Final Mission: Zion - A World War 2 Thriller

by Chuck Driskell

  Sal’s eyes searched the table. The notebook…

  Just as Sal slid to the edge of the booth seat to hurry outside, Mama Grinelli, the proprietor and de facto hostess, arthritically shuffled over.

  She was carrying a shiny black briefcase.

  “Detective, your nice friend told me you left this in his car.”

  Sal’s lips parted a split second before the solid-state timer triggered two pounds of Baratol high-explosive. Grinelli’s Trattoria, the four employees (three of whom were named Grinelli,) Detective Sal Kalakis and two people in the pawnshop next door were all killed instantly. Even in the murky weather conditions, the flash from the blast was reportedly seen all the way across the bay in Sal’s hometown of Oakland.

  In an unrelated incident, and drawing little attention from the police due to the shocking death of one of their own, a spinster librarian named Eunice Gregory was found in her apartment several days later, multiple stab wounds in her chest. She had been beaten about the face, and there was also evidence of sexual assault in a deviant fashion. An only child with deceased parents, her funeral was so poorly attended the funeral parlor owner directed some of his employees to act as friends during the brief ceremony.

  The Grinelli’s explosion and the murder of Eunice Gregory were never solved.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  Thomas Lundren sat in A corner office of the POLICE station. The office had been vacated by a detective who had succumbed to a heart attack three months earlier. Resting before Thomas on the desk was the aircraft book. With it were a new map, a piece of yarn, and a sharpened pencil. The legend on the map displayed a distance ruler. Thomas pulled the string taut above the ruler, marking it in increments of one hundred kilometers. He made twenty tick marks, though he didn’t think he would need all of them. He retrieved a green apple from his bag, slicing it as he stared at the aircraft book, the page open to display a color rendering of the De Havilland Hornet Moth.

  Described as a civilian aircraft, suitable for recreational pilots and businessmen, the Hornet Moth was one of the affordable frontrunners in the new age of private aviation. Thomas read downward to the aircraft specifications, searching for the range. It was listed as 1,050 kilometers—maximum. That would represent ten-and-a-half tick marks on his string. He used his thumb to hold the string on London, knowing that might not be where the flight originated, but playing the odds since it was far and away England’s most populous city. Thomas pulled the string taut, finding the tiny dot of Velden on the map. The distance was almost exactly 800 kilometers. While he wasn’t a pilot, Thomas would imagine that the pilot of an aircraft with a maximum range of 1,050 meters would certainly want to refuel no later than 800 kilometers into his tank.

  In his next supposition, Thomas assumed an airplane used a bit more fuel during takeoff than it would while cruising. Because it had endured two takeoffs, he subtracted fifty kilometers from the maximum range, giving the pilot two hundred kilometers to work with upon leaving Velden. Since the air chief in Zorneding had seen the airplane fly over, Thomas held the string on Velden and pulled it directly over Zorneding. His eyes followed it southward, stopping at what would represent the Hornet Moth’s 1,000 kilometer range. The termination point was almost directly between the towns of Hausham and Miesbach—closer to Miesbach—just north of the political border with Austria.

  And very close to the base of the Alps.

  Using the pencil, Thomas circled Miesbach before standing and taking large bites of the sliced apple. As he chewed the delightfully tart fruit, he stood beside the window and stared out into the bright day, his gaze facing south. Somewhere, perhaps near Miesbach, the mysterious pilot had come back to earth.

