Free The Hornet's Sting by Mark Ryan Page B

are in one piece—can’t see any cracks or breaks anywhere,’ whispered Sneum. ‘They should slot in nicely. The fuselage is OK, too.’
    ‘The wings will only stay in place if we have the right bolts,’ pointed out Pedersen, holding up the linen bag.
    It soon emerged that Kjeld’s fears were well founded. The bolts in the bag obviously weren’t for the wings. They looked more likely to fit the tail fin, but that was still in the farm’s workshop. Furthermore, a detailed search of the linen bag and the rest of the hangar revealed that even some of the tail fin bolts, made of specially hardened molybdenum steel, were missing.
    ‘Don’t worry, we’ll get some more tail fin bolts,’ whispered Sneum, ‘when we order the new bolts for the wings.’
    ‘We can’t,’ warned Kjeld.
    ‘Why not?’
    ‘Molybdenum isn’t available in Denmark any more. And certainly not at short notice.’ Kjeld, who had been sceptical even before he had seen the plane and discovered the shortage of bolts, now thought they should abort the whole project before it killed them. ‘Come on, Sneum, there’s nothing to hold this plane together. I know we’re desperate, but this is suicide.’
    Tommy refused to throw in the towel. ‘We’ll find some bolts. They don’t have to be molybdenum.’
    ‘They do if you don’t want the bloody thing to fall apart halfway across the North Sea,’ maintained Kjeld.
    Sneum didn’t see it that way. ‘Compressed carbon steel bolts may be softer but they can do the job. It’s only one flight.’
    ‘One bloody long flight,’ warned Pedersen. ‘She’s got to be able to withstand some pretty fearsome pressure up there.’
    ‘We can do it,’ insisted Sneum. ‘We’ll order everything to precise specifications. We’ve got enough mates from Fleet Air Arm to do that. Are you still in?’
    Grudgingly, Pederson replied, ‘If the engineers say it can be done.’ He seemed pretty sure that they would say the exact opposite.
    At 7.30 a.m. farm workers appeared in the fields around the barn, just as Tommy and Kjeld were about to leave. The pilots hid under sacks at the back of the hangar. It was a frustrating morning, but they feared discovery if they dared to move. One man slept while the other kept an eye out for any nosy laborers. Tommy took the first nap and woke mid-with a stretch and a carelessly noisy yawn. Kjeld scrambled frantically towards him, with one forefinger pressed to his lips. With the other, he pointed to the far corner of the hangar. At the base of the corrugated-tin wall, where the ground had crumbled away, a crouching man was creating a stench, and the pilots realized that the relative privacy afforded by the hangar walls meant that the area had been designated as the farm workers’ unofficial lavatory.
    At lunchtime the workers left the fields at last, but locals out for a Sunday stroll had begun to pass regularly on a road just fifty meters to the north of the hangar. Tommy wondered if they would ever be able to get out without being noticed. Luckily a cornfield, with the crop already half a meter high, caressed the western wall of the hangar, and offered just enough cover if they kept low. After much uncomfortable crawling and cursing, the two men reached the road, picked themselves up and brushed themselves down. No sooner had they done so than a party of German officers appeared on horseback, just where the road forked off to nearby Sanderum. The Germans viewed the young men suspiciously, but their commander seemed reluctant to interrupt his ride. After a moment’s hesitation, which seemed like an eternity to Tommy and Kjeld, the horsemen continued on their way without demanding papers or a reason for the Danes’ presence in the area.
    Relieved, Tommy and Kjeld slipped away down a country lane, only to be confronted with the sight of a newly built drill-ground for German soldiers. It was less than a kilometer from Elseminde. Privately, Tommy wondered whether this escape