by Walt Gragg
The questioning continued for nearly an hour.
When all had been asked and answered, Colonel Morrison turned to Colonel Hoerner.
“What your team’s presented today is extremely interesting. Let us talk among ourselves before we go any further. But I think I can tell you with some degree of certainty that we’ll be passing your idea on to the Pentagon quite soon.”
• • •
General Yovanovich’s plan for the conquest of Germany had been a good one. For the moment, it was very much on schedule. It appeared to all the world that the Russians would seize every inch of German soil in the five days he’d predicted.
He’d surprised the ill-prepared Allies with the fierce winter attack. His deception had worked. He’d hammered their command and control, even if he’d come up short on his promise to completely destroy it. For the most part, his sabotage had succeeded. Now the Russians’ overwhelming power was in the forefront as they continued to push the reeling Allies back.
But his plan had a potentially fatal flaw, one the dashing general had no ability to recognize. He hadn’t accounted for George O’Neill. Or the untold numbers just like him in the American military. He’d failed to identify them and the potential influence they’d have on the war because no one even close to them existed in the rigid, top-down Russian military. No sergeant would have ever had the opportunity O’Neill was given to present such a complex plan to his generals.
As the war continued on its furious journey, the shy sergeant had provided the Americans an opening they could potentially exploit.
The only question remaining was whether or not they’d be bold enough to seize it.
CHAPTER 52
January 31—6:15 a.m. (Eastern Standard Time)
World News Network Studios
Boston
The expression on Bonnie Lloyd’s face never changed as she read from the TelePrompTer. “Repeating our top story this hour. The American aircraft carrier George Washington has been sunk. For more on this story, we take you to WNN’s Pentagon correspondent, Patricia Moore.”
The picture switched to another of the well-known WNN faces standing in her customary position in the foyer of the Pentagon.
“Thanks, Bonnie. Pentagon sources officially announced a few minutes ago that the aircraft carrier George Washington was sunk this morning four hundred miles west of the Azores. From what we’ve gathered, the attack occurred approximately three hours ago as the ship was on the way from its home base in Norfolk, Virginia, to support the American air forces in Germany.”
The screen split to show both women’s faces. “Patricia, have any details been released on what caused the sinking?” Lloyd asked.
“So far, Pentagon officials have provided little concrete information. We do know the George Washington was being supported by a screening force of destroyers and cruisers. WNN has been told unofficially that Russian submarines apparently slipped through the escort squadron and fired up to nine torpedoes. The carrier was struck multiple times.”
“Has the Pentagon given out any casualty figures from the loss of the ship?”
“My sources tell me, Bonnie, that the George Washington was carrying nearly six thousand men and women. Rumors are saying most of the torpedoes hit the ship within seconds of each other. There was extensive damage. The giant ship sank ten minutes after the surprise attack. While exact figures aren’t available, it appears the escorts were able to rescue approximately eight hundred sailors from the dying aircraft carrier. Apparently, the winter seas were quite stormy, and in addition to those killed on board, hundreds of sailors drowned before help could reach them.”
“So,” Bonnie Lloyd said, “what you’re saying is that the number of dead from the sinking of the George Washington is approximately fifty-two hundred?”
“That would be about right, Bonnie.”
“What effect will the loss of the George Washington have on the war? Has the Pentagon said anything about that?”
“Naturally, the Pentagon’s declined to answer such questions. We do believe, however, from what we’ve been told about the general location of our other naval fleets at the beginning of the war, that no other carriers are in a position to come to the aid of the NATO forces for at least another week. That, of course, is purely speculation on the press corps’ part. It’s not something that has been, or is likely to be, confirmed by the military.”
“Thank you, Patricia.”
The screen returned to a single image of Bonnie Lloyd sitting at the anchor desk.
