It is 1948 and the Berlin airlift is about to begin.
Captain Fletcher, a pilot in the RAF, has been coerced into working for the Secret Intelligence Service. Its mission – to stop the Russians getting hold of Britain’s nuclear secrets. His mission – to survive at all costs as he samples the most beautiful daughters of the Fatherland.
Pursued by the evil Major Kutuzov and the voluptuous Louise Schoneberg, can our reluctant hero save the day?
Also by Ken Donald on Obooko:
A sage once remarked how vain it is to sit down and write when you have not stood up to live, and for a long time I have heeded his sound advice. However, as fate has seen fit to throw some of the most incredible events of the twentieth century my way, perhaps you will forgive me for putting my memories down on paper. Spoken words fly away; written words remain, as it were.
As luck would have it, Herr Hitler was good enough to kill himself in ’45, with the result that he was worm food and I wouldn’t have to fight for King and Country. Not that I’m any less patriotic than the next chap but, being something of a Bob Acres, I’m rather keen on surviving to see the dawn.
So with the fighting over I joined the RAF to be a transport pilot. Things went well at first and I enjoyed a brief spell in Japan as part of the army of occupation. When I wasn’t delivering cargo from one end of the country to the other, I had time to cater to the needs of a ravishing secretary at our embassy in Tokyo. Unfortunately it wasn’t to last and it was when I got back to Blighty that things really started to go tits up.
It must have been one of those Egyptian Days, and as I was coming in to land my undercarriage had the bad taste to give way, causing my plane to slide off the runway into a farmer’s field.
He was as mad as hell, what with his vegetable patch being thrown to the four winds, and the red-faced buffoon cursed me something awful. Of all the bloody cheek. There I was, battered and bruised, and this yokel was more worried about his ruddy carrots.
So I told him to bugger off and get back to his daily chores - to wit, fornicating with his livestock. He looked as if he was going to have apoplexy and I thought it politic to take my leave. Adhering to the sound policy of an eye for an eye, I headed back to the mess for a well-earned eau de vie while I planned my revenge.