The Assassination Option
Page 35
“Your people”? Who does he mean?
“Fine,” Cronley said. “Actually, we don’t care who sees the C-45. But very early tomorrow morning there will be two Storchs we really don’t want anybody to see.”
“We’ll be ready for them,” the Air Force major said.
Cronley advanced the throttle and began to taxi.
“I’m not supposed to ask questions . . .” the major said.
“But?”
“You just said ‘Storchs,’ didn’t you?”
Cronley nodded.
“That funny-looking German light airplane?”
“There are those of us who love that funny-looking German light airplane.”
“I’ve never actually seen one.”
“Well, you’ll have your chance in the morning. And I’ll bet you could play I’ll-show-you-mine-if-you-show-me-yours with the pilot of one of them. He used to fly Spitfires for the Free Polish Air Force, and I know he’d like a good look at one of those P-47s.”
“Great!” the major said.
“Just don’t talk about them being here to anybody, okay?”
“The word I got was ‘Just give them what they ask for and don’t ask questions.’”
“Major, I didn’t hear you ask any questions.”
“That’s right. And I really wondered about the guys in the back.”
“They’re Special Service soldiers. We’re going to put on a soldier show for the Constabulary troopers.”
“The hell you are!”
“They sing gospel songs. You know, like ‘What a Friend We Have in Jesus,’ ‘When the Roll Is Called Up Yonder,’ songs like that.”
“That’s why they need those Thompson submachine guns, right? ‘Repent, or else?’”
“No. They’re for use on Air Force officers who can’t resist the temptation to go in the O Club and say, ‘Guys, you won’t believe what just flew in here.’”
“My lips are sealed,” the major said, and then added, “Really.”
“Good,” Cronley said.
A dozen or so Air Force mechanics in coveralls were waiting in front of the hangar. One of them, a tough-looking master sergeant, signaled for Cronley to cut his engine.
Cronley did so, and as soon as the propellers stopped turning, the men started to push the C-45 tailfirst into the hangar.
“I’ll need this thing fueled,” Cronley said to the Air Force major.
“Consider it done. When are you leaving?”
“I’m usually the last person they tell things like that. But I was a Boy Scout and like to be prepared.”
Once they were inside the hangar, it seemed even larger than it did from the tarmac. Cronley saw three jeeps and two three-quarter-ton trucks lined up, all bearing Constabulary insignia. He asked the two questions on his mind:
“How come this place is intact? What did the Germans use it for?”
“The story I heard is that the Krauts used it to train night fighters, and to convert airplanes to night fighters. They ran out of material to convert airplanes, and then they ran out of fuel for the night fighter trainer planes they had. How it avoided being bombed—or even strafed—I don’t know. Maybe, when our guys flew over it, there were no planes on the ground, so they looked elsewhere for something to shoot up. That’s what I would have done. What’s the point in shooting up a hangar when you can shoot up planes on the ground? Or locomotives? When you shoot up a locomotive, that’s something. You get a great big cloud of escaping steam.”
“Sounds like fun.”
“It was, except when they were shooting back. And sometimes they did.”
“The Constabulary is here on the airfield?”
“Yeah. The airbase and the kaserne are one and the same thing.”
They were now inside the hangar. The left of the double doors closed, and the closing right door stopped, leaving a ten-foot opening.
So those Constabulary vehicles can get out, obviously.
The C-45 stopped moving.
The Air Force major rose from the copilot’s seat and stood in the opening to the passenger section. Cronley remained seated until he saw the major stepping into the passenger section, and then he stood up.
When he looked down the aisle, he saw that Tiny and Tiny’s Troopers and one of the two ASA sergeants had already gotten off the airplane. As soon as the second ASA sergeant had gone through the door, the Air Force major went through it.
Cronley looked out the door and saw there were maybe twenty Constabulary troopers in formation facing the aircraft. They wore glistening helmet liners, white parkas, and highly polished leather Sam Browne belts, and were carrying Thompson submachine guns slung over their shoulders.
