Without another word, Lowenstein coldly pointed the pistol at Müller’s head and fired again, the copper-jacketed slug punching a tiny hole in the man’s forehead and killing him instantly. Taking a moment, he checked inside his shirt and made sure all of the personal notes and papers he’d collected during his imprisonment were carefully folded and kept secure inside. He couldn’t afford for any of it to fall into the wrong hands now… not when he was so close to freedom. Stepping over the corpse, he stopped for a moment at the door to the outside world, peering through just enough to allow him a clear view of the area before deciding to fully step into the open.
“Samuel…!” He was barely a few metres outside the door before the soft voice had called his name in accented English, and he turned quickly to his right, pistol held low at his side but aimed all the same. “Samuel… I believe Monsieur Brandis told you I’d be waiting…”
“Of course: you must be François,” Lowenstein nodded with the faintest of smiles, lowering the weapon in his hand as Reynard stepped from the cover of some nearby shrubbery and jogged across to join him. “No need for us to hang about… I’d say its best if we get moving quickly…”
“I’d tend to agree with you,” Reynard noted with a wry grin as he glanced back through the open door to the stable and spotted Müller’s crumpled body. “Let me just get your friend out of sight first, though… it may buy us a little time if he’s not discovered.”
He moved back into the building quickly, dragging the body into Lowenstein’s cell before returning and closing the door behind him. As he returned to the scientist’s side, he drew a collection of identification documents from the pocket of his woollen coat and handed them over.
“These are your papers… your name is now Samuel La Forge, and you work as a dishwasher at the headquarters. You live alone at the nearby town of Beaucourt-en-Santerre, and your address is inside the first page there. Try to memorise as best you can… it’ll save us both if we’re stopped.” Reynard glanced around the area before clapping a hand on the man’s shoulder. “Now… let’s get out of here… time for you to take your first evening ‘stroll’ as a free man.”
With Reynard in the lead, the pair took off at a steady pace across the field behind the stable, heading directly away from the burning mansion and the chaotic scenes surrounding it. Fire trucks were finally pulling up around the structure, and a few jets of water began to stream up into the flames, soon to be joined by many more as more vehicles arrived. The pair would carry out a wide circle around to the east to avoid any patrols in the area, before turning and heading back toward the small wood that was their initial objective, 1,000 metres to the south.
It was turning cold that night… very cold… but Lowenstein couldn’t have cared less. For the first time in almost ten years he was able to run beneath a clear, night sky, and he was enjoying every second of it. Not for a moment did his mind think of Müller, or the manner in which he’d coldly shot down the only man who’d ever shown him friendship or even the slightest consideration during a decade of imprisonment.
“Contact report…!” The very relieved leutnant called out exactly five minutes later, “Single aircraft moving very fast… picked up by radars at Caen and Chartres, heading south-west over Normandy at approximately 500 knots. Fighter Control estimates it’ll cross the Brittany coast within fifteen minutes at current speed and heading.”
He’s heading for the Bay of Biscay… Schiller mused to himself, forcing his mind clear of everything else for a moment and trying to think fast. Must be the F-35… he’s staying subsonic to conserve fuel, and the F-22 wouldn’t have to… with supercruise, it could be pushing Mach 1.8 the whole way home and we’ve never catch him! He began to work through the ramifications of that information, needing to close his eyes for a moment and take a deep breath as the pain in his leg flared and threatened to bring him to his knees. We know from the Scapa Flow survivors that one of the enemy jets was shot down, so this F-35 must be out there alone… and if he’s already headed that far south, there’s no way he’ll make it back to England unrefuelled. The answer came to him in a flash. That means they have a tanker waiting somewhere out over the Atlantic…
He limped across to one of the tables nearby, picked up a large, stand-mounted microphone connected to the main radio transmitter and keyed the transmit button: it was already tuned to the correct frequency, and instantly connected him with the remaining pair of Flankers, awaiting take-off orders at Lille.
“Hawks, this is Generalleutnant Schiller — I have mission orders for you…”
“Hawk flight reading you loud and clear and ready for take off, Herr General,” the reply came in an instant.
“Hawk-Four: you’re to launch immediately and proceed south-west to the Bay of Biscay at best possible speed… there’ll be a thirsty F-35 somewhere out there looking to make an in-flight refuelling, and with your speed advantage and external fuel, you should be able to overhaul it before it reaches the coast. Hawk-Three: you’ll launch and proceed south-south-west to carry out BARCAP over the Scilly Isles. I expect there’ll be a tanker aircraft out there somewhere, and you’re to engage anything that comes within detection range!”
“Orders received,” confirmation was equally quick. “Preparing for take off…”
“Damage reports you ordered, Mein Herr… and casualty lists,” an NCO advised as he entered the CP, stepping up and handing over several sheets of hastily-written notes. Schiller scanned quickly through page after page through eyes slitted with pain and tension, his expression darkening significantly with every line he read. The headache that’d been building since the explosion had finally blossomed into a fully-fledged migraine, and it was making it extremely difficult for him to concentrate.
“God in Heaven…!” He breathed, feeling as if he’d been gutted as he took in the list of deaths and severe injuries. “They didn’t need a nuke to hurt us!” He finished the last page and turned it over, as if expecting more to be written on the reverse as he realised someone was missing fro the lists. “Chief Technician Müller… he’s not listed here at all… has anyone seen him…?”
“I… I don’t know, Herr General… I did ask, but no one else has been able to locate him either. Last reports were from a kitchen hand who thought he’d been seen heading out the rear of the building, toward the stables.”
“Bloody Lowenstein…!” Schiller had experienced so little contact or involvement with their single, ‘special’ prisoner over the last decade that he’d almost forgotten about the man they held in detention in the stables behind the mansion. The generalleutnant almost breathed a short sigh of relief at the news. “I should’ve guessed he’d look after his little friend out back… were the stables damaged in any way?”
“There was some initial threat of fire, but the trucks have since brought that under control,” the NCO replied quickly. “The stables are still intact and undamaged, as far as I am aware.”