by Daniel Wyatt
“Don’t quit,” she said. “Didn’t you know Intelligence is a dirty business? Did you think it was going to be easy and straight-forward, play by the rules?”
“No. I guess not.”
“Your background before coming to Britain was the side of intelligence as seen through the eyes of a neutral power. You worked on the Japanese code. The United States is not at war with the Japs or with Hitler. We are. With Hitler. It’s a different world here. Churchill has to do what’s right for the majority of us. He did it with the Hess case, Coventry, and Flight 725. You’ll see the difference if your country gets into the fight. You won’t like some of the decisions made at higher levels in Washington.” She poked him in the side. “Besides, your President knows how it is. Believe me.”
“Sounds like you know something I don’t?”
“I know a lot that you don’t. What I’m about to tell you is Most-Most Secret, if there is such a thing. If there isn’t, there should be. Lampert will have my head if he finds out I told you.”
“You kept a secret for me, so it’s about time I returned the compliment.”
“Only until the end of the year, remember?”
“Yeah, I remember,” Hollinger said.
“There’s a park up ahead. Let’s take a turn through it, shall we?”
They didn’t exchange a word for a few minutes. A block later, they were strolling through the park’s winding paths, surrounded by bushes.
“You’re familiar with Emelia Earhart?” she began, pulling her hand out of his coat.
“Me and half the world.”
“Did you know she was spying for the American government?”
He stopped, abruptly. “Spying!”
“Earhart and her navigator. What was his name?” She prodded him along until they picked up the pace once more.
“Noonan.”
“Yes, Fred Noonan. The government used her round-the-world flight as a cover for her to photograph Japanese military installations in the Pacific.”
“Says who?”
“Two months ago,” Langford continued. “With my clearance to the MI-6 file room, I stumbled on the paperwork.”
“Accidentally on purpose?”
“No. It was a real accident. Anyway,” she continued, “an MI-6 agent in the Orient caught wind of the story from a woman in Hong Kong who had escaped from a work camp, a Japanese seaplane base on the island of Saipan. She claimed she saw a woman fitting Earhart’s description in Japanese custody there. And she claimed her aircraft was shot down within sight of Saipan. Earhart left the island in Japanese hands. Alive. Noonan was beheaded. Whether she’s still alive is only speculation. Probably not.”
“Yeah, but how do you know Earhart was spying?”
“The woman said the Japanese found aerial-photo cameras aboard her aircraft.”
“Does my government know what happened to her?” Hollinger asked.
“Bloody right they do. The full details. The MI-6 agent took the information to the American Embassy at Hong Kong. And from there it went all the way to the top. Washington. The White House.”
“The President?”
“’Fraid so.”
“All hush-hush, huh?”
“Oh, yes. Quite.”
“So, what’s the point?”
Langford stopped him with a tug on his arm. “To quote someone I know, ‘for a smart person, you don’t know a snitch’.”
“Huh?”
“Figure it out! Your President Roosevelt knew she went down inside Japanese territory but couldn’t rescue her or demand her return. If he tried to rescue her, he could have started a war with Japan. In 1937 your country was not ready for war.”
“I guess you’re right. We weren’t ready. Not by any stretch. Some say we still aren’t.”
“If he demanded her back, then he would be admitting she was spying. Now, doesn’t this situation remind you of Coventry or Flight 725?”
Hollinger realized there seemed to be some merit in what she was saying. “OK, I follow. It’s tough at the top, even for Iron Asses.”
“Remember, Wesley, keep the information to yourself.”
“Wild horses couldn’t drag it from me.”
“Now, back to you. Don’t quit. Your country needs people like you. Your COI is just starting up. This is your training. Kind of like a scout for the rest. You’re being groomed for something bigger. I can feel it.”
“You think so?”
She nodded, squeezing his arm. “Welcome to the real thick-skin world of intelligence.”
“We’re drones.”
They stopped walking.
“Robbie,” he said.
“Yes.”
“I still don’t like it. Twenty people heading to their deaths.”
“But think of the bigger picture.”
“Yeah, I guess.”
