. “We have us.”

Smith said gently: “We were all the Colonel could get. Be fair. He told us yesterday that the one thing in the world that he didn't have was time.”

Carraciola made no reply, none of the others spoke, but Smith didn't have to be any clairvoyant to know what was in the minds of all of them. They were thinking what he was thinking, like himself they were back several hours in time and several hundred miles in space in that Admiralty Operations Room in London where Vice-Admiral Rolland, ostensibly Assistant Director of Naval Operations but in fact the long-serving head of M.I.6, the counter-espionage branch of the British Secret Service, and his deputy, Colonel Wyatt-Turner, had gravely and reluctantly briefed them on what they had as gravely and reluctantly admitted to be a mission born from the sheerest desperation.

“Deucedly sorry and all that, chaps, but time is of the essence.” Wyatt-Turner, a big, red-faced, heavily moustached colonel, tapped his cane against a. wall-map of Germany, pointing to a spot just north of the Austrian border and a little west of Garmisch-Partenkirchen. “Our man was brought down here at 2 a.m. this morning but SHAEF, in their all-knowing wisdom, didn't let us know until 10 a.m. Damned idiots! Damned idiots for not letting us know until so late and double-damned idiots for ignoring our advice in the first place. Gad, will they never learn to listen to us?” He shook his head in anger, tapped the map again. “Anyway, he's here. Schloss Adler. The castle of the eagle. Believe me, it's well named, only an eagle could get there. Our job—”

Smith said: “How are you so sure he's there, sir?”

“We're sure. Mosquito he was in crash-landed only ten miles away. The pilot got off a radio message just before a German patrol dosed in.” He paused, smiled grimly, continued: “Schloss Adler, Major Smith, is the combined H.Q. of the German Secret Service and the Gestapo in South Germany. Where else would they take him?”

“Where indeed? How was he brought down, sir?”

“Through the most damnable ill-luck. We carried out a saturation raid on Nürnberg last night and there shouldn't have been a German fighter within a hundred miles of the Austrian border. But a wandering Messerschmidtt patrol got him. That's unimportant. What's important is getting him out before he talks.”

“He'll talk,” Thomas said sombrely. “They all do. Why did they disregard our advice, sir? We told them two days ago.”

“The whys don't matter,” Wyatt-Turner said tiredly. “Not any more. The fact that he'll talk does. So we get him out. You get him out.”

Torrance-Smythe cleared his throat delicately. “There are paratroops, sir.”

“Scared, Smithy?”

“Naturally, sir.”

“The Schloss Adler is inaccessible and impregnable. It would require a battalion of paratroops to take it.”

“Of course,” Christiansen said, “the fact that there's no time to mount a massed paratroop attack has no bearing on the matter.” Christiansen appeared positively cheerful, the proposed operation obviously appealed vastly to him.

Wyatt-Turner gave him the benefit of his icy blue stare then decided to ignore him.

“Secrecy and stealth are the only hope,” he went on. “And you gentlemen are—I trust—secretive and stealthy. You are experts at that and experts at survival behind enemy lines where all of you have spent considerable periods of time, Major Smith, Lieutenant Schaffer and Sergeant Harrod here in their professional capacities, the rest of you in—um—other duties. With the—”

“That was a damned long time ago, sir,” Carraciola interrupted. “At least for Smithy, Thomas, Christiansen and myself. We're out of touch now. We don't know the latest developments in weapons and combat techniques. And God only knows we're out of training. After a couple of years behind a desk it takes me all my time to run fifty yards after a bus.”

“You'll have to get fit fast, won't you?” Wyatt-Turner said coldly. “Besides, what matters most is, that with the exception of Major Smith, you all have an extensive knowledge of Western Europe. You all speak fluent German. You'll find your combat training—on the level you'll be engaged in—as relevant today as it was five years ago. You are men with exceptional records of resourcefulness, ability and ingenuity. If anyone has a chance, you have. You're all volunteers, of course.”

“Of course,” Carraciola echoed, his face carefully deadpan. Then he looked speculatively at Wyatt-Turner. “There is, of course, another way, sir.” He paused, then went on very quietly indeed. “A way with a hundred per cent guarantee of success.”

“Neither Admiral Rolland nor I claim to be infallible,” Wyatt-Turner said slowly. “We have missed an alternative? You have the answer to our problems?”

“Yes. Whistle up a Pathfinder squadron of Lancaster's with 10-ton blockbuster bombs. Do you think anyone in the Schloss Adler would ever talk again?”

“I don't think so.” Admiral Rolland spoke gently and for the first time, moving from the wall-map to join the group. Admiral Rolland always spoke gently. When you wielded the almost incredible range of power that he did, you didn't have to talk loudly to make yourself heard. He was a short, grey-haired man, with a deeply trenched face and an air of immense authority. “No,” he repeated, “I don't think so. Nor do I think that your grasp of the realities of the situation is any match for your total ruthlessness. The captured man, Lieutenant General Carnaby, is an American. If we were to destroy him General Eisenhower would probably launch his Second Front against us instead of against the Germans.” He smiled deprecatingly, as though to remove rebuke from his voice. “There are certain—um—niceties to be observed in our relationship with our Allies. Wouldn't you agree?”

Carraciola didn't agree or disagree. He had, apparently, nothing to say. Neither did anyone else. Colonel Wyatt-Turner cleared his throat.

“That's it then, gentlemen. Ten o'clock tonight at the airfield. No more questions, I take it?”

“Yes, sir, there bloody well is, begging the Colonel's pardon, sir.” Sergeant George Harrod not only sounded heated, he looked it, too. “What's all this about? Why's this geezer so bloody important? Why the hell do we have to risk our necks—”

“That'll do, Sergeant.” Wyatt-Turner's voice was sharp, authoritative. “You know all you require to know—”

“If we're sending a man to what may be his death, Colonel, I think he has the tight to know why,” Admiral Rolland interrupted gently, almost apologetically. “The rest know. He should too. It's painfully simple, Sergeant. General Carnaby is the overall co-ordinator of planning for the exercise known as Operation Overlord—the Second Front. It would be absolutely true to say that he knows more about the Allied preparations for the Second Front than any man alive.”

“He set off last night to meet his opposite numbers in the Middle East,Russia and the Italian Front to co-ordinate final plans for the invasion of Europe. The rendezvous was in Crete—the only meeting point the Russians would accept. They haven't a plane fast enough to out-run the German fighters. The British Mosquito can—but it didn't last night.”