That’d been more than enough information to warrant mobilisation of the fleet that was now steaming past before him through the Pentland Firth: with heavy fog predicted across large sections of the North Sea, it was unlikely the Luftwaffe would be able to prevent the Royal Navy’s attempt to interdict a Kriegsmarine ‘breakout’ into the North Atlantic. An aircraft carrier that couldn’t launch its aircraft was a juicy target indeed, and was well worth the risk of sending the Home Fleet into battle.
Kransky was still watching as a Daimler Dingo armoured car powered over a low rise to the west and slid sharply to a halt a dozen metres away. He turned and rose to his feet, instantly spotting Sergeant Drews, one of his primary security team, at the controls. The expression on the man’s face clearly told him something was seriously wrong as he jogged across to the vehicle.
“The radio at the command bunker was… out of action, sir, so I thought it best to come and get you directly…” He began, almost breathless.
“What’s up, Neil?” Kransky demanded as he drew up beside the car.
“There’s been an ‘incident’, sir… I think it’d be best if you had a look for yourself. I’ll give you the details as we go…” He insisted, and Kransky was inclined to take his word for it based on the man’s expression.
Kransky had no easy time fitting himself, his pack and weapons into the vehicle, but it was finally accomplished, and a moment later the Dingo was roaring away at close to top speed, the unevenness of the gravel track making both men feel every single one of its eighty kilometres per hour speed.
Warrant Officer Harold Clarke lay against the inside wall of the command bunker as Kransky, Drews and two SAS troopers — one of them Corporal Evan Lloyd — stood there no more than five minutes later, surveying the scene in stunned silence. Neither Clarke nor the two guards lying on the floor beside him could tell the others what had happened, but they gave silent evidence well enough in death. A pair of dark, bloody bullet holes in each man’s forehead made the situation clear enough. Clark’s issue Browning pistol lay secure in its holster, and the guards submachine guns were unfired: it was clear there’d been no warning whatsoever.
“The radar controller’s been shot full of holes…!” Lloyd observed as he hurriedly went through the process of connecting a second, laptop-like console to the incoming network feeds and forced himself to ignore the corpses lying nearby. “I grabbed this back up unit out of storage.”
“One of the guards at the Tor Ness emplacement raised the alarm when they couldn’t raise Doghouse for a scheduled status check.” Drews explained quickly as Lloyd brought the spare unit back online. “They reported it to me, so I came down to investigate and found this…” The tone of his voice made it clear he’d been rattled by the discovery, and no one could blame the man in the slightest for that. “That’s when I came to get you, sir.”
“Getting a reading on multiple bogies,” Lloyd called with breathless excitement as the control unit finally powered up, confirming exactly what Kransky had feared. An aerial attack was the only possible reason there could’ve been for bringing the system down so comprehensively. “Picking up fifty-plus in three distinct formations to the east, but the distance is still too great to get a clear number… range about than one-fifty klicks, and they’re at very high altitude: close to ten thousand metres.” Lloyd turned and fixed Kransky with a deadly stare. “We’ve got fuckin’ heavies coming in!”
Kransky was already lifting the collar-mounted speaker/mike to his lips. “Max — this is Richard… come in please!” He’d set the radio to a frequency that could only be picked up by Thorne, but he received no answer whatsoever. A second call was to no avail, and elicited the same response. Although he couldn’t know for certain, he had a fair idea why there was no reply: the radio was in Thorne’s quarters, and the Hindsight CO would no doubt still be in the Officers Mess, probably drunk and/or passed out.
“Neil, get everyone to their posts: we’ve got a major raid coming in!” He ordered as he disengaged the portable radio set from his belt webbing and handed it to Lloyd. “Find out where the fuck Merrill is as welclass="underline" I want to know where my fucking second-in-command’s been hiding with his dick in his hand while someone’s been doing such a swell job of fucking over our security! Evan… you’re in charge here… you know this equipment better than most, and you’re one of the few I can actually trust. Stay alert and keep us informed.” He turned his attention to the second armed SAS trooper standing by the doorway with Kalashnikov rifle in hand. “Dicko… make sure no one comes in here… those are my specific orders! Unless it’s me or Max Thorne, they stay out — got it?”
“Got it, sir!” The private assured with the characteristically relaxed professionalism he’d become accustomed to receiving from the Australian soldiers. The man’s first name was Richard also, but preferred the unlikely nickname of ‘Dicko’ — something which suited Kransky and kept things simple as far as identification was concerned.
“Anyone else tries to get past you, shoot them!” The stare was enough to convince the SAS trooper of Kransky’s seriousness, and the young man simply nodded in recognition.
Kransky turned in an instant, pausing by the bunker entrance only to slam his fist against the alarm switch mounted on the near wall before ducking out into the trench beyond and clambering up onto the open ground, leaving his pack but taking the huge sniper rifle with him.
Klein hadn’t found Thorne in his quarters as should’ve been the case that early in the morning, and the discovery — or lack thereof — had created some significant consternation and irritation in his mind. He knew there’d only be a window of mere minutes before the impending air raid was detected and the alarm was raised, and in that short space of time he was expected to kill Max Thorne and disable both fighters if possible. Logic suggested the jets should have been the higher priority, but his last received orders had stressed how important it was to the Oberkommando der Wehrmacht that Thorne be taken care of.
Finding the Hindsight CO however was now proving to be a less simple task than Klein had originally planned, and he spent just a moment standing in the middle of the empty room with gun in hand before leaving to continue looking. Keeping the weapon and his right hand tucked inside his half-open combat jacket for concealment, he stepped out of the barracks once more and broadened his search.
Another five minutes passed before both alarm bells and the air raid sirens rose simultaneously around the base, alerting all of impending danger. He knew then that he had no time left for this futile search, and decided instead to head immediately for the flight line in the hope there might still be a chance of disabling one or both of the jet fighters. It was as he jogged past the entrance to the Officer’s Mess that the door flew open, and a stumbling Max Thorne crashed straight into him without warning.
The pair sprawled to the ground in opposite directions, and Thorne was about to mumble an embarrassed apology as he quickly regained his feet, but was stopped in his tracks by the sight of the silenced Walther in the man’s hand. Thorne recognised the man instantly — he knew him as Captain Merrill, Kransky’s security 2IC — and instinct told him that he was undoubtedly also staring at their suspected infiltrator.