Dragonfire

by Ted Bell

  “I am. But tell me something. You piqued my curiosity. How the hell are you going to get him to increase speed up to a hundred kph with us still aboard?

  “We’re not going to be aboard. You jettison first. At this speed, around eight kph, and in this freshly fallen snow, you won’t need to pull off a perfect tuck and roll, which, by the by, means simply you pretend like you’re doing a somersault onto the grass in summertime. . . . Tuck your head down, bend forward, and push yourself over the top in a full rotation. Got it, partner?”

  “Oh, yes. Fully briefed. It’s something akin to diving off the high board into a swimming pool empty of water.”

  “No, no, no. The snow is your water. You see that now?”

  “Actually, I do now, yes. I was a little worried about that part.”

  “I know.”

  “Really? How?”

  “You kept talking about it in your sleep. On your feet, buddy. I’ll be right behind you soon as I deal with Fritzie.”

  “What are you going to do to him?”

  “You’ll see. Go stand at the top of the steps and get ready. I’ll signal you when it’s your time to jump.”

  “Fair enough. But just ensure you get yourself off his death train, too. We’ve got a lot more Germans to kill, Ian.”

  “Yeah, I know. Go whisper something reassuring to Fritzie. Then go stand at the top of the steps. Hold on to that grab rail at the top of the steps. Things might get a little dicey in here if I don’t pull off this crazy scheme of mine. . . .”

  Fleming stood up and walked forward until he was about two feet behind Fritzie. Hawke was looking at him, wondering what the hell he was up to.

  “Okay, Blackie, on my count. Ready?”

  Hawke nodded yes.

  “Five! Four! Three! Two . . . and . . . one! Go, go!”

  On the count of two, Hawke had seen Fleming put a shoulder into the small of Fritzie’s back, hitting him hard enough to send him pitching forward and slamming his big beer belly hard into the throttle lever, shoving it all the way forward. Firewalled.

  The fire-breathing monster got back on its haunches and roared ahead toward Berlin.

  Hawke, lying peacefully buried in the snowbank, saw Fleming come flying out of that speeding locomotive, which was now doing about forty kilometers per hour, and bury himself feetfirst into a large adjacent snowbank. He was only visible from the waist up. Hawke got up and went to his friend, and patted the top of his head. “You quite all right, brother?”

  “Never better,” Fleming said, watching the train speed away into the distance. The train was now traveling at speeds of more than a hundred miles per hour, so it wouldn’t take poor Fritzie very long to get to his appointment in Samarra sometime around midnight.

  Hawke dropped to his knees in the soft snow and said, “Question, Fleming. What’s to prevent Fritzie from throttling back and hitting the brakes?”

  “Oh, that. I considered that, frankly, Blackie. He’s been bound hand and foot, gagged, and secured by a chain to his stool at the rear of the cab. Can’t get within a foot of the throttle. Or the brakes.”

  “Glad to hear it. Well, we bloody well did it, didn’t we?”

  “And, moreover, lived to tell the tale.”

  They both burst out laughing the joyous laughter of the young, the brave, and the victorious.

  As the locomotive disappeared round a bend, Hawke put his hand on Ian Fleming’s shoulder and said, “Question.”

  “Shoot.”

  “You think they’ll let us do this again?”

  “Listen. You keep feeding Blinker and Winston more bright ideas like Skyhook and Phantom Locomotive? We’ll be doing this until there aren’t any more Nazis left worth killing.”

  “Think of it, Ian,” Hawke said. “Right now there are nearly twenty speeding locomotives, all filled to the gills with your cocktails of high-powered explosives, all going a hundred per in the same direction to the same destination. . . .”

  “Right. And at the stroke of midnight, when those twenty simultaneous explosions rock Berlin to its core, when those bloody locomotives blow a mile-wide crater in the center of Berlin? Destroy the German rail system in a single blow? They’re going to have to take Herr Hitler away in a straitjacket! And you know what else, Hawke?”

  “No. What?” Hawke said.

  “Jesus. Did you just throw a snowball at me?”

