Three minutes later, Cagliari barged into the Situation Room. He listened impassively while Mazie detailed the situation for him. Before he could respond, Mackay’s voice came over the SatCom. “Hammer, this is Fastback. I’ve ordered Bigboot to move out of the jungle and run the road. They’ve been told to commandeer a vehicle if possible.”
Cagliari stroked his beard. “It might work,” he finally allowed.
“Are you going to tell the President?” she asked.
She didn’t like the answer. “No…you are…. As soon as he returns from the hospital. I’m going to the Pentagon and I’ll link up with you when I’m in the NMCC” He was out the door. The sick feeling in Mazie’s stomach was back.
The Golden Triangle, Burma
The compound was quiet when Heather returned to her room. She sat down in front of a mirror and stared at her reflection. Slowly she rubbed her cheek. Then she saw Samkit sitting in a corner. “You didn’t have to wait for me,” Heather said tonelessly. Samkit rose and padded across the room, picked up a brush and started to stroke her hair. The heavy odor of sex was still on her. “Morihama likes me” was all Heather said.
“You should sleep in another room tonight,” Samkit said. Heather stood up and followed Samkit to the servants’ wing. She moved automatically, without emotion, not questioning, only obeying. Samkit pushed her into a deserted room and helped her into bed without undressing. Samkit waited until the girl’s breathing smoothed and drifted into the comforting currents of sleep. She left, locked the door behind her, and hurried into the kitchen to see if there was more news. A cook told her that a stranger had arrived and was demanding a huge meal and a girl for his bed. Another servant reported that he was sharpening a long sword and asking about me two Americans he was to “test.”
“He’s the executioner,” the cook announced, sure of himself. He repeated all the rumors coursing through the compound.
Samkit yawned and left, telling them that she was tired and going home. Outside, she hurried across the compound to the barracks where a gardener had told her the two condemned Americans were being held. A soldier stopped her at the entrance and shoved her into the guard shack. He was bored and studied Samkit. “What are you doing here so late?’ he demanded.
“They say the Americans are going to be separated from their heads tomorrow and I wanted to see them.” She studied the guard, gauging his reaction. “Maybe I can get a lock of their hair,” she whispered.
The guard nodded, understanding. He had heard of different potions that could be made with such ingredients, “The general has given orders not to let anyone see them. He’d have my head with theirs if he heard….” He stroked her shoulder.
Samkit moved to him and rubbed her body against him, knowing what the price was. He pulled her blouse open and stroked her breasts. Samkit closed her eyes and waited until he was finished. She tried to make the right sounds and movements at the proper time. It was over in less than two minutes. “Now get out of here, old woman,” he growled as he buttoned his pants.
Her fury blazed as she tugged her clothes in place. She started to leave, only to whirl on him. “A curse brews strong when I have part of you in me,” she snarled. He backed away as a white-hot wrath built in the small woman. She started the chant that would call down a nat, one of the ancient spirits that inhabited their world. Fear and superstition held a primitive power over all the soldiers, and the image she evoked was real for the simple and illiterate man.
“Please,” he begged, offering her all his money and possessions. But there was no mercy in Samkit as she conjured the nat. The soldier collapsed to his knees, wailing his own death lament.
“If you do what I ask,” Samkit said when she had finished, “I will release the nat and lift the curse.” He begged her to tell him what she wanted. “Show me where the Americans are being kept and let me talk to them.” He jerked his head in agreement and led her to the cells. He opened the door and let her in. “Go,” Samkit ordered. The guard hurried back to his post. “Listen carefully,” Samkit whispered to DC. “After I leave, lie on the floor and pull the sleeping pallet over you for protection. If you hear anything, be very quiet, close your eyes and open your mouth. Yawn deeply and cover your ears with your hands.” DC told her that she understood. “I need a lock of your hair,” Samkit said, pulling out a small pair of scissors from the black bag she carried. Then she moved over to Ricky’s cell, repeated her instructions, and clipped a lock of his hair.
