Spandau Phoenix

“Ja.”

“The nine-hundred-liter ones?”

“Sure. Look, they’re fitting them now.”

Berger was right. On the far side of the plane, two ground crewmen attached the first of two egg-shaped auxiliary fuel containers to the Messerschmitt’s blunt-tipped wings. When they finished, they moved to the near side of the aircraft.

“Double-check the wet-points!” the pilot called.

The chief mechanic nodded, already working.

The pilot turned to Major Berger. “I had an idea,” he said. “Flying up.”

The SS man frowned. “What idea?”

“I want them to grease my guns before we take off.”

“What do you mean? Lubricate them? I assure you that the weapons are in perfect working order.”

“No, I want them to pack the barrels with grease.”

Behind Major Berger, the man in the flying suit stepped sideways and looked curiously at the pilot.

“You can’t be serious,” Berger objected. He turned around. “Tell him,” he said. But the man in the flying suit only cocked his head to one side.

“But that’s suicide!” Major Berger insisted. “One chance encounter with a British patrol and—” He shook his head. “I simply cannot allow it. If you’re shot down, my career could take a very nasty turn!”

Your career is over already, the pilot thought grimly. “Grease the guns!” he shouted to the crewmen, who, having fitted the empty drop tanks, now anxiously pumped fuel into them. The chief mechanic stood at the rear of the fuel truck, trying to decide which of the two men giving orders was really in charge. He knew Major Berger from Aalborg, but something about the tall, masked pilot hinted at a more dangerous authority.

“You can’t do that!” Major Berger protested. “Stop that there! I’m in command here!”

The chief mechanic shut off the fuel hose and stared at the three men at the edge of the runway. Slowly, with great purpose, the pilot pointed a long arm toward the crewman under the wing and shouted through his scarf: “You! Grease my guns! That’s a direct order!”

The chief mechanic recognized the sound of authority now. He climbed onto the fuel truck to get a grease gun from his tool box.

Major Berger laid a quivering hand on a Schmeisser machine pistol at his belt. “You have lost your mind, I believe,” he said softly. “Rescind that order immediately or I’ll put you under arrest!”

Glancing back toward the crewmen—who were now busy packing the Messerschmitt’s twenty-millimeter cannon with heavy black grease—the pilot took hold of his scarf and unwrapped it slowly from his head. When his face became visible, the SS man fell back a step, his eyes wide in shock. Behind him the man in the flying suit swallowed hard and turned away.

The pilot’s face was dark, saturnine, with eyes set deep beneath bushy black brows that almost met in the center. His imperious stare radiated command. “Remove your hand from that pistol,” he said quietly.

For several moments Major Berger stood still as stone. Then, slowly, he let his hand fall from the Schmeisser’s grip. “Jawohl, Herr … Herr Reichminister.”

“Now, Herr Major! And be about your business! Go!”

Suddenly Major Berger was all action. With a pounding heart he hurried toward the Messerschmitt, his face hot and tingling with fear. Blood roared in his ears. He had just threatened to place the Deputy Führer of the German Reich—Rudolf Hess—under arrest! In a daze he ordered the crewmen to speed their packing of the guns. While they complied, he harried them about their earlier maintenance. Were the wet-points clear? Would the wing drop tanks disengage properly when empty?

At the edge of the runway, Hess turned to the man in the flying suit. “Come closer,” he murmured.

The man took a tentative step forward and stood at attention. “You understand about the guns?” Hess asked.

Slowly the man nodded assent.

“I know it’s dangerous, but it’s dangerous for us both. Under certain circumstances it could make all the difference.”

Again the man nodded. He was a pilot also, and had in fact flown many more missions than the man who had so suddenly assumed command of this situation. He understood the logic: a plane purported to be on a mission of peace would appear much more convincing with its guns disabled. But even if he hadn’t understood, he was in no position to argue.

“It’s been a long time, Hauptmann,” Hess said, using the rank of captain in place of a name.

The captain nodded. Overhead a pair of Messerschmitts roared by from Aalborg, headed south on patrol.

“It is a great sacrifice you have made for your country, Hauptmann. You and men like you have given up all normality so that men like myself could prosecute the war in comparative safety. It’s a great burden, is it not?”

The captain thought fleetingly of his wife and child. He had not seen them for over three years; now he wondered if he ever would again. He nodded slowly.

“Once we’re in the plane,” said Hess, “I won’t be able to see your face. Let me see it now. Before.”

As the captain reached for the end of his scarf, Major Berger scurried back to tell them the plane was almost ready. The two pilots, enthralled in the strange play they found themselves acting out, heard nothing. What the SS man saw when he reached them struck him like a blow to the stomach. All his breath passed out in a single gasp, and he knew that he stood at the brink of extinction. Before him, two men with the same face stood together shaking hands! And that face! Major Berger felt as if he had stumbled into a hall of mirrors where only the dangerous people were multiplied.

The pilots gripped hands for a long moment, their eyes heavy with the knowledge that both their lives might end tonight over foreign soil in the cockpit of an unarmed fighter.

“My God,” Berger croaked.

Neither pilot acknowledged his presence. “How long has it been, Hauptmann?” Hess asked.

“Since Dessau, Herr Reichminister.”

“You look thinner.” Hess murmured, “I still can’t believe it. It’s positively unnerving.” Then sharply, “Is the plane ready, Berger?”

“I … I believe so, Herr—”

“To your work, then!”

“Jawohl, Herr Reichminister!” Major Berger turned and marched toward the crewmen, who now stood uncertainly against the fuel truck, waiting for permission to return to Aalborg. Berger unclipped his Schmeisser with one hand as he walked.

“All finished?” he called.

“Jawohl, Herr Major,” answered the chief mechanic.

“Fine, fine. Step away from the truck, please.” Berger raised the stubby barrel of his Schmeisser.

“But … Herr Major, what are you doing! What have we done?”

“A great service to your Fatherland,” the SS man said. “Now—step away from the truck!”

The crewmen looked at each other, frozen like terrified game. Finally it dawned on them why Major Berger was hesitating. He obviously knew something about the volatility of aircraft fuel vapor. Backing closer to the truck, the chief mechanic clasped his greasy hands together in supplication. “Please, Herr Major, I have a family—”

The dance was over. Major Berger took three steps backward and fired a sustained burst from the Schmeisser. Hess screamed a warning, but it was too late. Used with skill, the Schmeisser could be a precise weapon, but Major Berger’s skill was limited. Of a twelve-round burst, only four rounds struck the crewmen. The remainder tore through the rusted shell of the fuel truck like it was paper.