The 34th Degree

120

The island of Corfu loomed large on the horizon as the squadron of RAF bombers skimmed the surface of the Ionian Sea and flew in under the Italian radar net. Their view of the coastline was obscured by a low mist over the waters.

Seated at the left-seat controls of his Liberator was Squadron Leader Jack MacDonald, excitedly scanning his airspeed indicator, which read 110 mph. Next to him sat Wing Commander Rainey, looking ahead nervously, a crushed fifty-mission hat clamped to his head by a pair of oversize earphones.

“At least the experts at our briefing in Blida were honest,” said the baby-faced copilot. “We have poor visibility and dangerous terrain. I can’t see a thing. We’ve got to climb.”

MacDonald grasped the yoke of the control stick with his left hand and gripped the throttle with his right, carefully jockeying the bomber toward the shadowy outline of coast and mountains.

“We’ve got to climb, sir!” Rainey repeated.

MacDonald shook his head. “Any higher than six hundred feet, and we’ll trip their radar.”

“Any lower than six thousand feet,” warned Rainey, “and their antiaircraft guns will shoot us down.”

But dawn was breaking, and so was the low mist. The sky cleared, and MacDonald could see their reference points. At three o’clock was Corfu Town’s Old Fortress. At noon were the two islets in the mouth of the Chalikiopoulos Lagoon. And there at nine o’clock high, sitting pretty on its hill, was the Achillion.

“We’re going in,” MacDonald announced. “Radio the others. This is it. The mother lode.”

Rainey flicked the button on his microphone and relayed the order to the rest of the crew and squadron. “One shot, boys, and one shot only,” he reminded them. “We’ve got to hit those bunkers halfway up the hill. Follow our lead.”

MacDonald smiled like a maniac as he goosed the throttle just enough to maintain altitude and banked tightly toward the Achillion. “This is for you, Carol and Sarah,” he said softly.

Rainey looked at him in disbelief and wiped the sweat from his forehead. “The wrong touch of the controls, the tiniest deviation from course, could send us smashing into the sea or the side of that hill. This is a fool’s run!”

“And the fools are dead ahead,” said MacDonald, looking straight at the palace coming up fast into their windshield. “Bombs away!”