She took in his stare without a blink. She liked what she saw. He had wonderful, mysterious eyes. “Cheer up. You’ll get used to it.”
“Will I?”
“Yawohl.”
“Robbie?”
“Yes, Wesley?”
“I still...”
“What?”
“Forget it. We both have work to do.”
She smiled at him, until he looked away.
“One other thing, Wesley?”
“Yeah?”
“You shouldn’t have called the Big Guy a son-of-a-bitch in front of Lampert.”
“No?”
She shook her head. “No.”
Grinning, he said, “Yeah, you’re right. Maybe I should have called him a prick.”
“Forget it.”
SEVENTEEN
Over the Atlantic
Sims glanced through the square window at the solid mass of peaceful blue ocean, then turned to his companion, sleeping beside him. Harris was slouched in her seat, her head bent at an odd angle to her right, her hat covering her face down to her nose. She was a good-looking woman in her brown jacket, matching skirt, and long legs under clear nylons.
Suddenly, she opened her eyes and sat up. “I guess I fell asleep.’’
“I guess you did.”
She glanced at her watch. She had been out for over an hour. “Did I snore?”
“No,” he laughed.
Her eyes went to the window. The sky was bright. She blinked once. Twice. A glare caught her eye and she pointed. “Look.”
He saw them too. “I say, company’s dropping in.”
The cabin came alive, as other passengers saw the five twin-engine fighters in a V-formation, five hundred yards off starboard. They were on a parallel course with the airliner, the sun reflecting off two canopies. It wasn’t until they came within one hundred feet that the passengers saw the stencilled fuselage numbers, the crosses, the blue-grey paint scheme, and two men per aircraft.
“Germans!” Harris uttered.
“Yes, my dear. Germans in ME-110’s,” Sims said. “Just coming for a little look-see. Checking us out. Everything’s under control. We call it diplomatic immunity.”
“Oh, yeah. I call it scared shitless!”
* * * *
Von Reiden pressed his R/T. He saw the passengers in the windows. “STAFFLE LEADER TO RED FLIGHT. A-GBLL. FOLLOW ME. BREAK STARBOARD. NOW.”
Then he led the way, the first to bank right.
* * * *
“See. What did I tell you? They’re turning away,” Sims said, watching the ME-110’s peel off. “They won’t give us any ruddy trouble.”
Harris leaned back in her seat. “Thank God for that.”
* * * *
Von Reiden looked over his left shoulder to see his flight forming up, keeping pace with him. His plan was to come out of the sun in a dive, and shoot the DC-3 in the back. Like the Polish Front in 1939. As a BF-110 expert, he knew the machine’s capabilities. She was no dogfighter. The Battle of Britain proved that. The Spitfires and Hurricanes could fly circles around her. She had limited manoeuvrability at medium and high speeds. Bu
t she could take a tight turn when need be. And she could dive like a screaming eagle.
He banked in a tight starboard turn, nose up slightly, climbing, careful not to stall his fighter. He watched his altimeter dial ... 6,000 feet ... 7,000 ... 8,000...
“STAFFEL LEADER TO RED FLIGHT. OXYGEN ON.”
Von Reiden flipped his mask in place. At 10,000 feet, he finished the bank, levelled out, and throttled back, the sun behind him. The DC-3 was a speck in the distance. He found it unnatural. It was a serene day, across the firmament, making it hard to believe they were in the midst of a war.
“STAFFEL LEADER TO RED FLIGHT. GUNS READY. FIRE AT WILL ON MY SIGNAL. RED TWO AND RED THREE BREAK STARBOARD WITH ME. RED FOUR AND RED FIVE BREAK PORT. DO YOU READ RED FLIGHT?”
“RED TWO, CONFIRM.”
“RED THREE, UNDERSTOOD STAFFEL LEADER.”
“RED FOUR, UNDERSTOOD.”
“RED FIVE. I READ YOU, STAFFEL LEADER.”
Von Reiden pushed the control column forward and advanced the throttles. The speed quickly built up. The slipstream whistled over the canopy, blending into a shrill. His right thumb went up the control column to the firing button. Connected to the button was the live ammunition of four nose-mounted 7.92mm machine guns. A few more seconds. It would be a turkey shoot. The DC-3 loomed up ahead, larger by the second in the reflector sight. Within firing range. Six hundred yards and closing, his aim was trained on the target.
