“What is it, for God’s sake?” Necker demanded.
“That was Cherbourg Control. TheyVe lost the JU88S.”
“What do you mean, lost it?”
“They had the pilot on radio. He’d attacked several times. They suddenly lost contact and he disappeared from the radar screen. They think he’s gone into the drink.”
“I might have known,” Hofer said softly. “A great pilot, Sorsa. An exceptional man. I should know. I chose him myself. And the mail plane?”
“Still on radar, moving up-Channel toward the English coast. No way on earth of stopping her.”
There was silence. A flurry of rain drifted against the window. Necker said, “What happens now?”
“I’ll leave in the Storch at dawn,” Hofer told him. “The pilot of the mail plane can fly me. It’s essential I get to Field Marshal Rommel as soon as possible.”
“And what then?” Necker asked. “What happens when Berlin hears about this?”
“God knows, my friend.” Hofer smiled wearily. “A bleak prospect-for all of us.”
About fifteen minutes after Sorsa had changed course for the second time, Martineau received a response to his message.
“Come in, Martineau,”
“Martineau here,” he answered.
“Your destination Hornley Field. Fly at five thousand feet and await further instructions. Escorts will assist. Should be with you in minutes.”
Martineau turned to Sorsa who had his headphones on. “Did you get that?”
The Finn shook his head. “I don’t understand English.”
Martineau translated, then crouched down beside Baum. “So far, so good.”
Baum sat up and pointed. “Look out there.”
Martineau turned and saw, in the moonlight, a Spitfire take station to port. As he turned to check the starboard side, another appeared. He reached for the copilot’s headphones.
A crisp voice said, “Martineau, do you read me?”
“Martineau here.”
“You are now twenty miles east of the Isle of Wight. We’re going to turn inland and descend to three thousand. I’ll lead and my friend will bring up the rear. We’ll shepherd you right in.”
“Our pleasure.” He translated quickly for Sorsa and sat back.
“Everything okay?” Baum asked.
“Fine. They’re leading us in. Another fifteen minutes or so, that’s all.”
Baum was excited. This time when he took a cigarette from his case his hand was steady. “I really feel as if I’m breaking out of something.”
“I know,” Martineau said.
“Do you really? I wonder. I was at Stalingrad, did I tell you that? The greatest disaster in the history of the German Army. Three hundred thousand down the drain. The day before the airstrip closed I was wounded in the foot. I flew out in a good old JU52, just like this. Ninety-one thousand taken prisoner, twenty-four generals. Why them and not me?”
“I spent years trying to find answers to questions like that,” Martineau told him.
“And did you?”
“Not really. In the end, I decided there weren’t any answers. Also no sense and precious little reason.”
He pulled down the earphones as the voice came over the air again, giving him new instructions and a fresh course. He passed them on to Sorsa. They descended steadily. A few minutes later, the voice sounded again. “Hornley Field, right in front. In you go.”
The runway lights were plain to see, and this time Sorsa didn’t need any translation. He reduced power and dropped his flaps to float in for a perfect landing. The escorting Spitfires peeled away to port and starboard and climbed into the night.
The Junkers started to slow, and Sorsa turned and taxied toward the control tower. He rolled to a halt, switched off the engines. Baum got up and laughed excitedly. “We made it!”
Sarah was smiling. She reached for Martineau’s hand and held on tight and Kelso, on the floor, was laughing out loud. The feeling of release was fantastic. Baum got the door open and he and Martineau peered outside.
A voice called over a bullhorn, “Stay where you are.”
A line of airmen in RAF blue, each carrying a rifle, moved toward them. There were other people in the shadows behind them, but Martineau couldn’t make out who.
Baum jumped down onto the runway. The voice called again, “Stay where you are!”
Baum knotted the white scarf around his throat and grinned up at Harry, saluting him, touching the field marshal’s baton to the rim of his cap. “Will you join me, Stan-dartenfuhrer?” And then he turned and strode toward the line of men, the baton raised in his right hand. “Put the rifles away, you idiots,” he called in English. “All friends here.”