  “I did. And your arms are pinned by your side. What are you going to do about it?”

  Fleming suddenly stood straight up and reached down for a handful of snow.

  It was all-out war after that.

  Two grown men, rolling about in the freshly fallen snow, and laughing their fool heads off.

  CHAPTER 66

  Little White House, Warm Springs, Georgia

  February 1942

  The Chinese ambassador awoke early on that frosty morning to the music of the rails. The familiar “clickety-clack, clickety-clack, down the track” sounds of steel wheels on mirror-polished steel rails below, and a light tapping at the chamber door to his compartment. He stretched his arms upward, rubbed his belly, and then said, “Yes? Who is it?”

  The door was opened just wide enough for the porter to peer in at his passenger, still abed. Tiger was curious about the wide white smile on the old gentleman’s lovely nut brown face. He was in an altogether too cheery mood for this time of morning.

  “Jes me, suh,” Fred Fair said.

  “Mr. Fair! Good morning to you, sir! What time is it?”

  “Just gone seven. Got some good news for you on this beautiful mawnin’, suh! That’s for sure!”

  “You do, do you, Fred? And what news might that be at this early hour? Wait. Don’t tell me. The Japanese have surrendered in the Pacific? Hitler is on the skids in Poland? The French? Marshal Philippe Pétain and the Vichy government have surrendered to Germany again, and Parisians are planting trees on either side of the Champs-Élysées so the invading Nazis can march in the shade?”

  “Well, no, suh. I don’t rightly know what you’re sayin’, but may I enter, please?”

  “Of course you may enter, sir. This splendid rolling palace is, after all, your sole dominion, not mine! I, good sir, am a mere transient!”

  The ambassador was a bit mystified to find that he himself was also in a jolly state and had not the slightest idea as to where that had come from. Possibly—no, certainly—it was the magic of sleeping aboard a train speeding south through the silent night. Roaring past the flashing red railroad-crossing lights as they sped through all and sundry points south on their way to the Promised Land.

  The tall porter smiled at that and took three long strides across the deep red carpet to the windows opposite the ambassador’s wide berth. He took hold of the window shade’s dangling cord and turned to face the ambassador. “Curtain goin’ up, suh. Here she comes. . . .”

  “On what? Are we there yet?”

  “Oh, no, suh. We still ’bout three-quarters of an hour out from the station. Just time for you to shower and have yourself some breakfast. Chef has made up a mess of blueberry griddle cakes got your name on them. No rush. I got you all packed up last evening while you were in the dining car enjoying that delicious quail.”

  “Well, what is this all about, Fred?”

  “Got some very good news for you and the boss, that’s what.”

  “Well, tell me, for goodness’ sake! My curiosity is killing me.”

  “Good news is, looks like you and the boss going to have yourselves a nice, bright . . .”

  “A nice, bright—what, exactly?”

  “A nice, bright . . . snowy weekend, suh!”

  Fred released the cord, and the blackout shade went rattling up, winding itself around the spool with a clatter. Beyond the frosty window was a glorious white wonderland of snow.

  “You kno
w, there is just about nothin’ but nothin’ the boss loves more than a good old white Christmas!”

  “It’s truly beautiful, Fred,” Tiger said, sitting up in his bed to see the white flakes swirling against the windowpanes, the blur of sweet Georgia pine forests racing by, already festooned in white gowns, the ice on the gentle hills beyond, now dazzling in the bright winter sunshine.

  “If there’s anything that can cheer up the boss, it’s this beautiful snowfall, suh. That and, of course, the fact that you came all the way down heah to keep him company. Yessuh. He’s always telling me the only companionship he needs is that old hound dog, Fala. But I know him too well. Folks say that he’s been powerful lonely down here ever since he arrived.”

  Tiger looked at him and smiled.

  “Fred, where are you up to tomorrow? Are you working?”

  “Oh, I dunno, suh. Boss always gives me the Sundays off. But I don’t really have any family anymore, so to me, it’s just another day on the calendar. I jes’ sit by the radio all day. Have me a taste of ’shine ever’ now and then, too.”

