Call to Duty

by Richard Herman

  He stared at Heather impassively, not returning her greeting. An inner voice told her to be attentive and submissive and she sank to the floor beside his chair, curling her legs underneath, leaning against his leg. It was a graceful gesture that was not lost on the men. One of the Colombian-Germans smiled at her and asked her name.

  “May I introduce Miss Heather Courtland?” Chiang said in English, his manner as charming and sophisticated as ever. “The daughter of Senator William Douglas Courtland.” The men stared at her in silence. They all knew of her captivity. One of the Japanese said something in his own language. Heather focused her attention on the man and noticed a solid ring of tattoos showing just above his collar and at his wrists as Chiang answered him in Japanese. Then, in English, “Mr. Morihama says you are a most beautiful insurance policy.” He reached over and stroked her hair. “Gentlemen,” he said, “it is because of Miss Courtland that I can guarantee there will be no interruption in the ‘traffic’ at my end. She is, indeed, an insurance policy.” His fingers tightened in her hair, pulling hard. “Please stand up, Heather,” he said, slowly untangling his fingers.

  She did as he ordered and stood beside his chair. His hand ran up the inside of her leg, stroking her inner thigh. He continued to speak in carefully modulated tones, his actions at odds with his words. “I am confident that as long as Heather is my guest,” he jerked at her panties, aware that the men were more interested in her humiliation than his words, “the DEA will not interfere in my operations here.” She gasped as he dug a finger into her. “Of course, I cannot extend such a guarantee beyond my area of control. But then you, without doubt, know how best to neutralize the Americans who intrude in your own provinces. Acting in concert is our strength.” Then he dropped his hand. “You may go,” he told her.

  Heather walked with as much dignity as possible past the seated men. Morihama stopped her. “Yes,” he said in heavily accented English, “you are a most beautiful insurance policy.” Then he ran his hand up her leg.

  “I am given to understand,” Chiang said, “that you have an interest in tattoos.” Morihama jerked his head in a sharp nod, his face rigid. “If you wish,” Chiang continued, “she’s yours tonight. You will discover that Miss Courtland has a most interesting tattoo. But you must search for it. Be kind enough to return her undamaged. Shall we consider it part of our ‘arrangement’?”

  The men were laughing and talking as Heather retreated from the room, shaking with fright and humiliation. Samkit wanted to follow her, but her instincts warned that much more was to be learned by remaining. The men resumed their discussions as if she weren’t there. Finally, Chiang brought the meeting to an end. “Why don’t you discuss the details with your counselors and we can gather tomorrow. Perhaps we can come to a final agreement at that time.”

  Samkit motioned the servants to leave. She was closing the door when Chiang said, “Entertainment has been arranged for tonight, should you care to partake. Perhaps you would also be interested in what has been arranged for the day you leave.” Samkit could not see the men but sensed their interest. “Have you ever seen a Kran execution?” Chiang asked. “It is a very ritualized beheading with a sword in which the executioner must first demonstrate his expertise by cutting off the head of a bullock with one stroke—one bullock for each of the condemned. The executioner and two bullocks arrive tomorrow. I think you will find it most entertaining.”

  Samkit slipped the doors closed and ran from the compound, seeking out the anthropologist, her contact. The demons were thriving on the evil imbalance that had descended over them.

  Bethesda Naval Hospital, Maryland

  The reading lamp was turned down low as Pontowski gazed at his sleeping wife. As at all hospitals, a stillness had descended over the corridors in the late evening and only an occasional hushed footstep could be heard passing in the hall. Pontowski calculated that Dr. Smithson was hovering outside, hoping to talk to him and bask in the glory of advising the President of the United States. How silly, he thought. Matthew Zachary Pontowski did not have a vain bone in his body. Age had done that to him. But at times he delighted in being contrary and pricking the bubble of self-importance that some people inflated around their egos. Smithson was one of those people and only his undeniable competence kept him in Tosh’s service. Pontowski preferred the company of people like Edith Washington, the head nurse on the floor, Mazie Kamigami, or Leo Cox.