“FIRE AT WILL!” he belted into the R/T.
He pressed the button ... The noise was thunder to his ears and the cockpit filled with the stench of burnt cordite.
* * * *
Windows shattered and glass splintered along the length of the plane. Sims threw himself over Harris, hurling both of them to the deck.
“No ruddy trouble, eh?” Harris reminded Sims.
“Stay down!” Sims scrambled to the now-punctured window beside him. The starboard engine was on fire. This wasn’t supposed to happen. What the hell was going on! The Germans had never attacked a passenger airplane out here.
“Here they come again!” someone shouted.
A second salvo of bullets — a longer burst — riddled the aircraft, one shell stabbing Sims in the arm. He collapsed to the seat, then to the deck.
* * * *
In the cockpit, the BOAC pilot was desperate to pull the aircraft out of the dive. The wind was roaring through the cabin from a gaping hole flapping next to his bloody, unconscious co-pilot. The pilot cut the power to the starboard engine and feathered the prop. The flame extinguished itself. The port engine was leaking oil, sputtering, faltering, trailing black smoke. But it was still running. Just. How could this be? Why had the Germans opened fire?
“McMillian?” he yelled to his terrified wireless operator.
“Yes, sir!”
“Send an SOS to Whitchurch!”
“Yes, sir!”
* * * *
In a glide, nose up, the DC-3 struck the water flatly, flinging the passengers across the deck. Harris and Sims found themselves three seats up the aisle. The cabin quickly began to fill with water.
Harris tried not to panic. Think clearly, girl. With the chilling salt water at her knees, she removed her jacket and wrapped it around her arm. She stepped over two bodies. Then she broke and cleared the rest of the glass in the nearest window. Salt water was pouring into the cabin. The airliner was sinking fast. She grabbed the injured Sims and helped him to the opening, oblivious to her own danger.
“Can you swim?”
“A bit,” he sputtered.
“Good enough. Kick off your shoes.”
He did just that.
“Heave ho.”
They both took a deep breath.
With the water over their heads now, she pushed him through the window with all her might, then followed to get free, labouring, kicking her feet, jostling furiously to the surface outside.
She popped up in the sunshine, breathless and squinting. Only four people — so far — had escaped the plane. Sims, and two other men. The smell of gas and oil pinched her nostrils. Debris bobbing everywhere. She heard engine noises. Shivering and treading water, she turned, looked up, flipping her long, wet hair to one side of her face. The German fighters broke away and were swooping down at them. They were close enough for her to see the black crosses and swastikas. Two. Low. A few feet above the water.
Bang-bang-bang...
Sims tried to say something, but his words vanished into the engine and gun racket. She saw the red blinks ... and the line of strafing bullets peppering the water. Closer ... closer ... the bubbling spouts sped towards her.
Plunk-plunk-plunk-plunk...
There was no protection, except to...
“Dive, everybody! Dive!” she yelled.
She kicked and dove headfirst for the safety of the fuselage.
She waited several seconds, her lungs feeling the pressure. When she returned to the surface, she saw Sims floating in the middle of an oil slick. Gasping, she swam for him and shook him. “Ken!”
It was no use. The top of the agent’s head had been blown clear off. Blood and pieces of her friend’s brain — the thickness and colour of thick porridge — covered his matted hair. His nerves twitched, the last spasms of life in him.
She vomited.
Pulling herself together, she glanced around for the other two. They were floating a short distance away, riding the swells. Blood covered them both. She swam to the nearest one. She felt his wrist for a pulse. Nothing. She swam for the other. No pulse there either. Was she the only one left alive? She saw that the wing had separated itself from the fuselage. Only the top few inches of the main portion of the DC-3 were left above the water line. Soon, the wing would be all that was left afloat. What was keeping the wing up? An air pocket inside? Then she heard the clatter behind her.
Bang-bang-bang. Bang-bang-bang...
