JET LAG! Read online

  Copyright © K C Eaton 2014 v3

  KEVIN C EATON has asserted his moral right and his right under sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.

  All of the locations and characters in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  from the creator of SNOW! THAW! FLOOD!

  and SCAPEGOAT!

  Ryan Clifford,

  a new novel to stretch the imagination……

  Many of the historical episodes in this story did transpire and some of the characters did exist…..but some didn’t……

  …..or did they…?

  JET LAG!

  ‘Never in the field of human conflict,

  has so much been owed

  by so many to so few.’

  Winston Spencer Churchill,

  20 August 1940

  PROLOGUE

  Norfolk, England

  Summer 1972

  Elizabeth Reynolds, the Honorary Secretary of the Taunton branch of the Spitfire Preservation Society, sat quietly in her well-used caravan in the tiny village of Litcham, near Dereham in Norfolk. She was making notes describing the progress that her small team had made during their annual summer dig.

  Her father had been a Spitfire pilot on number Treble One (111) Squadron during the Second World War, and had been shot down twice in action over the English Channel. As a consequence, Elizabeth and her husband were enthusiastic amateur archaeologists, and spent every spare minute searching for and researching potential Spitfire and Hurricane crash sites. This one in Norfolk was recorded in documents held at RAF Marham and in the Imperial War Museum archives. It had been reported as the crash site of an aircraft in the late summer of 1940, and Elizabeth had set up a team of eight fellow devotees to visit for six weeks during the school holidays. She and her husband were both experienced teachers at their local primary school.

  The main issue with this site was that it lay in the middle of a boggy marsh making excavation painfully slow and very, very wet. However, some progress had been made and their brand new metal detector was picking up something not too far from the surface; so she suspected that they were close. They needed to be, as they were due to return to Somerset the following Saturday, in time for the new term.

  It was lunchtime and the dig was due to recommence shortly, so she finished her diary entry and exited the caravan to join her team-mates at the picnic table they used for sharing meals.

  ‘Do you think we’ll find anything before we have to leave, Jake?’ she asked her husband, who had been supervising the dig.

  ‘I'm not certain, Liz, but I reckon that we are pretty damned close. The detector went beserk this morning, so there is definitely something just below where we are digging. It's most probably an aircraft engine.’

  ‘Brilliant,’ replied Elizabeth, ‘let's get going – there's no point in just sitting here talking about it.’

  The eight friends all sprang up and strolled back to the swampy area across the field from where the four caravans were parked up. The local landowner had been very helpful, and allowed them to stay at no cost whilst they investigated the site. He had actually flown Blenheim bombers during the war – so was extremely interested and excited by the prospect of finding a WWII fighter in his field.

  The digging continued for about another hour. They had shored up a sort of protected inner area, so that slime and mud didn’t keep filling up the foul smelling mire that they had already cleared away.

  And at about 3pm they struck gold!

  ‘Liz, everybody – I've found something! It's metal for sure. Come and help,’ pled Jake – looking for support.

  Three of the team climbed down into the pit using the ladders propped up along three sides of the hole. They carefully cleared as much mud as they could by filling buckets and passing them up to their colleagues standing on the rim. After about fifteen minutes a shape was beginning to form and rise from the quagmire. It certainly wasn’t an engine and certainly not wooden – as a Spit or Hurricane might have been.

  As more of the metal sheet came into view, Jake began to detect writing - in large red lettering. He requested a wet sponge to clear the mud away and eventually revealed a puzzling and faded decal:

  10th ANNIVERSARY

  He was baffled. The tenth anniversary of what? He needed to see more, so he kept digging, after taking several photos, and continued his running commentary for the others in the team.

  After twenty further minutes of scraping and cleaning he revealed characters which totally mystified and shocked him.

  ‘Liz, come down and look at this. I can't make head nor tail of it.’

  Elizabeth shinned down the ladder whilst the other three vacated the hole to give them more space.

  ‘What have you got then?’ she asked.

  ‘’Well, just have a look for yourself. I’ve never seen anything like this in my life. If this is an aircraft – which no doubt it is if you believe the writing – then it's like no aircraft that has ever been built or exists today!’

  Elizabeth stepped forward so that she could read the words which Jake had exposed:

  10th ANNIVERSARY

  FALKLANDS WAR

  XXX SQUADRON

  1982-1992

  She could not believe her eyes.

  This was 1972 and this message was dated 1992. Twenty years in the future.

  She was utterly bemused and not a little bit spooked.

  What the hell had they found?

  WAR CABINET - 15 May 1940

  ‘Gentlemen, I have called you here today, prior to full cabinet, to discover your views on the specific and immediate threat that the Nazi Luftwaffe might pose to the security of this country.’

  The Prime Minister pronounced Nazi –‘Narsee’ as he was habitually inclined to do.

