Winds of Change (Empires Lost Book 2)

by Charles S. Jackson

  An hour later, as a well-fed and slightly inebriated Jack Davies wandered off to his room for a well-earned sleep, the other three remained behind and discussed the preceding talks while waiters cleared away the table.

  “So, what do you boys think?” Donovan ventured seriously, switching his gaze between the two.

  “He’s no intelligence man,” Dulles replied after a moment’s thought, “but he seems pretty sharp all the same… direct and honest.”

  “No doubt Thorne or Donelson would be better subjects for interrogation,” Bruce added with a shrug, “but there wasn’t a snowball’s chance in hell of getting access to either of them anytime soon.”

  “I wouldn’t rate the chances of getting much of any use out of either of them anyway,” Dulles observed with a grimace. “Donelson’s never supplied any information directly that we’re aware of, and we’re all aware of how difficult Thorne’s been to deal with on occasion. Sure, he’s more than happy to offer up new designs to American companies for building under licence – at exorbitant rates, for the most part – but he belongs to the Brits and we’d do well to remember that in dealing with Hindsight generally.” He paused for a moment, before adding: “Davies, on the other hand, is a good American boy, and that can count for a lot. We need to keep a good dialogue open with the colonel: I suspect he’ll come in very useful over the next few years.”

  “Couldn’t have put it better myself,” Donovan agreed emphatically, and his expression turned serious once more. “And on the subject of Lowenstein…?”

  “He knows nothing,” Dulles replied instantly as Bruce nodded silently. “That seemed pretty clear… and if he knows nothing, I’m willing to bet the farm on the rest of Hindsight being none the wiser either.”

  “That’s not going to last, thanks to this Goddamned Kransky fellow,” Bruce commented sourly. A hint of suspicion crept into his expression. “Are you certain they don’t know about this Lowenstein?”

  “As certain as I can be of anything in this business,” Donovan answered with a shrug of his own. “If Thorne knew the Krauts had been keeping that damned Jew under lock and key all this time, you think he wouldn’t have done something about getting the bastard out before now? And if Thorne did know, I promise you Davies would know about it too: you can take that to the bank!” He shook his head, dismissing the idea outright. “I know how to read a man, and Jack Davies was telling us the God’s honest truth sitting here at this table tonight. Hindsight definitely does not know about Lowenstein.”

  “If they’re not aware of the man’s existence,” Bruce shot back, hand outstretched in mild frustration, “then why the hell are Richard Kransky, the IRA and the British Resistance all putting so much Goddamned effort into getting the son-of-a-bitch out?”

  “Well, that is something we don’t know… yet… but I intend to find out.” Donovan raised to his lips the glass of Kentucky bourbon he’d nursed quietly all evening.”

  “And what about ARKANSAS LIME…? They’re set to attempt a crossing tomorrow night,” Dulles ventured softly, speaking for both himself and Bruce.

  “That’s why I wanted this little chat with Colonel Davies first; just to put any misgivings to rest,” Donovan replied levelly, barely raising an eyebrow. “Everything’s in place now and all that’s needed is to send the correct code word.” He made a show of removing a pocket watch from the inside of his jacket and checking the time. “Four in the morning in Dublin and we’ve got priority time booked with the transatlantic telegraph in two hours: your boys over there can deliver a message to Hayes’ door before breakfast… no problem at all.”

  “Hindsight’s not going to like us treading on their toes…” Dulles observed, not particularly concerned by the concept but throwing the idea out there anyway. “The Brits aren’t gonna like it much, either.”

  “We’re not in this war for the benefit of Max Thorne or his Goddamned Hindsight Unit,” Wild Bill countered with a dry smirk, “and the British Government won’t make too much of a ruckus so long as our factories keep churning out all those tanks and planes for ‘em. There’s no reason for anyone to find out about any of this anyway, so long as everything goes to plan. The IRA can give us what we want, and we can help them with somethin’ they want… simple as that…”

  “If that Kransky knows, he’ll blow the whistle the first chance he gets,” Dulles shook his head, seriously negative about the mission at hand for the first time. “I’ve seen his type before: never let practical considerations get in the way of ‘pie-in-the-sky’ idealistic principles. He sees himself as a warrior… a man of honour... what the Japs would probably call a Samurai.”