“Repeating this hour’s top story. The American aircraft carrier George Washington has been sunk four hundred miles west of the Azores. Loss of life is put at over five thousand. We’ll have more on this story as further details become available. After these messages, we’ll be back with more late-breaking reports from our correspondents Jim Haney in London and Russell Reese in Frankfurt.”
The image on the screen switched to the picture of the American and Soviet flags clashing, with the words THE BATTLE FOR GERMANY running across the bottom of the screen. The war’s theme music blared.
In a few seconds, the picture changed to a sleepy man in striped pajamas staring into a mirror while holding a bottle of mouthwash.
CHAPTER 53
January 31—5:15 p.m.
217th Mobile Army Surgical Hospital
Stuttgart Army Air Field
The medics lifted Kathy’s stretcher from the ambulance. They carried it toward the rear of the C-17 medevac plane. The early-evening winds kicked up. They blew the blustery night’s first hint of bitterness at the helpless figure wrapped in woolen blankets. The quick winds scattered the low-lying clouds. They revealed a haunting moon, a yellow hue distorting its glow. A handful of twinkling stars were etched on the horizon.
The medical evacuation plane’s jet engines were already running. The C-17 sat on the exact spot her husband’s plane had waited to take on its load of passengers sixty hours earlier. A nurse held Christopher’s hand as the child struggled to walk next to his mother. His stubby legs fought to keep up with the stretcher. Christopher stumbled and fell in the patchy gray snows at the edge of the runway. Tears flowed from his eyes. A wail of protest filled the air. The nurse scooped him up, and, none the worse for wear, the toddler entered the aircraft behind his mother’s stretcher.
The medics moved down the left aisle, past the rows of partially filled positions. They stopped near the front of the plane. The airmen carefully transferred Kathy onto one of the medevac’s permanent positions. The tubes and bottles that accompanied the C-17’s latest passenger were attached to the specially designed fuselage. After a quick check of their efforts, the medics returned to the cold to retrieve their next patient.
The nurse took the reluctant child to one of the passenger seats at the front of the aircraft. She buckled him in. While they waited for the medevac to fill, Christopher turned toward Kathy. Never once did he look away from his mother. The love in his eyes overwhelmed her. Through her pain, a smile filled Kathy’s battered face. Tears of relief soon followed. Huge teardrops flowed. The knowledge that she and her child were taking a giant step out of the nightmare overwhelmed her.
For twenty minutes, ambulances unloaded their human cargo onto the flying hospital. Every stretcher position was filled. Behind them, thousands more, both injured and healthy, waited on the numbing ground for their turn to come.
The rear ramp closed. As the aircraft taxied onto the runway, the nurses and medics made final preparations for the long flight home. Over the suffering around her, Kathy could hear the sound of the revving engines.
The C-17 with the red crosses on its fuselage hurtled down the runway and took to the skies. In eight hours, the medevac would arrive in Dover, Delaware.
• • •
At the same moment, one hundred miles north at Rhein-Main, another aircraft was preparing to leave the g
round. The aging 767 with the giant eagle on its tail and the words EARLY EAGLE AIRLINES beneath the ferocious bird of prey waited for the final handful of passengers to make their way across the tarmac.
In the pilot’s chair, Evan Cooper surveyed the damage on the ground below. The burned remains of the fierce battle two days earlier were evident everywhere he looked.
The war continued to be a financial godsend for Cooper. A broad grin was plastered on his features while he waited for the boarding process to be completed. From his previous combat experiences, however, he understood that war was nothing to be celebrated. And such knowledge tempered his euphoria. Still, he knew that if he could keep the old plane flying for three more days, his financial problems would be over. Three more days of flights to Germany, and he’d be in a position to ask the court to terminate his bankruptcy. Early Eagle Airlines would be his once more. For the first time in a long time, he, not the lawyers, would be deciding how to run his one-plane airline.
Thirty minutes of daydreaming was all it took from touchdown to turnaround. The loading of passengers and luggage, fuel and food, was quickly completed. With 289 women and children and a crew of eight, the dark silhouette of the 767 rushed down the runway. The plane struggled into the western sky.
