One Shot Kill - Robert Muchamore Page 0,82

the truck shot up the ramp and out into the night, Paul moved up to the exit, figuring he might stand some chance of surviving if he broke towards the woods when he heard planes passing over. After half a minute, with no more sign of planes, Paul felt a rumbling under his boots and saw red in the sky.

It looked as if the USAF’s diversionary raid on Rennes had started. Paul now suspected that the three aircraft Didier had spotted a couple of minutes earlier had been German night fighters sent out to intercept them. But even though that had been a false alarm, the beacon had now been running for over fifteen minutes and this was the last place on Earth Paul wanted to be.

‘They’ve bloody abandoned us,’ Luc shouted furiously, as he came around the top of the stairs with Marc and Goldberg and saw the trucks gone.

Paul shouted from the doorway. ‘I’m here. I sent the truck out into the woods for safety, but we can run and pick it up.’

‘You deaf shit,’ Luc roared, when he got close to Paul. ‘Twelve minutes I said. If we do make it out of here alive, I’m going to kill you.’

‘It’s tough to hear up the stairs with the echo,’ Paul protested.

‘You two argue, I’m running,’ Goldberg said, as he set off for the main gate at a sprint.

By the time they’d reached the fence the Americans really were on their way. Twenty-five four-engined bombers, minus however many had been shot down en-route. The entire sky seemed to vibrate with the hum of propellers.

Paul was slowest, and Marc’s kit was already in the truck, so he took Paul’s backpack when they were a hundred metres past the exit gate and gave him an encouraging shove.

‘I’m sorry about the beacon,’ Paul said. ‘I didn’t hear.’

Luckily Rosie had ordered Jean to stop a few metres down the road, rather than the full kilometre that Paul had suggested. Rosie stood by the rear canopy and caught the four running figures in the beam of her torch.

‘Come on,’ she screamed, as Jean put the truck in gear.

The first six bombers swept overhead in pairs, each releasing thirty-two five-hundred-pound bombs when their aimers pushed a button. Marc’s ankle was starting to swell and he was last into the truck, hauled aboard by Rosie.

‘Drive,’ Wallanger shouted frantically, as he banged on the metal partition behind Jean in the driver’s seat.

The first bombs landed as Jean moved into second gear. There was a tangle of arms and legs in the back and Henderson cursed as Paul trod on his hand.

‘I need my bag,’ Marc shouted, as he crawled up to the back. ‘I’ve got to get the film out of the developer or they’ll turn out black.’

Despite the beacon, the first bombs fell well wide, shaking the ground and silhouetting the trees against brilliant orange flashes. At least one fell close to the road, and they all sprawled to the floor as shards of bark speared the truck’s canvas awning.

It was fortunate that the Americans didn’t trigger the sympathetic fuses until the truck was another half-kilometre along the road, because when it happened it made one of the biggest bangs that the world had ever seen.

From the driver’s seat, Jean felt the back of the truck lift up and watched the tarmac ripple as if it was water. The sky blazed white and the heat from the fireball was so intense that treetops ignited.

In the back everyone screamed and grabbed each other. For a few horrific seconds, they were all convinced that the explosion was going to engulf them, but the light and heat did fade, and somehow Jean had kept the truck on the road, even while he’d been blinded.

‘Some fireworks,’ Luc said, as he peered over the truck’s rear flap, ears still ringing from the blast. His bad boy act meant he didn’t smile much, but he exchanged helpless grins with Rosie because they’d both expected to die.

*

The drive from Rennes to Paris took six hours and since it was after curfew the two German army trucks cruised empty roads with no speed limit.

The original plan was for Henderson to drive the lead truck, dressed in German army uniform. Fortunately German manpower shortages meant that it wasn’t uncommon for Frenchmen to drive military vehicles, especially ones filled with forced labourers dressed in grubby overalls.

Marc’s photos came out fine and the Ghost circuit had done a beautiful job providing forged or stolen documents. The