Twelve Seconds to Live (2002) by Douglas Reeman Page A

Downie was already worried. His own arrival would not have helped.
    The sketch was clear and professional. ‘This it?’
    Downie nodded, his head still half-turned, watching or listening it was hard to tell.
    Masters studied the drawing and the calculated measurements, and pictured the two of them discussing it onthe intercom, Sewell with a dying German beside him. About two feet long, not unlike the ordinary incendiary bombs which were released in thousands across towns, docklands and factories, anywhere within the bombers’ range. But thicker, and heavier.
    He heard Downie say, ‘He said he’d never seen anything like it before, sir.’
    ‘Neither have I.’ He knew Downie was staring at him, perhaps surprised by the confidence. But he was seeing the aircraft in his mind. A Junkers, a stretched version of the original JU 88, which had made its mark as a bomber and reconnaissance plane in several theatres of war. But usually with a crew of four. A new role, then?
    He raised his head again and trained the binoculars towards the wreckage, and the stone wall beyond. One small bomb. To be dropped on its own? No others had been reported. Something would have been found by now. He thought of Captain Chavasse, with Bumper Fawcett breathing down his neck. They could all wait.
    He said, ‘You’re a bit young for this kind of work, aren’t you?’
    Casual and easy. For both their sakes.
    ‘I’ll be twenty in November, sir.’ The defiance made him seem even younger. ‘I did quite a few jobs for my father before I joined up. Wiring, that sort of thing.’
    The speaker crackled again. ‘Ready, Gordon? I’m going to take another measurement.’
    Masters lifted the binoculars once more. ‘I’ll bet your parents got a shock when you joined this section.’
    Downie’s pencil moved quickly on the pad, but he said without raising his voice, ‘It was because of themI transferred, sir. They were both killed in the big raid on Coventry.’
    ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t know.’
    The youth looked at him. ‘It’s all right, sir. This is important to me, that’s all.’ He touched his switch. ‘Shall I tell him it’s
you
here, sir?’
    Masters shook his head. ‘It’s hard enough without someone looking at your efforts.’ He saw another face, that of the man who had been his own rating assistant, in those early days of ‘the job’. He had gone back to general service, to a battleship.
For a quieter life
, he said when they had shaken hands for the last time. He had been a torpedo gunner’s mate when last he had heard. A regular, he might end up with warrant rank like the formidable Mr. Bird back there on the road. He felt his mouth quiver.
Dicky.
    The silence seemed to press down on him. Waiting. Doing nothing to help.
    ‘Have you always wanted to do this kind of work?’
    The same quick, almost shy glance. ‘I hoped to be a vet, sir. I’m good with animals.’
    Masters watched his hands, supple, but stronger than they looked. He could well imagine him with animals.
    The voice again, calm and unemotional.
    ‘I’m having a go now. The first screw, and the little crescent-shaped catch I described. Have you got it down?’
    Downie looked at his pad. ‘Got it, sir.’ Then he said, almost in a whisper, ‘Take care, will you?’
    But Masters saw that he had switched off the speaker before he had spoken. He tried to imagine what it mustbe like working in a half-wrecked plane with three dead men for company.
    He studied Downie’s drawings again. He had noted that the bomb, or whatever it was, had no markings on it, unlike the usual unclassified information stamped or painted on such weapons. Experimental? Untested?
    He shifted his hip and briefly felt the old pain in his back. What fate had drawn so many strangers together? A boy who had wanted to be a vet, a schoolmaster, a lieutenant he had once known who had been a comic on the stage at Blackpool. And Critchley, the adventurer, Fawcett had called him.
And me.
    The