  “Well, I probably should clear this with the chief, but how about this? Why don’t you come to the Little White House and have supper with the president and me? Would you like that?”

  “Oh, yessuh, I truly would. But I wouldn’t dream of intruding on the boss’s weekend. Just wouldn’t be right, suh.”

  “Well. You wouldn’t be intruding at all. I’m inviting you. And I’m telling you, you’d be welcome at the president’s table, Fred. You think about it. If you decide to come, just let me know. I’m sure he’d be delighted. . . .”

  “Well, let me think on it, suh. But I appreciate the thought, suh. I really do. I’ll be back hereabouts to fetch you when we pull into the station.”

  CHAPTER 67

  Warm Springs, Georgia

  February 1942

  The big black locomotive, huffing, puffing, and tugging the long chain of snow-frosted green Pullman cars, chugged into the little Warm Springs station house at eight-thirty that morning. Fred Fair and a local porter helped the ambassador get all his luggage down onto the platform, where two very sturdy-looking Secret Service agents, coats and ties and raincoats, waited in the swirl of snow.

  “Mr. Ambassador,” the taller and sturdier of the two agents said, extending his hand. “I’m Special Agent in Charge Alex Griswold. I’m with the president. This is Agent Smithers, sir. Let us be the first to welcome you to the Little White House. The president is very excited at your arrival, sir.”

  “As am I,” Tiger said. “As am I!”

  Tiger shook hands with both government men, and they all followed Mr. Fred Fair and his luggage trolley along the platform to the station house and the parking lot adjacent. There was a snow-coated grey government four-door Dodge sedan near the station house door and Fred loaded the luggage into the trunk.

  Tiger quickly decided he was going to like this sleepy little town down South and all it stood for: the simple life lived simply and with a strong sense of civic pride and history and good old-fashioned holiday fun. The Chinese ambassador climbed into the rear seat of the car and they were on their merry way.

  The little railroad village was picturesque. Every shop window was brightly lit and, despite the snow, shoppers were bustling up and down the sidewalks. The car had just passed a busy little toy shop, and Tiger leaned forward and spoke to the driver.

  “Pull over, please, Agent Griswold. Do you mind? I need to run into that shop back there and pick something up. Won’t be five minutes!”

  Agent Griswold pulled over to the curb and slowed to a stop, and Tiger got out and disappeared into Santa’s Workshop, as the place was called.

  Tiger had been sitting back there, looking out the window at all the pretty little shops. He’d been feeling perfectly miserable over the meagerness of his poor gift for the president. And then, passing the toy shop, he’d spied something in the front window that would cheer the president up if anything could.

  Five minutes later, he emerged with a huge package that was nearly as big as Tiger himself. It was wrapped in green and gold paper with a beautiful Currier and Ives print, and tied up with a big red bow. Smithers popped the trunk, and Tiger placed his prize inside and pulled the door shut.

  Now he sat back with a smile on his face, secure that his present was going to light President Roosevelt up like a Christmas tree! Now he could just take in all the charms of the little village without a worry in the world. He’d learned the history of the famous resort last night in the lounge car when he’d gone back there for his nightcap.

  While he was sipping his whiskey, Fred Fair had regaled him with tales of old Warm Springs and how it had evolved.

  Settlers had first arrived in the late eighteenth century. The population grew with the advancement of the railroad, and by the 1830s, it was the site of a summer resort and thriving village. In 1893, Mr. Charles Davis had constructed the Victorian three-hundred-room Meriwether Inn, with resort pools, a dance pavilion, a bowling alley, tennis courts, and trap shooting. The warm water flowing down from the hillside of Pine Mountain was used to create the resort pools. All very grand in the day, but by the turn of the twentieth century, the town of Warm Springs and the resort were in decline.