  Now all Thomas had to do was find him.

  ~~~

  Montauk Army Air Corps Base’s pilot lounge was small but comfortable. Girlie magazines were strewn about, mixed in with assorted newspapers and magazines such as Popular Mechanics. Preston Lord focused only on the girlie magazines—not because he was horny, but because he didn’t want his mind occupied with anything more complicated than a picture. He’d taken the mother of all ass-chewings from Director Mayfield after informing him that he’d “cleaned up” the situation in San Francisco by “discharging the root of the problem.” Mayfield had spewed like Krakatoa. Lord was unfazed—ass-chewings were nothing new to him.

  He enjoyed cinnamon chewing gum, smacking it loudly as he sat on the sofa, lifting his eyes to the window. Since he’d been here, the sky had turned from sable to indigo; indigo to pink; pink to auburn; and finally, several hours before, auburn to baby blue. It was now nearly mid-morning, and just as he was about to find a phone to call Director Mayfield to ask where the hell his transportation was, he watched as a shiny silver Martin B-10 bomber glided in from the south, its wheels touching the ground with puffs of white smoke and a bark he couldn’t hear through the thick glass. The airplane slowed, taxiing over several adjacent taxiways before stopping on the large tarmac just outside of the pilot’s lounge.

  Lord stood at the window watching as clumps of airmen and soldiers, unused to seeing this particular type of aircraft at Montauk, gathered at the fence line on the far side of the tarmac. Per Lord’s rigid instructions, posted guards kept them at bay. After the aircraft’s engines were silent, Lord opened the door, motioning the exiting crew of three to the pilot’s lounge. When they reached him, he was staring at a major, a first lieutenant and a buck sergeant. Lord pointed at the major, an intelligent-looking fellow who stood about five-feet-seven in height.

  “Major, I only want to talk to you. Tell your men to go find a cup of coffee somewhere else.”

  The major stopped, placing his hands on his hips and frowning. He wore a bomber jacket and, underneath it, the summer tans of an Army Air Corps officer. “I don’t know who you are, pal. And I take my orders from officers, light colonel and above.” His voice grew in tone and edginess as he spoke, and his eyes moved up and down Lord, no doubt drinking in the civilian clothes and Lord’s youthful appearance. “So unless you’ve got some silver oak leaves in your pocket, I’ll send my men wherever I want to send them, whenever I want to send them.”

  There’s a bit of a Napoleon complex at play here, Lord thought with an inward smile. If he had the time to find Montauk’s degenerates, Lord would lay five-to-one odds that the major drove a very large automobile. Unfortunately, though, there was no time. He pointed a rigid finger at the lieutenant and sergeant. “You two stay there.” He motioned the pilot inside, removing the order from inside his coat. After unfolding it, he smacked it into the major’s hand.

  “Read.”

  The major pushed his garrison cap backward as he read, his eyes darting back and forth until he reached the line which Lord knew would draw a reaction. With alarm, the major looked up at Lord. “Are you crazy?”

  Lord snatched the letter back from him. “Yes, I am. Now tell them to piss off. This is a job of the highest national security. I have complete authority. I’m briefing only you.” Lord pushed the door open, hitching his head to the major.

  Ten minutes later, the pilot sat opposite Lord, three maps spread out on the table before them. The major—his name was Clayton Paige, from Montana—leaned his head into his right hand, a cigarette perched in the same hand above his mussed brown hair. He appeared perplexed.

  “What if the wind isn’t right? The water legs will be stretching her range to the max.”

  “Then I guess we’ll swim or die,” Lord said without inflection. “But it’s almost September. The eastbound winds should be picking up.”

  “Barely,” the major grumbled. “This is a hare-brained scheme if I ever heard one. And there’s a regular route that’s already all laid out for Trans-Atlantic flight.”

  “I don’t want the regular route—it’s too long,” Lord replied. “We fly my route.”

  The major snatched the far map. “Where will we land in England?”

  Lord touched the map, west of London. “Oatlands Hill, right
in the middle of bloody nowhere. They’ll be expecting us. It’s a bit more than four thousand miles, and we should average two hundred miles per hour groundspeed. With four quick stops we—”

  “Quick stops?” Paige bawled. “That dog won’t hunt.”

  “Damn right, quick. Land. Refuel. Go.”

  “We’ll need maintenance. We’ll need time to rest. Get food. And we may not have the parts we need in the event—”

  “Negative. As long as that scrap-heap still flies, we keep moving.”

  Major Paige grew quiet and stared at Lord.

  “So, twenty hours of flight time, and half-hour stops in Nova Scotia, Greenland, Iceland and then, if we can make it all the way, terminating at Oatlands.” Lord placed both palms flat on the map of the United Kingdom and looked up. “Well?”

  Major Paige sucked on the last of his cigarette. He shook his head. “Insane. Absurd. Illogical. Ridiculous. If I were stupid enough to try this, I’d need to remove every single non-essential item to make us light.” He stared out the window at his airplane, looking like he was working the numbers in his mind. Finally he nodded, turning back to Lord. “With some luck…serious luck…we might make it as long as nothing breaks.”

  Lord smiled thinly. “They’re topping her off to the brim. I’ve had food and coffee placed aboard. I want to leave in fifteen minutes.”

  Paige shook his head. “That’s way too soon. Need to brief my guys on the mission, get their thoughts, and take our time as we strip the excess gear.”

  Lord held his hand on the pilot’s shoulder to prevent him from standing. “Your crew…that’s three hundred and fifty, maybe four hundred pounds we’ll be saving.”

  “What is?”

  “Your crew.”

  Paige’s brow dropped. “Come again?”

  “They’re staying here, getting a four-day furlough. They’ve already been whisked away, and will never, and I mean never, hear a word of this.”

  Paige wasn’t breathing. His only bodily action for a period of twenty seconds was to blink twice. “You mean to tell me, you’re wanting me to fly this without my crew?” His voice climbed to a yell as he spoke. “That’s impossible!”

  Lord’s fake smile returned. “I can take the helm every now and then. Come on now, don’t act like it’s brain surgery or something. I’ll simply hold the steering wheel, or stick…or whatever the hell it is… steady while you grab a bite or piss out the window.” He stood and threw a ten-dollar bill at Paige. “Use the head if you need to. And there’re cigarettes and other junk down at the canteen. We leave in fifteen, and if you breathe a word of this to anyone, I will have you shot—today—right here and now—for treason.”

  Major Clayton Paige picked up his garrison cap, molding it with his hands. “Let me see those orders again.” He read them. Finally, with a resigned nod he walked into the hallway from the lounge’s other door, disappearing in the direction of the canteen.

  Twenty-three minutes later, leaving a thrift sale of heavy aircraft parts and equipment scattered on the tarmac, the fuel-laden, stripped-down Martin B-10 lumbered into the sky, its engines sipping fuel as Captain Paige applied only the power necessary to gradually climb away from Montauk.