  “We need Lowenstein in our camp, and damned sure he’ll disappear completely if Hindsight get hold of the son-of-a-bitch first. We’ll just have to explain to Kransky that he’s an American ‘samurai’… appeal to the ‘patriot within’… and…” Donovan added finally, hardness creeping into his cold tone as he placed the glass down on the table once more “…they have to make it across the border first before we need to worry about any of that: ‘be a damn shame if something was to happen to that boy along the way.” That he was referring to the life of an American citizen seemed of little consequence by comparison to the potential benefits to be gained by access to Samuel Lowenstein.

  “I’ll call Washington and have them send the signal,” Dulles announced after a moment’s silence, the trio rising from their chairs almost simultaneously. Not one of them gave any thought to the death warrant they all believed they’d just ‘signed’ against a fellow American. “You keep an eye on that Davies, Bill: I believe you might be right: he could be a useful man to have in our camp.”

  “I intend to,” replied William Joseph ‘Wild Bill’ Donovan, head of the United States’ Office of Strategic Services. “I definitely intend to do exactly that.”

  USAAF 3rd Bombardment Group

  RAAF Tocumwal, New South Wales, Australia

  The US Forces’ OR’s barracks were a set of long, low, single-storey weatherboard structures near the southern end of the base. As Eddie sat on his bottom bunk and stared out through the open window, he could see the perimeter fence just a few dozen metres away, stretching off into the distance on either side. On the opposite side of that fence ran the Tocumwal-Barooga Road (he still laughed inwardly at the dumb names Australians gave so many things), and beyond that lay the heavily-forested bushland that bordered either side of the mighty Murray River on its journey west between the states of Victoria and New South Wales.

  It was mid-morning and the sun was high and bright in a clear, cloudless blue sky. Temperature was expected to reach the nineties at least before the day was out (well into the high thirties in centigrade), and already there was the hint of heat mirage wavering above the open ground between the buildings and the fence line.

  The barracks was suddenly shaken violently by the roar of powerful engines overhead that arrived without warning and faded almost as quickly. For a moment or two the dark shadow of a passing aircraft – a large one by all accounts – blotted out the sunlight streaming through the open windows. Eddie paid it little heed. As a training establishment, the base was usually extremely active and although he couldn’t see the actual aircraft in question from where he was seated, the sound alone was enough to suggest it was one of the USAAF’s huge B-17Fs, the Flying Fortress being the Americans’ premier heavy bomber currently in service.

  Aircraft didn’t interest Eddie in the slightest however. As he sat staring out through that open window at the even less-interesting Australian landscape beyond the glass, the only two subjects that filled his every waking thoughts were, for almost diametrically-opposed reasons, Phillip Brandis and Briony Morris. Even as he shifted position slightly on the bed, pain flared through his torso from the cracked ribs that lay beneath his uniform shirt, bound tightly as they were by swathes of bandages.

  A livid, purple bruise above his right temple, right below the hairline, surrounded a jagged, angry scar that still ca
rried a dozen stitches. A similarly-coloured bruise inside his thigh that was far too close to his groin for his own liking also made going to the bathroom or any kind of major activity a painful chore if it involved the use of his legs.

  As a result of his injuries he’d been placed on light duties until he’d recovered sufficiently to resume his regular place within his unit. As they were all currently out on exercise and spread across the nearby countryside, that in reality meant sitting around most of the day with nothing to do, which suited Eddie just fine.

  A fall was the excuse he’d given; a fall down a steep river bank after a drunken stagger home from the centre of town. That he’d been put on a minor charge as a result for being intoxicated whilst in uniform had been nothing compared to the amount of trouble he’d have been in had his CO or sergeant-major had discovered the real reason he’d returned to base in such a bruised and battered state.

