“I think we’ll be able to control the message without much difficulty, Mister President.”
Truman turned to Secretary of State Byrnes: “Your thoughts on all this, Jimmy?”
“I look at it this way, Mister President,” Byrnes replied. “What is Stalin going to do? Complain to the League of Nations, where neither of us happen to be members? Or cut off the aid he’s giving us? Oh, wait a minute…we’re the ones doling out the aid, aren’t we? And he’ll be quite leery about crossing us too aggressively now that we’ve got that bomb and they don’t.”
Truman was skeptical. “And I’m quite leery of any concept that depends on the Russians being forthright and passive, Jimmy.”
“All their saber-rattling is just political theater, Mister President. Stalin would’ve been an actor if he wasn’t a cutthroat politician.”
It was Marshall’s turn to be skeptical. “I hesitate to call it theater, Mister Secretary. Not if our boys will be in harm’s way during the performance.”
Truman broke the brief hush that followed. “Everything that comes out of Stalin’s mouth is always about how entitled the Soviets are to do anything they want because of what the Germans did to them. I can understand those feelings, up to a point…but as far as I’m concerned, that point sits on the border of the Soviet Union. Anything they seek to control beyond that border is nothing but naked conquest.”
Byrnes asked, “Mister President, are we afraid the rest of the world might see the action we’re contemplating as naked conquest, too?”
“I’m not afraid of that, Jimmy, because they’d be wrong. We’re liberators, not conquerors. General Marshall, when will we be ready to launch this little gambit?”
“Eisenhower has relayed that our forces can be rolling in two weeks, Mister President.”
“Two weeks,” Truman said. “That takes us into September. We’re not going to have ourselves another winter war, are we? If the American public ever found out how many of their sons froze to death last winter in France, I would be out on my ass come the elections in Forty-Eight, as would every other Democrat.”
“A winter war is doubtful, sir,” Marshall replied. “Very doubtful.”
But Truman was still troubled. He’d heard overly optimistic predictions by the military many times before. After weighing the issue for a few moments, he said, “I must insist that we can claim a plausible inciting incident by the Soviets to justify our actions before we make our move. And I mean plausible, gentlemen. I don’t want it to look like we’re copying the Nazis with another Danzig Incident. Am I clear on this?”
“Absolutely, sir,” Marshall replied. “But don’t we already have such an incident? In fact, several of them?”
“You’re missing my point, General. Sure, there have been incidents. We expected that. But none that smack of large-scale aggression against our forces, and none that rise to the level of a national emergency. The American public is over the moon that the war is finally over, gentlemen. We’d need one hell of an outstanding reason to start another one.”
“I’m sure the Soviets will provide us with the plausible incident you seek, Mister President,” Marshall replied. “It’s just a matter of time. A very short time, too, I’m sure.”
With each passing day, Sylvie was becoming more convinced the OSS had forgotten about her. Days passed without reply since leaving her message in the church, the one in which she’d asked about Mirka’s disappearance and if Kruger Laundry had any significance to her mission. The message she’d finally pulled from beneath the candle stand answered neither of those questions; nor did it provide a date for Yanov’s kidnapping.
It’s like the game has changed—or maybe it’s over—but nobody’s bothered to tell me.
Herr Gestler—Franz—had become a problem, too. Like her, he had come to suspect a change of plans, one that would deny the freedom the OSS had offered him for his cooperation and leave him to the inevitable wrath of the Russians. He kept reminding her of the thin ice they were both on: it would only take one wrong word whispered in a Russian officer’s ear, and both of them would vanish from the face of the Earth.
His latest ploy was to try to make himself even more valuable to the OSS. He’d hint at tidbits of information he might be privy to, adding that he’d be glad to share that information with whoever whisked him from the Russian zone.
“You’ll have to do better than that, Herr Gestler,” Sylvie told him. “Tell me what you know. Then the OSS can decide if that information is worth anything.”
He’d sulked for two days after that, until the desperation began to peak within him once again. As she was cleaning rooms one morning, he came looking for her. After making sure the floor was empty but for the two of them, he told her this: “I’ve learned of a Russian secret. There was an American pilot being held by them here in Berlin.”
“Was? Or is being held?” she asked.
“Was, Sylvie. He died of his injuries last night.”
An American pilot. Dead.
She had to sit down. As if things weren’t uncertain enough, he’d gone and thrown those words pilot and dead at her. That was the last thing she needed to hear. Despite the multitude of American airmen still in Germany, pilot meant only one person in the entire world to her: Tommy Moon.
Her voice quavering, she asked, “Do you know his name?”
He shook his head.
“His rank, perhaps? Or what he flew?”
Another shake of the head.
She tried to stand but her legs wouldn’t lift her from the bed. Gestler sat down beside her and, with a compassion in his voice that startled her, asked, “You know an American pilot quite well, I suppose?”
But she wasn’t so far gone that she’d open up and give an honest answer. Dead airman, dead lover—whatever the sorrow, an experienced operative knew to never reveal anything of herself. Information could be turned into weapons too easily. And those weapons could—and would—be used against her. She’d already revealed too much without saying a thing.