On the way out, Samkit showed the guard the hair she had taken and told him that she would release the not when the Americans were dead. Once out of sight, she slipped off her sandals and ran for the service gate on the other side of the compound. When she reached the outside, the rain came down, soaking her to the skin as she ran down the road. She was barefoot and her saronglike tubular skirt snapped against her legs. In frustration, she pulled the skirt up to free her legs and ran faster. Through mist in front of her she caught a glimpse of three trucks parked beside the road. She recognized them as the supply trucks that arrived early every morning at the compound. A hand reached out of the shadows and grabbed her. “Samkit,” a heavy male voice growled. It was the German anthropologist.
“The general is going to kill the Americans tomorrow,” she gasped.
The German did not question her information. He had learned from long experience that Samkit, as were many servants in this part of the world, was an unimpeachable source of information. He unsnapped a small radio from his belt and spoke rapidly into the microphone.
The monkey of command was firmly on Mackay’s back as he talked to the two colonels still orbiting in Thai airspace in E-Squared’s MC-130. “Hammer copied all,” Mallard said, confirming that he had all the details.
Mackay looked at Kamigami and the captain who was to lead Fastback into the compound and storm Chiang’s villa. “Decision time,” he told the two men. They all appreciated that the two colonels were waiting for Mackay’s recommendation as the on-scene commander. “No word from Bigboot and we have to make contact with the trucks now. I’m going to recommend an abort.” It pained him to say it and fatigue drew his face into tired lines. The captain’s lips were compressed into a tight line and he said nothing.
“Sir,” Kamigami said, “Captain Woodward is with Bigboot.” Mackay shot the sergeant major a hard look. But he said nothing, waiting for Kamigami to make his point. “If anyone can get Bigboot into position, he can.” The sergeant shut up. He had said enough.
Mackay’s eyes drew into narrow slits. He would find out later how the British captain had managed to come along but for now, he evaluated how his presence changed the situation. Woodward had repeatedly proved himself to be the most resourceful special forces operative Mackay had ever met. It was a new factor in the equation. “We could slip the attack thirty minutes,” he said, “so Woodward can get Bigboot into place. While he’s doing that, we make contact with the trucks and move into position. If Bigboot doesn’t do their thing, we know that they didn’t make it. Then we abort, cut and run. Hammer can coordinate it, have the helicopters moving toward us for a rapid extraction if things go to shit, and have Specter ready to give us cover. Your thoughts.”
Fastback’s captain allowed a terse, “Hell, plans are man-made, not God-made. Run it past Hammer.”
Kamigami gave a sharp nod and Mackay’s radio operator handed him the mike. In their own way, the men of Delta had voted. They weren’t about to let it go after coming so far.
The White House, Washington, D.C.
“Put me in contact with the national security adviser,” Pontowski told the staff officer managing the Situation Room.
“Mr. Cagliari is in the NMCC,” the lieutenant colonel said, “on line one.”
Pontowski picked up his phone and motioned for Mazie Kamigami and Leo Cox to do the same. “We’ve seen the message recommending the attack be delayed thirty minutes while Bigboot moves into place,” he said to Cagliari. “What do you and Admiral Scovill think?”
Scovill was the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs.
“I recommend we abort now, Mr. President,” Cagliari answered. “Admiral Scovill says to give them the thirty minutes and if it doesn’t go down then to get the hell out of Dodge.”
The President held the phone lightly on his shoulder, suddenly feeling his age. The ultimate decision was his to make. He had set the operation in motion, had given the orders that put Delta Force in harm’s way, and now he had only minutes to decide if it should continue. No matter what he decided, someone was going to die. How perverse life is, he thought, just like the run on Amiens jail in 1944. Would his history never let him go? He remembered the time he sat in a Mosquito fighter-bomber on Hunsdon Airfield in a driving snowstorm that threatened to turn to rain. And he remembered wanting to go regardless of the risk.
Cox caught his eye. “Sir, Dr. Smithson is on line two. He says it’s urgent.”
The bulldog image of Winston Churchill standing alone in his library came to him. “You always saw their faces, didn’t you?” he muttered aloud. He scratched a brief one-line message on the note pad in front of him—his decision—and handed it to Cox. The chief of staff read the message and looked at him. “I’m going to the hospital,” Pontowski said. “Will you please stay on top of things here.” He rose and walked out of the room, now an old man, but still upright and walking alone.