Shivering, she swung her body around. Two fighters were skimming the water. Two more were winding out of violent dives, following the first two, lining up for another attack. One more, by itself, in the distance, banking.
Not again.
They had spotted her! How badly did these Nazi bastards want every passenger dead? It was as if they had kicked open an ant hill and were trying to stamp out every last ant. She dove under water for the wing, forty feet away. She kicked, she fluttered. A few feet short of her destination, she felt a terrible sting in her right thigh. She had taken a shell. Still underwater, she lunged her way to the wing, slipping in beside it. She poked her head up, hanging onto the side, catching her breath. One chunk of wing poked slightly out of the water, and she tucked under it for safety.
Bang-bang-bang. Bang-bang-bang...
If they hit the wing she knew it would go up in flames. Or sink. Or both. The second line of fighters roared directly over, guns pounding in short bursts. Oh, God, please don’t let a bullet hit the tank.
For a time, all Harris could hear were the fighters’ engines in the distance. They banked — all five — and made another pass. Very low. Only mere feet off the water. This time they didn’t shoot. The engine noise carried across the water and faded to a distant buzz. Then all was quiet. At last, they were gone. Thank God. She was spared. They didn’t see her. Or else they would have fired.
She struggled to haul herself from the water, falling onto the wing face down. She spread her arms out, breathing strenuously. The wing was warm from the sun, but she shivered uncontrollably. An oppressive taste of salt hung in her mouth. She tried to spit it out. Once. Twice. It was no use. It was there to stay. In every direction — nothing but miles of open water. She saw blood on her right arm. Her right thigh was aching. The sea water in her cuts hurt something awful. Her whole body was numb. She lay there, allowing the lashing swells to rock her. Airsickness was bad enough. Now she was getting seasick.
Where was she?
She tried to keep her head up, to look for land. Land, hell. What were the chances? Didn’t Sims say they were
at least a hundred miles from shore? Nazi shore, too.
What was that about ... diplomatic immunity?
* * * *
MI-6 Headquarters
Lampert jotted the information on a pad of paper. “Thank you.”
He sadly put the telephone receiver down and stared at Langford, who had just arrived with some Enigma intercepts from the Russian Front. “It’s done,” he said, grimly, looking down at his sheet.
“What, sir?” she asked, although she already knew the answer.
“Whitchurch received a Morse Code signal from BOAC Flight 725. Quote — WE’RE BEING ATTACKED BY ENEMY AIRCRAFT. ONE ENGINE ON FIRE. LOSING ALTITUDE. The transmission went out before they could give a position.”
“It’s over?”
“Appears so.”
“What do we do now?” she asked coldly.
He folded his arms. “Send an air-sea rescue to see if anything or anybody’s left.” He sighed. “It’s time like this that makes me want to retire early.”
* * * *
Near Nantes
A bad phone line from Berlin crackled in his ear.
“Major Jodel?”
“Yes. Who is this, please?”
“Was the mission successful?”
“I said, who is this?”
“Berlin. Let’s just say I’m an associate of your friend in Portugal.”
The major felt a lump in his throat. It had to be Himmler. “Yes. It was successful. There was no evidence. Is that satisfactory enough?”
“Excellent.”
“I hope you will sleep well tonight, whoever you are.”
“A most unfortunate incident. Nevertheless, I will sleep well. Goodbye Major Jodel.”
* * * *
Atlantic Ocean
The cockpit, the flight engineer post, and the navigator compartment were wide and roomy. Astern lay two double-decker bunks, an electric hot plate, a sufficiently-stocked food locker, a mound of modern medical supplies, and extra blankets for the crew’s air-sea rescue work. She was a self-contained aircraft. She was the long-range PBY.
After several long hours the air-sea rescue crew of the Royal Air Force PBY Flying Boat were ready to verify their position and set a course home to England. Today, it appeared they had come up empty-handed. Once-keen and intense eyes were now tired. Under four-tenths cloud at ten thousand feet, they had patrolled in north-to-south strips, starting from the west. There was a lot of sea, nothing else. No Kraut U-Boats either. The sun was sinking and they were too close to France — Nazi territory. The navigator got his fix, entered it in his log, and gave it to the pilot over the intercom.