  The four other men present sat silently for a few seconds before the new Prime Minister of five days, Winston Spencer Churchill, continued in his deep-throated, stuttering style.

  ‘I am convinced that the immediate threat of invasion by sea, at the present time, is negligible and that the Nazis will now try to bombard us into submission. I am certain that air superiority over Britain is their primary aim and I believe that we should prepare, as best we are able, for this particular and most potent danger.’

  Archibald Sinclair, the new Air Minister said nothing, and Sir Cyril Newall the Chief of the Air Staff deferred to Air Chief Marshal Sir Hugh Dowding, who now bravely attempted to put the case for Fighter Command.

  ‘Prime Minister, I could not agree more, but I am extremely concerned about the number of fighter aircraft being sent to France. I cannot afford to lose any more Hurricanes on what I consider to be a lost cause. I need every fighter I can get, and sending them to France will cause a severe shortfall in our ability to defend ourselves in the face of a determined Luftwaffe attack. My promised fifty-two squadrons have already been reduced to thirty-six, and at the present loss-rate in France, within two weeks I will have no Force to command. And of course, for every fighter we lose in France we often lose something even more valuable and almost irreplaceable - the pilot.’

  ‘Air Chief Marshal, I have given my word to Reynaud, the French Premier. I have promised him all the fighters he needs to defend himself against the Nazis. Do you now expect me to go back on my word? Beaverbrook here is building new aircraft at a prodigious rate and two hundred pilots a month are coming out of training. What more do you want?’

  Dowding could see that he was fighting a losing battle. His fighter force was well below the minimum he needed to successfully repel an attack from the Luftwaffe stationed in France. However, Churchill was clearly determined to yield to pathetic and utterly selfish French gov
ernment demands for yet more aircraft.

  The Air Officer Commanding Fighter Command glanced at the Chief of the Air Staff, who nodded his assent almost imperceptibly. Dowding looked back at Churchill and played his last card.

  ‘Prime Minister, I have only approximately five hundred fighters with which to defend the South of England against air attacks from France. We are heavily outnumbered by the Luftwaffe, who are far better trained and equipped. If they attack within the next three months we cannot possibly hope to win if any more of our aircraft are sent to France on lost causes. I implore you, Prime Minister, do not deplete our precious stock of fighters.’

  Churchill sat back, brought a cigar to his lips and drew on it deeply. He wasn’t sure whether he liked this man Dowding, and he was damned sure that he was not going to be dictated to in this fashion. He looked around the room at the faces of the men who would now be expecting him to stamp his authority.

  ‘Gentlemen, tomorrow I will cross the Channel for further discussions with the French leadership. If I deem it necessary, then more fighters will be sent to France, as and when required. Am I fully understood, Air Chief Marshal?’ - now peering directly at Dowding.

  ‘Oh yes sir, I understand. I understand that this country expects to be attacked by a massive force of German aircraft sometime in the very near future and you are proposing to take away the only line of defence we have. I tell you now Prime Minister, if you persist with your plan to waste our assets on France, this country’s skies will be dominated by the German Luftwaffe by the Autumn. And that is not a threat, Prime Minister, it is a fact!’

  Churchill appeared unmoved, but seethed with anger, and it was possible to detect that rage in his immediate response to this persistent attack from C-in-C Fighter Command.

  ‘Well, Air Chief Marshal, you will just have to do the best you can - or pray for a miracle.’

  ***

  The next day Churchill indeed travelled to France and within forty-eight hours had given away another ten Fighter Squadrons.

  Dowding would now need that miracle if Britain was to survive.

  Kretinga - Lithuania

  July 1938

  ‘Nein, Herr Feldmarschall.’

  ‘Then when can we expect some progress, Herr Professor. The Fuhrer is demanding an answer. A tremendous amount depends on the success of the project.’

  ‘I fully realise that, Herr Feldmarschall.’

  ‘You must realise, Herr Professor , that we cannot wait forever. Plans have to be made and the Fuhrer is becoming even more impatient.’

  ‘Ja, ja, ja, Herr Feldmarschall,’ intoned the Professor.

  ‘Then when can we expect some results, Herr Professor?’

  Hermann Goering’s well-publicised charm was now showing signs of strain down the telephone line. Adolf Hitler had just spent the last forty-five minutes emphasising the importance of the Kretinga Project. Ample money and time had been poured into the development of this vital aspect of his plans for Europe, and Hitler was now becoming uneasy and beginning to question Goering’s word. He had promised that the prototypes and pre-production models would be ready by the end of 1939, and this now seemed very uncertain indeed. This delay was bringing pressure to bear on the Luftwaffe supremo, and he was damned sure that the scientists in Lithuania would suffer equal pressure in return.