He turned and went down the stair doors backwards.
Someone bellowed, “Ah-ten-hut!”
Oh, shit, some senior officer, maybe the Eleventh regimental commander, is here. That explains all the troopers lined up.
We’re not the only people in this hangar.
Cronley turned from the stair doors for a look.
A massive Constabulary officer—almost as large as Tiny—marched up to Cronley, came to attention, and raised his hand crisply in salute. Cronley saw a second lieutenant’s bar glistening on the front of his helmet liner.
“Sir,” the second lieutenant barked, “welcome to the Eleventh Constabulary Regiment!”
Mutual recognition came simultaneously.
“Jimmy?” the second lieutenant inquired incredulously.
I’ll be goddamned, Cronley thought, but did not say aloud, that’s Bonehead Moriarty!
Second Lieutenant Bruce T. Moriarty and Captain James D. Cronley Jr. were not only close friends, but alumni and 1945 classmates of the Agricultural and Mechanical College of Texas, more popularly known as Texas A&M.
At College Station, Moriarty had experienced difficulty in his first month having his hair cut to the satisfaction of upperclassmen. He had solved the problem by shaving his skull, hence the sobriquet “Bonehead.”
Captain C. L. Dunwiddie, who would have been Norwich ’45 had he not dropped out so as not to miss actively participating in World War II, and who was standing in front of the line of eight of his troopers, saw the interchange between the Constab Second John and Cronley and had a perhaps Pavlovian response.
“Lieutenant!” he boomed.
He caught Lieutenant Moriarty’s attention. When he saw that the command had come from Captain Dunwiddie and that the captain was beckoning to him with his index finger, he performed a right turn movement and marched over to him, wondering as he did, Who the hell is he? I’m six-three-and-a-half and 255, and he’s a lot bigger than me.
Bonehead came to attention before Tiny, saluted, and inquired, “Yes, sir?”
“Listen to me carefully, Lieutenant,” Captain Dunwiddie said to Second Lieutenant Moriarty. “You do not know Captain Cronley. You have never seen him ever before in your life. Any questions?”
“No, sir.”
“Carry on, Lieutenant.”
“Yes, sir.”
Lieutenant Moriarty saluted. Captain Dunwiddie returned it. Lieutenant Moriarty did a precise about-face movement, and then marched back to Captain Cronley, where he executed a precise left turn movement.
“Sir, Colonel Fishburn’s compliments. The colonel would be pleased to receive you, sir, at your earliest convenience. I have a jeep for you, sir. And men to guard your aircraft.”
“Captain Dunwiddie and I also have men to guard my airplane,” Cronley said. “And two other non-coms who’ll need a place to sleep. I suggest we leave that for later, while Captain Dunwiddie and I make our manners to Colonel Fishburn. I presume Captain Dunwiddie is included in the colonel’s invitation?”
“Yes, sir, I’m sure he is.”
“Well, then, I suggest you leave one of you
r sergeants in charge of your men, I’ll leave one of my sergeants in charge of mine, and we’ll go see Colonel Fishburn.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Captain, can I have a word?”
Cronley turned and saw that he was being addressed by Technical Sergeant Jerry Mitchell of the ASA.
Mitchell, a lanky Kansan, was the senior of the ASA non-coms Major “Iron Lung” McClung had loaned to DCI-Europe.
“Anytime, Jerry.”
“Did you see that control tower, or whatever it is?”
He pointed upward and to the rear of the hangar.
There was a control-tower-like four-story structure attached to the rear of Hangar Two. There was a second, free-standing six-story structure, painted in a yellow-and-black checkerboard pattern and bristling with antennae, across the field.
“Yes, I did.”
“It looks like they have two,” Mitchell said.
“Yeah. And you would like to use this one, right?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Bonehead, who would we have to see to use the building in the back of the hangar? We need it for our radios.”
“You’d have to ask the post engineer.”