  They’d all suspected some kind of drunken brawl, of course: the doctor at the base infirmary had seen the aftermaths of enough bar fights to know the signs well enough; but in the absence of any other witness – or known participants, for that matter – there was no word to take other than Eddie’s, and they grudgingly accepted his version of events as a result.

  He’d spent the entirety of the next day living with the abject terror that Brandis, the priest or the Morris girl herself would report him to the local authorities. He still harboured a vague fear this might happen forty-eight hours later, but the danger of it waned with every passing day. For reasons known only to Brandis himself, that phoney ‘padre’ wanted to keep the whole thing between the two of them, and that was just Jim Dandy as far as Eddie was concerned too.

  ‘…you’ll die screaming when we do…!’

  He shuddered as he remembered Brandis’ promise, trying to convince himself that they were nothing more than words of bravado and mostly succeeding. He also remembered the dark, empty void of the man’s eyes that night however, and Eddie Leonski had looked in the mirror enough times to know the look of a true killer when he saw one.

  Wincing in pain, he leaned across and reached beneath his pillow with one hand. As he withdrew it once more a second or two later, his fingers were now grasped around the butt of a well-polished, nickel-plated revolver, the huge weapon heavy and reassuring in his shaky grasp. He partially opened the cylinder, knowing already that it was loaded but checking anyway before sliding it back under the pillow a few seconds later.

  Possession of a firearm inside barracks was in complete contravention of regulations, of course, although every soldier in the US Army was trained in the basic use of smallarms. Many elected to keep a personal sidearm handy all the same, and Eddie had acquired that particular pistol in question the year before. It’d been during a three-day leave and he’d found himself in some sleazy New York waterfront bar, sitting around with some of the others from his unit while they all listened to the painful bragging of some loud-mouthed Marine from Boston who’s self-declared prowess at arm wrestling was – by his own account – of legendary proportions.

  Always one ready to show off his own strength, Eddie had challenged the man to a bout and had won hands down, no pun intended, within just a few moments. To the victor had gone the spoils, and Leonski had walked away with the jarhead’s prized possession: a beautifully-maintained Smith & Wesson ‘Triple Lock’ .44 revolver along with a wax-paper box of fifty cartridges. One of only fifteen thousand ever made, that particular six-gun had originally been manufactured in 1910, with the original barrel having been professionally cut down to just 3½-inches (just under nine centimetres) at some later date, making it a far more handy weapon that balanced well in the hand.

  He kept it with him at all times now, and as he stared out through the window once more, a lascivious sneer managed to creep back onto his face. In a day or two more he’d be mobile enough – he reckoned – to make it worthwhile venturing back to town. When that happened, Eddie had already decided he was ready to go and visit that Morris girl again, and this time he wouldn’t be letting Brandis or anyone else get in his way.

  This time, the two of them were gonna have a real ‘fun’ time!

  14 . Spiders and Flies

  ELINT Aircraft Q3 + CB ‘Caesar’

  2. Staffel, Elektronischekriegführungsgeschwader 903

  Nile Delta, south-west of Port Said

  50km west of Ismailia

  October 3, 1942

  Saturday

  Standartenführer Heinrich Mauser was forced to stoop slightly as he walked slowly along the centre aisle of the aircraft, passing between the single-seat operator stations on his left and right, at which sat Luftwaffe technicians staring intently at their large, green-glowing cathode ray tube screens. Each man wore a headset with large, padded earpieces, and all were at that moment intermittently turning large tuning dials fitted to their main panels as they dutifully listened in on a wide range of Allied radio traffic across a broad range of frequencies.

  The aircraft and its crew – part of the 2nd Squadron of EKG903 (Electronic Warfare Wing 903) – technically belonged to the Luftwaffe. Technically, the pilot – one of the Wehrmacht’s most experienced – would be the ranking officer should any emergency or direct threat become apparent, but the reality was that during normal operations, Mauser was in charge.

