Seven Stones to Stand or Fall (Outlander)(99)
“Poland,” Randall agreed. “Malan says you can carry on a conversation in Polish. That true?”
“I can order a drink, start a fight, or ask directions. Any of that of use?”
“The last one might be,” Randall said, very dry. “But we’ll hope it doesn’t come to that.”
The MI6 agent had pushed aside the forms and unrolled the maps. Despite himself, Jerry leaned forward, drawn as by a magnet. They were official maps, but with markings made by hand—circles, X’s.
“It’s like this,” Randall said, flattening the maps with both hands. “The Nazis have had labour camps in Poland for the last two years, but it’s not common knowledge among the public, either home or abroad. It would be very helpful to the war effort if it were common knowledge. Not just the camps’ existence, but the kind of thing that goes on there.” A shadow crossed the dark, lean face—anger, Jerry thought, intrigued. Apparently, Mr. MI6 knew what kind of thing went on there, and he wondered how.
“If we want it widely known and widely talked about—and we do—we need documentary evidence,” Randall said matter-of-factly. “Photographs.”
There’d be four of them, he said, four Spitfire pilots. A flight—but they wouldn’t fly together. Each one of them would have a specific target, geographically separate, but all to be hit on the same day.
“The camps are guarded, but not with anti-aircraft ordnance. There are towers, though; machine-guns.” And Jerry didn’t need telling that a machine-gun was just as effective in someone’s hands as it was from an enemy plane. To take the sort of pictures Randall wanted would mean coming in low—low enough to risk being shot from the towers. His only advantage would be the benefit of surprise; the guards might spot him, but they wouldn’t be expecting him to come diving out of the sky for a low pass just above the camp.
“Don’t try for more than one pass, unless the cameras malfunction. Better to have fewer pictures than none at all.”
“Yes, sir.” He’d reverted to “sir,” as Group Captain Malan was present at the meeting, silent but listening intently. Got to keep up appearances.
“Here’s the list of the targets you’ll practise on in Northumberland. Get as close as you think reasonable, without risking—” Randall’s face did change at that, breaking into a wry smile. “Get as close as you can manage with a chance of coming back, all right? The cameras may be worth even more than you are.”
That got a faint chuckle from Malan. Pilots—especially trained pilots—were valuable. The RAF had plenty of planes now, but nowhere near enough pilots to fly them.
He’d be taught to use the wing cameras and to unload the film safely. If he was shot down but was still alive and the plane didn’t burn, he was to get the film out and try to get it back over the border.
“Hence the Polish.” Randall ran a hand through his hair, and gave Jerry a crooked smile. “If you have to walk out, you may need to ask directions.” They had two Polish-speaking pilots, he said—one Pole and a Hungarian who’d volunteered, and an Englishman with a few words of the language, like Jerry.
“And it is a volunteer mission, let me reiterate.”
“Aye, I know,” Jerry said irritably. “Said I’d go, didn’t I? Sir.”
“You did.” Randall looked at him for a moment, dark eyes unreadable, then lowered his gaze to the maps again. “Thanks,” he said softly.
THE CANOPY SNICKED shut over his head. It was a dank, damp Northumberland day, and his breath condensed on the inside of the Perspex hood within seconds. He leaned forward to wipe it away, emitting a sharp yelp as several strands of his hair were ripped out. He’d forgotten to duck. Again. He shoved the canopy release with a muttered oath and the light brown strands that had caught in the seam where the Perspex closed flew away, caught up by the wind. He closed the canopy again, crouching, and waiting for the signal for takeoff.
The signalman wig-wagged him, and he turned up the throttle, feeling the plane begin to move.
He touched his pocket automatically, whispering, “Love you, Dolly,” under his breath. Everyone had his little rituals, those last few moments before takeoff. For Jerry MacKenzie, it was his wife’s face and his lucky stone that usually settled the worms in his belly. She’d found it in a rocky hill on the Isle of Lewis, where they’d spent their brief honeymoon—a rough sapphire, she said, very rare.
“Like you,” he’d said, and kissed her.
No need for worms just the now, but it wasn’t a ritual if you only did it sometimes, was it? And even if it wasn’t going to be combat today, he’d need to be paying attention.
He went up in slow circles, getting the feel of the new plane, sniffing to get her scent. He wished they’d let him fly Dolly II, her seat stained with his sweat, the familiar dent in the console where he’d slammed his fist in exultation at a kill—but they’d already modified this one with the wing cameras and the latest thing in night sights. It didn’t do to get attached to the planes, anyway; they were almost as fragile as the men flying them, though the parts could be reused.
No matter; he’d sneaked out to the hangar the evening before and done a quick rag doll on the nose to make it his. He’d know Dolly III well enough by the time they went into Poland.