As the passenger aircraft started its steep ascent, a mile west of the base a Russian parachutist waited with his shoulder-mounted surface-to-air missile at the ready. The Russian private had been cut off from his unit for two days. He’d remained hidden for all that time, waiting for guidance to somehow find him. It had not. Finally, just after sunset of the second day, he suspected the time had come for him to take some kind of action.
He’d no practice at thinking on his own. With no one to tell him what to do, he decided to use his missile to shoot down the next plane to take off from, or attempt to land at, the American base. A few minutes later, the 767 roared down the icy runway.
The blue beret took his time. In the darkness, he couldn’t make out the eagle on the aircraft’s tail. As the plane strained to reach the heavens, the parachutist fired. He’d no idea what he’d fired at, or what cargo it carried. It really didn’t matter much to him.
Evan Cooper spotted the bright flash of the missile as it streaked across the sky. He knew his fate was forever sealed. He’d no chance of saving his passengers or his aircraft. Yet he wasn’t willing to concede the inevitable. He dove the cumbersome plane for the western horizon. It was a hopeless attempt to evade the death that was growing quite near. In the passenger compartment, the steep dive tore loose everything that wasn’t firmly tied down.
Nevertheless, it was all for naught. Cooper watched helplessly as the missile quickly closed. A fiery explosion filled the western sky as the missile hit the right wing’s engine and destroyed it. The wing was severed, followed moments later by the ignition of the aircraft’s fuel. The vivid explosion momentarily illuminated the ever-darkening evening. Pieces of flaming wreckage tumbled to the ground. Not a soul survived.
The Russian soldier melted back into the deep woods to wait for someone with further orders to find him.
The next day, a German mob found him instead.
• • •
George O’Neill, Kathy and Christopher always in the forefront of his anguished mind, asked Colonel Hoerner the same question he’d asked six times today and seventeen times overall. “Any further word on our families, sir?”
“Not yet, O’Neill. We haven’t heard anything more definite out of Patch Barracks. The damage from the Russian raid was apparently quite extensive. And there were a number of casualties. They told me as of this moment, most of the dependents who survived the attack have been evacuated. But that’s all I know for sure.”
• • •
At two on a European morning, seven in the evening in Delaware, the medevac touched down on American soil. The ambulances were waiting. The first pair of soldiers taken from the plane were placed in a black hearse. They were driven to a makeshift morgue at the air base’s recreation center. The eight-hour plane ride had been too much for the critically wounded soldiers.
Kathy and Christopher were among the last to leave the plane. They were placed in an ambulance and driven to the base gymnasium. In the past three days, the gymnasium had been converted into an overflow center for the base hospital.
Fifteen minutes later, the medevac returned to the runway and headed east for its next load of wounded Americans.
Inside the gymnasium, the scene was beyond tumultuous. The overburdened medical staff was doing its best to deal with the tidal wave of injured patients arriving every few minutes at this first stateside stopover. Kathy lay on a stretcher beneath a basketball hoop at the far end of the cavernous gymnasium. Christopher sat wailing at her feet. Hundreds of others were haphazardly strewn about on the wooden floor. In the confusion, she lay unattended for nearly an hour.
At last, one of the doctors, a balding reservist from Tampa with a thriving surgical practice, approached. He looked down at his clipboard.
“Mrs. O’Neill?”
Christopher continued to scream at the top of his lungs.
“Yes.”
“I’m Dr. Zamora. Sorry for the delay. But as you can see, things are a bit hectic. I’ve looked over your chart. Normally, with injuries as extensive as yours, we’d send you straight to the nearest military medical facility. Unfortunately, with the tremendous number of wounded arriving from Europe, every military hospital in the United States is filled to the brim.”
Even the sweet-spirited Kathy was at the end of her rope. Through her pain she said, “What then, Doctor, do you suggest we do?”