  At 188 centimetres in height he was well above average height; something that made manoeuvring his solid, athletic frame difficult within the confines of the aircraft’s narrow fuselage. He was Waffen-SS and had worked with the Abwehr for over five years, making him something of a veteran within the Nazi intelligence community. Mauser – who’d become so inured to regular questions regarding his surname that he no longer even bothered to add ‘no relation’ when introducing himself – had worked in most departments within the Abwehr. He possessed a wealth of experience across most as a result, but his forte above all else had become the burgeoning area of electronic intelligence.

  Not long after one o’clock on that cold, cold early morning, Caesar’ and her sister aircraft, ‘Dora’, were flying in extended formation along the same course, three thousand metres apart. It was true that some of the enemy’s larger anti-aircraft guns in the 90 – 120mm range could theoretically reach to higher altitudes, and with radar direction and proximity fusing they might well have given either aircraft trouble, but there were none within a fifty kilometres of their flight path that night. At that very moment, almost thirty thousand feet above the surface of the earth, aircraft Q3 + CB ‘Caesar’ was to all intents and purposes invulnerable.

  It possessed no official name other than its RLM alphanumeric nomenclature, but it had become known of as the Nachtwächter – ‘Night Watchman’ – by the men who served on the huge aircraft. With a length of thirty metres, a wingspan of forty-three and powered by four powerful, four-row radial engines, the Messerschmitt EK-10G had been developed from its sister aircraft, the B-10D long-range strategic bomber. The B-10D ‘Festung Europa’ had in turn been derived from the equally-large but less capable B-10A which had served the Luftwaffe well during the invasion of the United Kingdom two years before.

  Mauser grinned faintly as he considered the title. Festung Europa’ – literally ‘Fortress Europe’ – was directly derived from a famous speech made by Hitler himself following the capitulation of British Home Forces: a declaration to the rest of the world that with the occupation of Great Britain, Nazi Germany’s western frontiers were completely secure and unassailable.

  The intelligence officer knew full well that the truth behind all that was not quite so clear cut. At the time, German diplomats had worked feverishly behind the scenes to dissuade the United States from entering the war in support of a fallen England and the British government-in-exile.

  With the invasion quite coincidentally just a few months prior to the 1940 US Presidential Elections, Republican candidate Wendell Willkie – running a campaign based strongly in American isolationism – made great use of Lend-Lease and the Roosevelt’
s close ties with the UK to paint the incumbent Democrat President as a man eager to involve the United States in a European war. Well aware of wide-ranging sentiments of isolationism and non-intervention within the greater voting community, Roosevelt himself vowed that he would use all of his experience and leadership to ensure that America was not drawn into conflict. In a speech of the time to new army recruits he declared: “...you boys are not going to be sent into any foreign war.”

  For its part, the Wehrmacht under Kurt Reuters also had no desire for conflict with the awakening industrial giant that was the United States of America. Mauser knew that well enough also, and his understanding of international politics was sufficient to recognise the sense behind that stance. The US Military prior to the outbreak of war in Europe had allowed itself to fall behind both technologically and numerically, and moves to rectify and reverse this situation had only just begun as German tanks had rolled across the Polish Frontier on the morning of September 1, 1939.

  The fact remained however that the United States’ huge population and massive industrial capacity – still as yet only partially realised – threatened to become a force with which to be reckoned. The Nazi domination of Europe and the growing threat of conflict in the Pacific against the Japanese had dominated American thinking for several years now, and despite an outward desire to remain isolated from ‘foreign’ wars, the government of the United States nevertheless believed in the old adage that being forewarned resulted in being forearmed. The might of American Industry had been building already at the end of 1939 and had continued to grow almost exponentially in the years since.

  For that reason, regardless of the Chancellor’s posturing and rhetoric, Reuters’ Wehrmacht had no interest in further provoking a US administration already pushed to the brink of war by the German invasion of Great Britain. The fact that the Luftwaffe’s B-10A bomber – the most powerful and long-ranging heavy bomber in the German fleet – had entered service with the optimistic title ‘Amerika Bomber’ had therefore created a quite awkward diplomatic situation.