  He wasn’t drowsy in the least and wondered if the need for less sleep was one of the compensations nature gave the old in their last years when time was most precious. He savored the quiet hours when he had time to think and it was comforting that he could remember recent events and new facts with the same clarity as a thirty-year-old man. He knew he was lucky in that regard but worried that the years would dim his judgment.

  Oh, Tosh, he thought, how much longer do we have? Where’s the justice in it all? I never understood what love meant when I was young. Can I do this alone? I do need to talk to you for I’m not sure if I’m doing this one right. Bobby Burke may have assassinated two people, one his own employee. It was too convenient and solved too many problems. I can’t allow that and will nail his hide to the wall if it is true. Or should I ignore it for now? Is that the wise thing to do? And with the next election just around the corner, I’ve got to derail Courtland—this country doesn’t need a packaged demagogue for President—and I’m too old to run even if the Constitution allowed a third term. This could be a rare opportunity to get him. Nothing kills a controversy like success. But what a game to play with those kids caught in the middle. I do want to get them out, but not at the expense of more lives.

  But long and hard experience would not be denied and Pontowski knew there was a price to be paid regardless of what course of action he chose. Well, get on with it, he chastised himself. You know what has to be done. If Mike Cagliari’s right, we can pull it off. That would nail Courtland’s hide to the wall. But Chiang has got to be expecting another rescue attempt now.

  Then he remembered another time when the enemy had been expecting him and his mood brightened. There was nothing wrong with his memory or judgment. He finally dozed off, thinking about lighthouses in the night. The door cracked open and nurse Edith Washington looked in. She slipped into the room and checked on Tosh. Then she spread a blanket over the sleeping President of the United States and quietly left, leaving the light on low.

  “I don’t care what your orders were about not being disturbed,” she mumbled to herself. “That was for that fool Smithson.” Edith Washington had long ago claimed Matthew Zachary Pontowski as one of her patients.

  1943

  RAF Hunsdon, Hertfordshire, England

  Zack led the four-ship contingent of Mosquitoes on the short flight from Sculthorpe to RAF Hunsdon. The weather was cold and clear and they flew at a leisurely 250 mph, taking twenty-five minutes to make the hop. They entered the circuit and Zack decided to land last, after the other three ships were safely down. He was on downwind when the first ship touched down. From his vantage point, it looked like a perfect three-point landing and the tail wheel came down with the mains. Suddenly, the Mosquito ground-looped to the left. The Mossie had just stung one of its more experienced pilots. “What the hell,” Zack muttered. “Not a good first impression.” The 487 Squadron was scheduled to move from Sculthorpe to Hunsdon in a few days to join with 21 and 464 squadrons. The three squadrons made up 140 Wing, which was part of the RAF’s 2 Group, which, in turn, was part of the newly formed allied Second Tactical Air Force.

  “I hope he didn’t bend the oleos,” Ruffy said, thinking about how the oleo struts on the main gear could collapse on a ground loop.

  Zack radioed the Mossie on the ground. “Sammy, are you still in one piece? What went wrong?”

  “It was worse than it looked,” came the answer. “There’s a blasted dip in the runway short of the halfway mark. Watch for it.”

  “Tango aircraft,” Zack radioed to his other Mosquitoes, “land on the
mains.” By changing to the nonstandard landing technique, he was certain that they would all land without further incident.

  The Mosquitoes landed smoothly and all four taxied into the same dispersal area. A small van was waiting and bused them the five miles to Uxbridge, the headquarters for Second Tactical Air Force. Their station commander from RAF Sculthorpe, a tall, blond-haired group captain, was waiting for them in the briefing room. Sammy, the pilot who was still smarting from the good-natured kidding he had been subjected to for his spectacular landing, was the first to enter the room. “My God,” he said in a loud stage whisper as they shuffled into chairs, “it’s the movie star.” The group captain was the legendary Percy Charles Pickard, the star of the documentary movie Target for Tonight. Pickard had four years of continual operational experience and was one of the best pilots that ever climbed into a Mosquito. With the exception of Zack and Ruffy, the men were all well-acquainted with Pickard.

  Pickard came right to the point. “It appears that Four-eighty-seven Squadron”—he checked them over with a stern look—“has been given a singular honor, not withstanding its, ah, unusual landing techniques.”