“Well, most of the civilian hospitals on the East Coast are also jammed beyond their limits with injured military personnel. For the past two days, many corporations have been donating their private jets to take patients to hospitals near their homes. So what we’ve been doing, when the case is not life-threatening, is letting the patient pick what hospital they want to go to. Once we have that information, we’ve been working out a way to get the patient there. Even though your injuries are quite serious, I believe it would be all right to send you on to a civilian hospital immediately. What I’m here to ask you is, where would you like to go?”
It took Kathy a moment to comprehend the full meaning of what the doctor was saying. Suddenly, a wide smile spread across her face.
“Home! I want to go home.”
“Where would that be?”
“McMichael, Minnesota.”
“Do they have a hospital there?”
“Yes, there’s a small one.”
“Okay, let me see if they’re capable of providing you with adequate care. Then, if they’re willing to take you, I’ll get someone to start working on getting you there. But before I do any of that, the first thing I’m going to do is find someone to take care of your child.”
• • •
A few minutes later, a grandmotherly Red Cross worker arrived. She scooped up the screaming Christopher and disappeared. By the time the doctor would return to Kathy, the now-happy Christopher would’ve eaten every sticky bite of two cherry Popsicles and been an active participant in countless rousing choruses of “Itsy Bitsy Spider.”
Without her child, Kathy lay on the crammed floor in the middle of a sea of suffering. A half hour later, Dr. Zamora walked up with a grin on his face.
“Mrs. O’Neill, I’ve spoken with the doctor in charge of the hospital in McMichael. I relayed your status and condition to him. He says they’re adequately equipped to handle your case, and are more than willing to accept you as a patient. But the really good news is that 3M’s corporate jet will be arriving here in a couple of hours to pick up two neurological cases for the Mayo Clinic. There appears to be room on the 3M jet to send the two of you along with them. As we speak, the doctor in McMichael is arranging to have an ambulance waiting in Rochester, Minnesota, to take
you the rest of the way. You and your child are going home. If all goes well, you should be arriving by sunrise tomorrow.”
Her pain momentarily left her. A smile, so wide that it devoured her, spread across her bandaged features.
Kathy O’Neill was going home. Nevertheless, there were still going to be more long hours to wait, and a final takeoff and landing to make. Aware that she was actually headed home, each passing minute was incredibly slow. But finally, she and Christopher were on their way.
• • •
It was just after sunrise when the Learjet eased up to a private terminal at the Rochester Airport. The plane’s engines stopped, and the door opened. Kathy and Christopher waited while the two critical patients were removed. Then it was their turn.
Kathy’s stretcher was taken from the plane. A huge crowd was waiting. It appeared half the people in her small hometown had made the trip to greet her. From all around, the excitement of the moment fell upon them. Her mother smothered the grandson she’d never seen with hugs and kisses, toys and tears. The bewildered child wailed at the top of his lungs.
They loaded Kathy into a final ambulance for the five-hour drive. The procession headed through the breaking winter morning. Ten miles from the North Dakota border sat her home. The little farming community had been the only place she’d ever known until George O’Neill entered her life. While they drove, ten-foot walls of snow blocked Kathy’s view of the Minnesota countryside she so adored. Many times during this final ride, she looked over at her beaming mother holding her sleeping grandson, and tears filled Kathy’s eyes.
Finally, it was over. The ambulance entered the small town Kathy dearly loved. It eased to a stop in front of the fifteen-bed community hospital. For the next five months, this would be Kathy’s home.
As they wheeled her in, a peace she’d never before known passed over her. Waves of joy swept her away. Uncontrollable tears flowed for hours on a drab Minnesota morning. Three days ago, a Russian MiG had buried her and her child in an unspeakable place. She’d been certain there’d be no reprieve from her man-made tomb. Now, in what seemed to be little more than a heartbeat, she found herself home. Kathy was back in the place she’d loved for all her life. A place full of wonderful memories. A place where she felt safe and secure.