“What about Colonel Fishburn? Could he give us permission to use it?”
“Of course, but you’re supposed to go through channels.”
“Mitch, the building is yours,” Cronley said to Sergeant Mitchell. Then he turned to Lieutenant Moriarty. “Take me to your leader, Bonehead.”
[THREE]
Office of the Regimental Commander
11th Constabulary Regiment
U.S. Air Force Base, Fritzlar, Hesse
American Zone of Occupation, Germany
1705 18 January 1946
“Sir, the officers Lieutenant Moriarty met at the airport are here,” the sergeant major said.
“Send them in, Sergeant Major,” a deep voice called.
The sergeant major gestured to Cronley and Dunwiddie to pass through the colonel’s portal. Cronley gestured to Lieutenant Moriarty to come along.
Cronley and Dunwiddie marched through the door, stopped, and came to attention six feet from the colonel’s desk. Moriarty stopped behind Dunwiddie.
Cronley raised his hand in salute.
“Sir, Captains Cronley, J. D., and Dunwiddie, C. L., at your orders.”
Colonel Richard L. Fishburn, Cavalry, a tall, lean, sharp-featured man, returned the salute crisply.
“You may stand at ease, gentlemen,” he said, then went on, “Very nice, but I don’t think that courteous ‘at your orders’ statement is accurate.” He paused, then went on again: “I saw you on the train when you made your manners to General White. Correct?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I have received my orders vis-à-vis your visit from General White,” Colonel Fishburn said. “Not directly. Via Lieutenant Colonel Wilson. Who, while not a cavalryman, is at least a West Pointer, and therefore most likely would not say he was speaking for the general, if that were not the case. Wouldn’t you agree?”
Dunwiddie and Cronley said, “Yes, sir,” in chorus.
“I have a number of questions, but the orders I have are to provide you whatever you need and not ask questions of you. Colonel Wilson told me he will explain everything to me personally when he honors the regiment with his presence first thing in the morning. So, gentleman, what can I do for you between now and then?”
“Sir, we brought ten men with us,” Cronley said. “They will need quarters.”
“Not a problem. Lieutenant Moriarty, take care of that.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And, sir, we need a secure place where our radiomen can set up their equipment and erect an antenna. There’s a sort of second control tower attached to Hangar Two that I’d like to use.”
“That, of course, makes me wonder why you brought your own communications, but of course I can’t ask. Moriarty, is letting these people use that building going to pose a problem?”
“No, sir.”
“And I presume you would be pleased to ensure these gentlemen are fed and are given someplace to rest their weary heads tonight?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Well, that would seem to cover everything. Unless you have something?”
“No, sir,” Cronley and Dunwiddie said in chorus.
Colonel Fishburn looked at Cronley as if he expected him to say something.
After a moment, Cronley realized what Colonel Fishburn expected.
He raised his hand in salute.
“Permission to withdraw, sir?”
“Granted,” Colonel Fishburn said, returning the salute.
“Atten-hut,” Cronley ordered. “About-face. Forward, march.”
Captain Dunwiddie and Lieutenant Moriarty obeyed the orders and the three officers marched out of the regimental commander’s office.
The jeeps that had carried them from the hangar were waiting at the curb outside the headquarters building. Their drivers came to attention when they saw Cronley, Dunwiddie, and Moriarty come out of the building.
Cronley put his hand on Moriarty’s arm when they were halfway between the building and the jeeps.
“Hold it a minute, Bonehead,” he said.
“Can I infer now you know me?” Moriarty said.
“How could I ever forget you?”
“Are you going to tell me what the hell’s going on?”
“If you have a bottle of decent whisky in your BOQ, I’ll tell you what I can. And if you don’t have a bottle of decent whisky, why don’t we stop at the Class VI store on our way to your BOQ?”
Moriarty, after an awkward pause, said, “I don’t have a BOQ, Jim.”
“So where do you sleep?”
“Ginger and I are in Dependent Quarters.”