  Zack stood up. “Sir,” he said, “that was my decision.”

  “A bit much,” Pickard deadpanned, “for a new flight lieutenant, don’t you think?” Zack had sewn on his new rank two days before the flight. He blushed brightly. Pickard let him off the hook. “In my wing, the goal is to get safely down. Do that and I’m happy. Shall we get on with why you’re here?” He called the room to attention and the commander of 2 Group, Air Vice Marshal Basil Embry, entered the room. Two men followed him carrying a cloth-covered board. The men immediately recognized it as a target model and sucked in their breath. Scale models were only built for extremely important and hard-to-hit targets.

  Embry was even more direct than Pickard. “The powers that be at Two TAF have decided to give you a chance to even the score with Jerry at Dunkirk. Word has it that the PM himself has taken an interest in the operation and specifically requested that Four-eighty-seven Squadron do the honors. Why he should be so personally involved escapes me, but, needless to say, it does show considerable high-level interest in the target. That’s why Group Commander Pickard and you are here. We’ve got to do it right this time.”

  Zack gave an inward groan and stood up again. “Excuse me, sir. But I may be responsible for that.”

  “Now that is a bit much for a new flight lieutenant, don’t you think?” Pickard quipped and the men roared with laughter. Zack related the part of the conversation he had had with Churchill about the E-boats and sat down.

  Embry thought for a moment and then whipped the cloth cover off the target model. It was the harbor at Dunkirk. “Perhaps, Mr. Pontowski,” Embry said, “you have some ideas on how to successfully strike this target?” He motioned for the men to gather around the model. It was a scale replica of the harbor that simulated what the crews would see from an altitude of one thousand feet four miles away. The E-boat docks were in man-made caverns buried under what looked like a peninsula crowded with low buildings. The peninsula stretched eastward into the water from the western side of the harbor and ended in a forty-foot concrete cliff that dropped straight into the water. Embry pointed to two tunnels that were set in the water at the base of the cliff. “These are the entrances to the pens,” he said. “The pens extend approximately two thousand feet back. Your task is to toss your bombs into the entrances.” A half-smile cracked his face. “They do expect miracles now. But you only have yourselves to blame for it. You chaps have become too good at low-level bombing, especially when the target has vertical development against which your bombs can be thrown.” He pointed to the low buildings on top. “The Gestapo has discouraged bombing by crowding French workers and prisoners into these quarters, which makes pinpoint accuracy mandatory.”

  “How many aircraft will attack the target?” Zack asked.

  “You four,” Embry answered.

  “Can I pick the time?” Zack asked.

  “Certainly.”

  “Then we can take them out.”

  Zack had reasoned that since the Germans had been expecting the first attack on the pens, they would be expecting a second. In order to unlock the door to the E-boats, it would be necessary to get the German looking elsewhere. He had sold Embry and Pickard on the idea that the four Mosquitoes should enter the area single-ship at night and act as Intruders. “We need to spread a great deal of Moskitopanik around,” he had told them. “Once the Jerries are convinced we are Intruders operating single-ship, we rendezvous and go against Dunkirk at first light. We come at them from the south, a direction they are not expecting.” The crews were enthusiastic and all were confident they could navigate with the precision necessary to make the rendezvous in the early-morning dark.

  Zack and Ruffy were flying K for King, their own Mosquito, and for once, it performed like Romanita. “That new filter,” Ruffy said over the intercom, “did wonders on the Merlins.” The two 1,460-horsepower Merlin Mark 21s were singing in perfect harmony, performing as never before.

  “His name is Brian,” Zack said. “It’s hard to believe that an eighteen-year-old kid can be a first-class mechanic. He says he wants to work on race cars after the war.”

  “He’s got the talent,” Ruffy allowed. He made a mental note to pay more attention to the way Zack drew the best out of those around him. Ruffy had seen how most everyone was attracted to the young American; everyone except Wilhelmina Crafton. He bent over the new bomb sight that had been recently installed on K for King and checked their drift as they coasted in over Holland. He then ran a check on the indices. “Spot on,” he said. “Much better than the old Mark Nine.” He sat upright and concentrated on finding identifiable landmarks in the night: a unique set of locks on a canal, a bend in a river, or a certain bridge. Within minutes they were approaching Doorn and looking for House Doorn, the Kaiser’s old residence. Zack wracked the Mossie into a tight turn, skirting the edge of the town. “Break!” Ruffy shouted. A stream of tracers reached up toward them from the grounds of House Doorn. “Jerry has moved in a damn ack-ack battery,” Ruffy groused.