  ~~~

  As it turned out, twenty hours was an optimistic projection. Just before reaching the northwest coast of Iceland, the oil pressure on the starboard engine had dropped, indicated by the gauge and evidenced by the streaks of black on the cowling and wing. Fortunately for Preston Lord and Major Paige, they were enjoying favorable winds and didn’t have far to go. With sweaty palms and a stub of a soaked Swisher Sweet clenched in his mouth, the major was able to baby the Martin onto the rumble-strip temporary airfield at Keflavik Naval Base.

  Lord, wearing a captain’s uniform, instructed Paige to keep his mouth shut if anyone were to ask him anything and, as it turned out, the only talking either of them had to do was with the maintenance supervisor. The oil line hadn’t ruptured, but a small return line had simply disappeared altogether. The supervisor, a Navy master chief, insisted that they ground the aircraft. But after some of Lord’s special monetary palm grease, and a story about two loose dames waiting on them in an English burg known as Barnard’s Castle, the chief studied the other engine’s return line. He disappeared on a battered BSA motorcycle, arriving back an hour later with an adequate handmade replacement.

  They had already been several hours behind schedule when they landed in Iceland, following longer than expected stops on Nova Scotia and Greenland. Thus, by the time they were flying again, they were a grand total of five hours behind schedule. The last leg of the flight had been without drama until Major Paige began tapping the two fuel gauges, somewhere over the pastoral fields of central Britain. “Gettin’ too low to press on. My map’s showing another hundred miles and change. That’s gonna be way too close to nut-cuttin’ time. We have to put down for gas.”

  Lord was sitting in the co-pilot’s seat, chewing his cinnamon gum and reading a Civil War book that compared the tactics of both sides. He didn’t look up when he spoke. “Negative. This is nut-cutting time. We keep going. We press on to Oatlands Hill.”

  Paige bumped the yoke, making the aircraft shudder. “Look, pal, I don’t give a shit what that sheet of toilet paper in your pocket says. Friggin’ Roosevelt could have his wide ass in that same seat and I’d tell him the same damned thing. This is my bird. I’m signed for her, down to the last dink bolt, and I’m tellin’ you we’ll be lucky if we make it eighty more miles.” He jerked the map off the center console and scanned it. “In other words, when we’re up here in the atmosphere, what I say goes. And I say we’re comin’ down at the first airfield near this current heading.”