After another awkward pause, Cronley replied, “That’s right. You married Ginger, didn’t you?”
“You were there, Jimmy. All dressed up in your brand-new second lieutenant’s uniform, holding a saber over us as we came out of the chapel.”
And if I wasn’t the world’s champion dumb fuck, that’s what I should have done, married the Squirt the day after I graduated.
The Squirt was one of Ginger’s bridesmaids, but I didn’t pay any attention to her. I wanted to—and did—jump the bones of another bridesmaid, a blond from Hobbs whose name I can’t even remember now. Probably couldn’t remember the next day.
And look where I am now!
“I don’t think my seeing Ginger—or Ginger seeing me—right now is a good idea, Bonehead.”
“She knows I went to the airport to meet some big shot,” Moriarty said. “She’ll ask me how that went. And I don’t lie to Ginger.”
“Can she keep her mouth shut?”
“Fuck you!”
“Bonehead, what we’re doing here is classified Top Secret–Presidential,” Cronley said.
Moriarty looked at him for a long five seconds.
“So what do I tell my wife, Captain Cronley, sir?”
“Jim, I suggest you go see Mrs. Moriarty and play that by ear,” Dunwiddie said.
“You work for him, Captain? I thought it was the other way around,” Moriarty said to Dunwiddie.
“I work for him, Lieutenant.”
“Why don’t we all go make our manners to Mrs. Moriarty?” Cronley asked.
[FOUR]
Officer Dependent Quarters 0-112
11th Constabulary Regiment
U.S. Air Force Base, Fritzlar, Hesse
American Zone of Occupation, Germany
1725 18 January 1946
Mrs. Virginia “Ginger” Adams Moriarty was red-headed, freckled, twenty-two years old, and conspicuously pregnant.
“Well, I’ll be!” she greeted Cronley. “Look what the cat
dragged in! I guess you’re with the big shot Bruce met. Hey! What’s with the captain’s bars?”
A moment later, having seen the look on Cronley’s face, she said, “Why don’t we all pretend I didn’t say what I just said. Let me start all over.” She then did so: “Jim, what a pleasant surprise.”
“Hey, Ginger.”
“I think you know how devastated Bruce and I were when we heard about Marjie.”
“Thank you. Ginger, this is Chauncey Dunwiddie, who is both my executive officer and my best friend.”
“My friends, for reasons I can’t imagine, Mrs. Moriarty, call me ‘Tiny.’ I hope you will.”
“Welcome to our humble abode, Captain Tiny.”
“Thank you. Mrs. Moriarty, I’d like to show—”
“If you want me to call you ‘Captain Tiny,’ you’re going to have to call me ‘Ginger.’”
“Deal. Ginger, I’d like to show you something.”
“Will that hold until I give you something to cut the dust of the trail?”
“I’m afraid not,” Tiny said, and extended his DCI credentials to her.
She studied them carefully.
“Wow!” she said. “Have you got one of these, Jim?”
“He does,” Dunwiddie said, and put out his hand for the credentials.
“Tiny,” Cronley said, and when Dunwiddie looked at him, he pointed to Moriarty.
Dunwiddie handed the credentials to Moriarty.
“Jesus!” Bonehead said, after he had examined them.
“Don’t blaspheme,” Ginger said.
“Sorry,” he said.
“Well, Marjie always said Jimmy was going to be somebody special,” Ginger said, and then added, “I guess I can’t ask what’s going on.”
“You want to tell them, Jim, or should I?” Tiny asked.
Cronley pointed at Dunwiddie, mostly because his mind was flooded with images of the Squirt and he didn’t trust himself to speak.
“Ginger, Bonehead, what I’m about to tell you is classified Top Secret–Presidential. And even if we succeed in doing what we’re here to try doing, you are to tell no one at any time anything about it. Understood?”
Both nodded.
“In the next couple of days, we’re going to try to pick up a woman, a Russian woman, and her two sons in Thuringia and bring them back across the border.”