  “I can’t believe it,” Zack said. “We got three flashes from the roof. The Germans are taking off to the west out of Soesterberg. Someone is taking a hell of a chance to send that signal.”

  “Or it’s a setup,” Ruffy warned.

  “I wonder?” Zack said. His inner warning bells were quiet and he decided to trust the signal. He headed to the west.

  An old man sat in the attic at House Doorn and listened to the sound of heavy footsteps run up the stairs. He made a hurried phone call and uttered the code word that meant the Germans were onto him and he was in imminent danger of being captured. Then he ripped the special wiring out of the telephone and draped an orange banner, the forbidden color of the Dutch royal family, over his shoulders and waited. He smiled at the soldier who clubbed him into unconsciousness.

  “Tallyho!” Zack called, catching a glimpse of a dark shadow at his ten o’clock. His hands automatically flew over the controls, setting K for King up for combat. The aircraft leaped forward and the airspeed indicator touched 340 mph. “Hot dog!” Zack shouted. “We’re hauling bombs and she’s going like a striped-ass ape!”

  “Don’t get too enthusiastic,” Ruffy warned him. But he was also impressed.

  Zack rolled in behind the shadow and closed for the kill. But now his inner warning bell came alive and he hesitated. Ruffy’s hand flashed out and hit the gun master switch, disabling the machine guns and cannons as he yelled, “It’s a Mossie! One of ours.”

  “Roger,” Zack replied as he pulled off. “That was a close one.”

  Ruffy hit the gun master switch again. “Guns are armed.” He checked his watch. “We’ve still got ten minutes to use up. We can’t use House Doorn as a departure point now.” The plan called for them to use DR, or dead reckoning, to navigate to the rendezvous point with the other three Mosquitoes. But for DR to w
ork, they had to start at a known point. In this case, Ruffy had picked House Doorn as the departure point. They discussed alternatives, but the points that could be easily found at night, such as bridges, were also heavily defended and it would be very difficult for Ruffy to rework the route in the cramped confines of the cockpit at night.

  The decision was simple. “Better the enemy we know,” Zack said. “We’ll start at Doorn and fly right over them as low as possible. They might think we’re one of theirs.”

  “Don’t bet on it,” Ruffy said. They made one more circuit of Soesterberg looking for activity. “Well, they should definitely know we’re here by now,” Ruffy said. Again, he checked his watch. “Time to head for Doorn.”

  Zack turned to the south for their departure point, trusting his instincts. He was preparing to change course at the slightest tingle of that strange inner warning. Nothing. He set the rpm at 3,000 and dropped to fifty feet, skimming the treetops. Again, the Merlins willingly responded and the airspeed indicator climbed to 360. The machine seemed to be working better and better as the mission went on. “Brian has performed magic on these Merlins,” he quipped.

  “Set course one-nine-zero,” Ruffy said as they approached House Doorn. They flashed over a few feet above the rooftop and Ruffy started his stopwatch. The crew tending the antiaircraft battery was totally surprised and there was no reaction. Zack honked back on the throttles and rooted their airspeed on 300. “New course one-six-five in five seconds,” Ruffy told him. He counted the seconds down and when the hand on the stopwatch touched twenty-four seconds into the leg, Zack turned to the new heading. “Crossing the Rhine in thirty-six seconds,” Ruffy said. They saw the silver band snaking across the flat Dutch country side and crossed it two seconds ahead of schedule. For the next thirty minutes they worked their way southwest to the rendezvous point over the flat fields of Flanders in Belgium. Sweat streaked Ruffy’s face as he used time and heading to navigate. He would strain to find some feature on the ground that would confirm they were on time and on course. He trusted Zack to keep the airspeed riveted on 300 and the course indicator welded to each new heading that he gave him. The faith the two men had in each other was absolute and unshakable.