  Lord folded the page and closed the book. He lifted the flask from its perch behind the landing gear lever and swigged it, offering it to the major who refused. Then Lord said, “Major, this job that you’re pulling for me goes so deep into the bowels of our national security that the president would finally…and thankfully…keel over if he were to know anything about it.”

  Obviously ignoring Lord, Paige stabbed the waxy map. “Bromyard will work. Only about twenty more miles, which, at our groundspeed…” he squinted, calculating, “oughta be about seven or eight minutes.” He lifted up out of the seat, scanning the horizon under the high gray cloud cover before aiming a finger at their eleven o’clock. “And there it is.” He turned to Lord. “Sorry pal, but I gotta put her down there and get some juice. We’ll be back up in fifteen minutes.”

  Lord removed a sleek black Beretta 1923 pistol from the bag at his feet. He slid the chamber open halfway, making sure that nine-millimeter short round was indeed seated. It was. He lifted the pistol, aiming it at the major’s forehead.

  Major Paige grinned straight into the barrel’s menacing eye. He pulled the sticky, unlit cigar from his mouth. “You ain’t gonna shoot me no more than I’m gonna crawl out on the wing and start pissin’ the gasoline we need.”

  “I’d like you to maintain heading and altitude, and listen to me.”

  “You got two minutes ‘fore I put the gear down and descend. And while they’re fueling us, you and me’s gonna have us another type’a conversation…a real man’s conversation.”

  Lord lowered the pistol to his knee, keeping it aimed at the Army flyer. “We cannot put down anywhere other than Oatlands because of the extreme secret nature of our mission. Once we land, at Oatlands, there will be an escort awaiting us. They will take you away and debrief you, post haste.”

  “You mean, assumin’ we make it there.”

  “Yes. That is an assumption,” Lord answered, he continued to aim the pistol while he swigged from the flask. “But no one can know that we’re here. Do you hear me? No one. While England might be our ally, I cannot have her airmen seeing us land anyplace where we’re not expected.”

  “There’s U.S. bombers all over the place right now. Why would we be any different?”

  Lord closed his eyes and massaged the bri
dge of his pointy nose with the fingers of his free hand. “Trust me, they would know.”

  “What if someone on the ground sees us flying right at this very moment?”

  “I’m not concerned about that. I am concerned over where we land.”

  “So why all this secrecy? What’s the hurry?”

  “Mine is a suicide mission, some might say.”

  “It’s gonna be a suicide mission if we don’t start pickin’ up a twenty knot tailwind, mister.”

  Lord didn’t respond.

  Paige glanced again at the airport before turning his head slowly back to Lord. The silence seemed to get to him. “What kinda suicide mission?”

  “Tomorrow, major, I’m to oversee the assassination of Prime Minister Neville Chamberlain.”

  Major Paige seesawed the yoke three times, making the aircraft porpoise violently. He twisted his face into an incredulous mask. “You’re gonna do what?”

  Lord removed his finger from the trigger, resting it on the trigger guard. “You heard me, and it has to happen tomorrow morning. He’s prepared to make a deal with Germany, with Hitler, that will effectively give the Nazis carte blanche into the remainder of continental Europe, and that’s something we cannot have.”

  The gray airstrip at Bromyard disappeared underneath the left wing. Major Clayton Paige seemed to be having trouble swallowing. He motioned for the flask of Irish whiskey, turning it up for so long that Lord could hear the air bubbles rushing inside.

  Paige wiped his mouth with his sleeve and told Lord to take the yoke. “Hold her nice and steady. Any movement will bleed speed.”

  “Like that stunt you just pulled,” Lord muttered, still holding the Beretta in his right hand and taking the yoke in his left.

  Paige flattened the map on his knees and jerked a flat instrument from his pocket. After measuring the distance and peering out of the side window several times, he pronounced the airfield at Oatlands Hill to be seventy miles away. “And we’re running at about forty-five hundred feet AGL. If we conk out, I’ll have to put her down on a road—or a field, if we’re lucky.” His voice fell low as he talked to himself. “If we can hold this altitude…and with us being so light our glidepath’ll be about eight to one…theoretically, in no wind, we could glide the last six, seven, maybe even eight miles if I feather her along just right.”