Her reply was a composed attempt to regain the upper hand: “I know many pilots, Herr Gestler. It saddens me that any one of them might have died now, long after the war is supposedly over. This information is a secret, you say?”
“Yes, and I’m told the Russians intend to keep it so.”
“Told by who, Herr Gestler?”
“A neighbor who is a doctor at the hospital where the boy died. The Russians are demanding the matter be kept quiet, or else.” He paused and then asked, “You will send this information to your people, along with a mention of how you got it, won’t you?”
“Yes, I’ll pass it along…just as soon as you get me the name of that pilot.”
She did her best to keep thoughts of Tommy out of her head, telling herself over and over again, There are thousands of American pilots still in Germany, silly girl. What are the odds? You still believe in the odds, don’t you?
But the odds could be cumulative, could they not? One could say I’ve led a charmed life during my years in the maquis, doing undercover work among the Germans, pursued by the SS and the Gestapo, yet escaping miraculously each time.
Couldn’t one say it was high time the odds played against me?
And losing Tommy is the price I pay?
Stop it, Isabelle Sylvie Truffaut Bergerac. Just stop it until you have proof.
Focus on the matter at hand. Stay alert…and stay alive.
Sorting sheets in the linen closet, she overheard a conversation in the hallway which dragged her away from those imaginary fears but back to very real ones. Two Russian officers were casually discussing the plan to block the Kiel Canal, a passage through the isthmus of Schleswig-Holstein that shaved 250 miles off the journey between the North Sea and the Baltic. The canal was used extensively by the British Royal Navy to shuttle warships and merchant traffic to and from the Baltic.
“Blocking the canal will be ridiculously easy,” one of the Russians said. “Once we do, all ships must enter th
e Baltic through the narrow straits between Denmark and Sweden, which our Navy will blockade. The Baltic will be a Soviet lake before you know it, Comrade. As soon as next week, perhaps.”
Later that afternoon, as she hurried to the church to say her prayers, she told herself, Everything else may be going to hell around here, but this piece of intelligence can’t be ignored. I’ve checked three times that my coding and authentication are correct. They’ll have to know the information I’m providing is legitimate.
But she knew all too well that at times the high command had a nasty habit of believing only what it chose to believe.
With any luck, this won’t be one of those times.
Night had just fallen when the Americans in their Pisek CP heard the sound of a strange engine in the street. It definitely wasn’t being made by any GI vehicle.
It’s a car, Sean thought, but what civilian around here can get his hands on enough gasoline to run one?
The car stopped in front of the CP. Its engine was switched off.
“This better not be some Russian coming back to bitch about something,” Sean said as he walked to the door. “I hear Patton nearly shot the last one stupid enough to try that.”
As he stepped outside, a man in civilian clothes stepped from the battered Peugeot sedan. His vehicle might’ve been French, but he certainly wasn’t. He seemed obviously American, and once he opened his mouth, he confirmed it.
“Good evening, Sergeant,” the man said. “I’m Jim Pearson with Mutual News.” He thrust his hand out. Sean refused to take it.
“What the hell is Mutual News, pal?”
“That’s who I work for. I’m a reporter with the Mutual News network from back in the States.” He held out his press card, a pointless gesture in the dark. “I was hoping to have a word with General Patton.”
“You’re a little late for that,” Sean replied. “The general’s come and gone.”
“Well, then…who’s the ranking officer here?”
“How about you stop asking stupid questions, get your ass back in that piece of shit frog-mobile, and go back where you came from, Pearson…before you get hurt.”
“Oh? Is there fighting around here? Seems quiet enough to me, Sergeant…what did you say your name was again?”
“I didn’t. But for the record, it’s Moon. Master Sergeant Moon. Now get lost.”
The small group of GIs who’d gathered behind Sean were getting a big kick out of this encounter.
Pearson started to unfold a document he’d taken from his pocket. “You know, Sergeant Moon, I have permission from USFET to be here. It says so right here. And the American public has a right to know—”
“Put a lid on that bullshit right now, pal. Nobody’s allowed to tag along with a line outfit unless he’s got that unit commander’s permission. You ain’t got it, so take a hike.”
“Maybe you can point me in his direction? Surely someone higher than a sergeant is in charge here.”
“That’s master sergeant to you, my friend. And like I said, get lost. Don’t make me say it again.”
Pearson glanced past Sean, as if pretending this immovable object wasn’t there anymore. Speaking to the cluster of GIs, he said, “If anybody wants to be famous to all those fine ladies back home, meet me at the café down the street. I’ll make you a big star.”
Then he got back into his car and drove off.
The GIs lost the smiles on their faces, shuffling nervously in place as Sean turned to them. They weren’t surprised by what he said: “Any of you touch-holes who speaks to a reporter—any reporter—without permission from Colonel Abe will regret the day his mother gave birth to his sorry ass.”
They had no reason to doubt their sergeant’s words.
Chapter Nineteen
The last few days had been relatively quiet for 301st Fighter Squadron. Rain and low ceilings grounded them for one of those days. On the others, no ground units had requested support and they’d only run into Russian fighters once, a brief but bloodless encounter between Tommy’s Butternut Flight and a handful of Yaks. Although they were over Soviet territory at the time, the Russians never attacked. At first sight of their adversaries, both groups had begun jockeying for positions of advantage.