  ‘I’ve told you before, Herr Feldmarschall, we will be finished as soon as possible. We cannot afford to be over-ambitious at this stage. The project is reaching a critical stage. One mistake - one act of impetuosity - and it will put us back two or three years. The British are close behind us - and it is only their own government’s lack of vision that has prevented their success so far.’

  ‘Well, I warn you Herr Professor, the Fuhrer cannot wait forever - if you cannot do the job then we can always make alternative arrangements.’ It was a thinly veiled threat, made many times before. However, in reality, he had no-one else to turn to. Junkers had already been bankrupted and hounded to his death by Milch in 1935.

  ‘We are going as quickly as is safe to do,’ beseeched the Herr Professor, ‘and you’ve only given me thirty-five engineers – why did you cut the budget if this Projekt 1065 is so vital – so urgent?’

  ‘Ja, ja, Herr Professor, perhaps we were a little hasty in withdrawing your engineers. Maybe we can spare more technicians; and do you need more damned labourers - tell me what you need and I will try to get it?’

  ‘Herr Feldmarschall, the only thing we really need is time.’

  ‘Herr Professor, time is the only thing you do not have. Germany needs your project to succeed - and soon. What do I tell the Fuhrer?’

  The chief scientific officer at the Kretinga Development Facility held his breath. Time and again he had received pressure calls like this one, and each time he had to fob off these fools in Berlin. He was working at the forefront of technology and these buffoons wanted a cardboard cut-out. He needed time. Maybe two or three more years. He had already spent four years getting this far and he could not - no, would not - be rushed by Berlin. The jet engine was proving extremely difficult to perfect - alloys for the engine being the main problem. He brought the phone up to his lips and spoke.

  ‘Maybe another three years, Herr Feldmarschall.’

  A full ten seconds passed before Hermann Goering replied.

  ‘You have twelve months Herr Professor. One year. This project will be ready by the first of July 1939 and I expect to see it fly on that very same day! Not a day later, or you will live to regret it. Do I make myself clear? Milch and Udet will be there in a couple of days to inspect the facility and to provide me with an accurate progress report.’

  One year! It was impossible!

  Why the hell could he not understand? You could not rush these things. Everything could be lost. But.... he had little choice. The threat was in the open now.

  ‘Jawohl. Herr Feldmarschall, verstehe.’

  Before the Herr Professor could continue, the line went dead. Goering had passed on Hitler’s threat and he would now be forced into cutting even more corners. His future work - indeed his future - depended on it.

  The German engineering genius sat down in the tatty swivel chair, which accompanied his tatty desk in his tatty office. He was sick and tired of this ‘verdamdt’ Projekt 1065 and this awful place. He needed to be at his factory headquarters in Germany - which would allow him to make much faster progress, in a suitable development site, where he had the appropriate facilities. How could he possibly finish this project in twelve months in this God forsaken outpost? He just didn’t have the technology or adequate resources. The security and secrecy aspects alone were causing untold and unnecessary delays.

  Conversely, the planned improvements to the Me-109; that was a different matter. That was a feasible project and more vitally important than that ignoramus in Berlin could ever comprehend. If he could complete the upgrades to the 109 and make it competitive with the British Hurricane – then the Luftwaffe would rule the skies. This jet project was indeed a concept of his own brilliance, but he needed more time to perfect it.

  Nevertheless, in the final analysis, he had no real choice in the matter. Hitler wanted this jet to show off to the world and display superior Nazi technology. It was a damned publicity stunt. However, whatever the reasons, he was now compelled to concentrate his mind and resources on the Me 262. If the truth were known, he could probably just about meet Goering’s target, but he reasoned that delivering ahead of schedule was better for his reputation – and long-term health.

  Failure was not an option where The Fuhrer was concerned!

  Yet now he would be plagued by that interfering Jewish bastard - Milch, and by that immature flyboy Udet, but at least he might keep Milch off his back. He could really do without that - especially now.

  He slumped back in his chair, hands rubbing tired eyes. Herr Professor Willy Messerschmitt was coming to the end of his tether.

  Central Norfolk

  Mid July 1940

&nbs
p; Willie Hutch was in his best bib and tucker. He had waited nearly two weeks for this meeting with Sir Peter. He was nervous and he wished he could have done something to occupy his hands, which grew clammier by the minute. As it was he forced himself to lock them behind his back. He knew Sir Peter Andrews was a stickler, and he had to make a good impression.

  He had to be convincing.

  Sir Peter was a busy man, what with his job in the Ministry of Agriculture and all of the pressures which that brought in wartime. This was Hutch’s only chance and he must get his version of events across as best he could.

  He wasn’t at all sure that Sir Peter would believe him, let alone take any action. Nevertheless, he must try and do something to stop the losses to his livestock. It had been going on for nearly three weeks now. Oh yes, it was much better than at first, but the animals kept dying and he could not afford to lose any more. The ministry would not answer his letters and the local council were not interested in his problems.