  Along came George Foster Peabody, a prominent businessman and philanthropist from New York. He purchased the resort property in 1923. Peabody shared the story of a young polio victim’s recovery after bathing in the swimming pools at Warm Springs with his good friend Franklin D. Roosevelt, the young politician paralyzed from the waist down in 1921 from polio. FDR arrived at the resort in the fall of 1924, hoping against hope to find a cure in the waters. The next day, he began swimming and immediately felt a noticeable improvement.

  For the first time in three years, he was able to move his right leg! Because he was nationally prominent, his successful visit assured publicity for Warm Springs. A syndicated national newspaper supplement featured his experiences, and many flocked there in the hopes of a cure. In 1926, FDR bought the resort property and twelve hundred acres from Peabody for some two hundred thousand dollars. His new house, finished in 1932, was his cherished getaway from war and depression thereafter.

  * * *

  —

  Tiger, staring out his rear window, was remembering his many winters during his school years in England. He’d loved the brisk weather even then. But somehow, it was far more endearing in the little town of Warm Springs though he could not tell you why.

  “Here we are, sir,” Special Agent Griswold said from up front. “Welcome to the Little White House, Mr. Ambassador!”

  They had turned off the highway and climbed the winding drive up the hill to the residence. Tiger had not known what to expect after all the grandeur of Hyde Park, but he found the modest little one-story, six-room cottage very charming. Climbing out of the car, he instantly understood why his friend the president enjoyed the serenity of the views overlooking a heavily wooded ravine and the rolling white hills beyond.

  A tiny but pleasingly plump housekeeper in a pink apron came running out of the house to help Agent Smithers gather up the luggage and get it inside. Lugging a bag up the walk, the elderly lady said, “Welcome to the Little White House, sir. My name is Mable, Mr. Ambassador! Praise the Lord, the president has been expecting you, sir, Lawdy me! He’s sitting in his study by the fire. You’d best get yo’sef in there and give him a good look at you! Lord knows he ain’t talked ’bout nothin’ else but you for the last three days! All day long, I swear, I do, ‘Tiger said this, and Tiger did that!’”

  The ambassador laughed and Mable added, “That’s the God’s honest truth, Mr. Ambassador! The boss is fit to be tied, I’ll tell you that much!”

  Mable reminded him of the wonderful actress he’d seen in Gone With the Wind, Butterfly McQueen, who’d played Prissy so beautifully. And then, somewhat to his astonishment, he bent down
and gave the woman a quick peck on her plump cheek before darting inside.

  It felt like the little house was already putting out its own welcome mat. There were the aromatic scents of pinewood-burning fires wafting in from the library and the kitchen. And a fat Virginia ham, studded with cloves and pineapple slices in the oven, and cookies and gingerbread men and mincemeat pies and even Christmas plum pudding. Softly, “Silver Bells” was playing on the wireless down the hall, Bing Crosby in a duet with Rosemary Clooney broadcast from Radio City in New York:

  City sidewalks, busy sidewalks,

  Dressed in holiday style,

  In the air there’s a feeling of Christmas!

  CHAPTER 68

  Little White House, Warm Springs, Georgia

  February 1942

  Auniformed butler, in a bright red bow tie and a splendid Tyrolean green felt waistcoat with polished sterling silver buttons, met the young ambassador trying to stamp the cold out of his frozen boots on the doorstep, then coming through the doorway. The butler, Jarvis by name, smiled and said, “Welcome to the Little White House, Mr. Ambassador! We are so deeply honored to have you as our guest, sir.”

  “The honor is all mine,” Tiger said generously.

  “May I take your coat and hat, sir,” Jarvis said with a broad smile, “and that present?”

  “I’ll keep it. Thank you, Jarvis. I want to give it the president personally. How is he feeling today?”

  “Better today, believe me! The president has been all over the place, never sits still, just as restless as a long-tailed cat in a roomful of rocking chairs, sir.”

  Tiger went to his room and changed into flannel trousers, velvet slippers, and his favorite red flannel Christmas blazer bought back in Oxford days in a shop on Savile Row, London. He headed for the library, already feeling very much at home.

  Tiger stopped just short of the door into FDR’s library.

  When he entered, he was delighted to see that the room was decorated for the belated holiday.