But then the Russian ships abruptly turned away and flew off to the east.
“Maybe their shoot down order got put on hold,” Tommy wondered out loud.
Returning from the day’s last patrol, he found a welcome surprise in his mailbox: his three-day leave request had been approved.
Finally, I get to go visit my brother.
There was still two hours of sunlight left in the day; plenty of time to drive into Czechoslovakia, track down 37th Tank Battalion in Pisek, and surprise Sean. He was tossing his AWOL bag into the jeep when Colonel Pruitt called him back into the operations shack.
“Sorry, Half,” Pruitt said, “but your leave’s canceled. Hate to do it, but some real hot orders just came down the pipe. At least you’ve already got a bag packed.”
“Are you kidding me, sir? We’re moving again?”
“Afraid so,” Pruitt replied. “We’re going back to Bremen. There’s a big panic over intel that says the Reds are going to try to block the Kiel Canal.”
“And the Royal Navy can’t prevent that without our help? That’s not exactly a vast area to protect. You’ve just got to cover the locks at both ends, right?”
“Hey, do I look like a swabbie, Half? I don’t know the answers to questions like that. All I know is we’ve got our orders, so we’re moving at first light.”
“Who does that leave to support the ground-pounders down here in the south?”
“There are a couple of P-51 squadrons staying behind. They’ll cover them.”
“For cryin’ out loud, sir...you and I both know that Mustangs are next to useless at close support. Too damn vulnerable to ground fire with that big radiator hanging under the belly.”
“Ours is not to reason why, Half…”
“Yeah, I know the drill, sir. Just do or die, right?”
“That’s the ticket, Captain.”
Sylvie was near exhaustion. For over a week now, she’d performed double duty as chambermaid by day and barmaid by night at the Hotel Neuwieder. Her late afternoon walks to the church had provided nothing in the way of information. Each check of the space below the votive candle stand had come up empty…
Until today.
She couldn’t believe it when her fingertips grasped the folded message tucked into the stand’s framework. It was almost impossible to resist the urge to read it right then and there, but she’d need to do the decoding where she knew she wouldn’t be seen. She ran back to the relative security of the hotel as fast as her exhausted legs could carry her.
A Russian guard at the hotel door asked why she was in such a great hurry.
“Woman’s problems,” she replied, hoping the Russian words she’d chosen gave the correct implication.
Apparently, they did; the guard jumped out of her way.
Alone and safe in her tiny room, she unfolded the paper. The message was brief; decoding took only seconds. It read:
STAIRCASE COMMENCES 26 AUGUST.
It meant Yanov’s abduction was to happen two nights from tonight.
She let the odd mix of relief and anticipation wash over her, a dizzying dance that let her spirits soar for just a moment before the reality of what she still had to do—with all its intricacies and potential pitfalls—brought them crashing down again.
And she’d have to do it alone.
As she changed into her barmaid’s clothes, she checked that the tiny, unlabeled vial of choral hydrate hidden in the false-bottomed shampoo bottle was still in place. On her way to the bar, she slipped unnoticed into the basement utility room and tossed the crumpled message form into the flames of the boiler’s fire box.
Dwight Eisenhower’s first reaction: This is some kind of sick joke.
But when his chief of staff’s poker face didn�
��t flinch, he knew the dispatch he’d just been handed was not meant to be funny. Ike’s face turned crimson as he stomped back and forth across his office carpet, too angry, at first, for words.
When he finally could speak, he said, “Has Patton gone completely out of his fucking mind? Rearm the Germans? REARM THE FUCKING GERMANS? How far has this fiasco gotten?”
“Fortunately, not far at all, General,” his chief of staff replied. “The weapons, once surrendered, were never properly entered into inventory, since they were slated to be destroyed anyway…so nobody was quite sure where most of them were. Those that Patton’s people managed to get their hands on were useless. Their firing mechanisms had been removed and disposed of.”
“Thank God for small favors,” Eisenhower said. “But there could be only one reason he wanted those soldiers rearmed—he intended to use them as combat troops on our upcoming little excursion through Czechoslovakia and into Germany.”
“Undoubtedly, sir.”
“And that must mean that his effective manpower figures for this campaign have been inflated.”
“We assume so, General.”
“Inflated by how much?”
“By our normal standards for combat units, sir, slightly more than two divisions.”
Ike looked like he was going to be sick. “So Patton’s Third Army—understrength to begin with—is two divisions smaller than he’d led us to believe, once you subtract the Germans.”
The chief of staff thought he knew where the general’s train of thought was headed. He asked, “Should we postpone—or perhaps cancel—Operation Curveball, sir?”
He wanted to take the words back as soon as he’d said them. The general’s face reddened once again. His pacing the floor took on a new urgency.
“Postpone? Cancel? How the hell can I do that after sticking my neck out to Washington about how ready we are? There wouldn’t be enough drummers to drum me out of this Army.”
This Fog of Peace (Moon Brothers WWII Adventure Series Book 4) Page 19