1944
“Mr. Pontowski,” the voice urged, dragging him out of a deep sleep. He was vaguely aware that it was still very early and, as usual, the central heat in the room was off. He could see an image standing in the partially opened door to the room he and Ruffy shared in the officers quarters. His vision cleared. It was his batwoman.
“What is it, Barnes?”
“You’re wanted in the Operations Block, Mr. Pontowski.” She hesitated to be sure he would not fall back asleep. “Just you, sir. Mr. Ruffum isn’t needed.” When he sat upright and placed his feet firmly on the floor, she closed the door. “Coo,” she mumbled to herself, “wouldn’t mind him getting a leg over.” She had a vision of herself as the other participant in that activity. A few minutes later, he was fully dressed and headed out the door. Barnes was waiting with his overcoat. “Nasty outside,” she told him as he put it on. He nodded and disappeared into the early-morning dark. “Please come back, sir,” she whispered.
Squadron Leader John Maitland was waiting for him. Fatigue and strain had turned his fire-scarred face into a hard mask. “Pick’s inside with Embry,” he said. “Well, old boy, it’s today or not at all.” It was Friday, the eighteenth of February, 1944.
“Christ,” Zack swore, “have you seen the weather? It’s miserable. Driving snow and rain.”
“I do look out the window” came the answer.
Inside the office, Pickard paced slowly back and forth, puffing on his pipe. Air Vice Marshal Embry, the commander of 2 Group, sat quietly at the desk, staring at the message in his hands. He came right to the point when the two men entered. “The Gestapo has set the executions for tomorrow. We don’t know the times and the French Underground has sent a desperate appeal. It must be today.”
“The weather is absolutely rotten,” Maitland said.
“I am aware of that,” Embry said. “Met says it should be clear over the Continent. So it’s really a matter of launching, isn’t it?”
Pickard puffed on his pipe. “And joining up in formation, and navigating at low level to avoid Jerry’s radar, and making rendezvous with the Tiffies, and finding the bloody place.” The men could tell he was straining at the leash, wanting to have a go at the prison.
“What does Bill say?” Embry asked. Flight Lieutenant J. A. “Bill” Broadley was Pickard’s friend and navigator.
“You know Bill,” Pickard answered. “If I can get the Mossie into the air, he can get us there.”
“What about your man?” Embry asked Zack.
“Much the same story,” Zack replied. He almost added that the ability of the crews was not the deciding factor—it was the lousy weather. He had seen it before and fell silent. The two commanders were caught up in the agony of decision, a decision that spelled the death of some of their men. It was a personal equation that each had to work through, weighing factors that could not be quantified, visualizing how each man selected for the mission would perform, wondering if one or two was nearing the “twitch,” that nervous tic that warned of combat fatigue, calculating if the cost was worth the result.
“There really isn’t a choice,” Pickard finally said. “If this bloody weather cracks and we can get off the ground, we go.” Embry nodded in agreement. “I’d like to lead the mission,” Pickard said. Embry’s face froze but he said nothing. “I’ll go in with the second squadron,” Pickard continued, “and see if we need to call in the third squadron to complete the job. If the walls have enough holes in them and I see prisoners escaping, we’ll all scamper for home.”
Embry drummed his fingers on the table. “Charles,” he said, before biting his words off. Embry had originally intended to lead the wing himself but was sidelined by his superiors. Now he was worried because Pickard had recently come off night ops and had only flown six daytime missions. Was he fully tuned into daytime operations like Zack was? Again, Embry ran through his personal agony. Pickard was a natural leader, that rare combination of skill, personality, and physical presence that men trusted and would follow through hell. He sensed that Pickard’s presence on the mission increased the chances of success. And that was the bottom line. “Well, then,” he finally said, his decision made. “Which squadron shall do the honors and lead the attack?”
“We’ll toss a coin at the briefing,” Pickard said. Zack felt better knowing that Pickard would be leading the mission.
“When shall we rouse the crews?” Embry asked.
“I had planned for a six o’clock call with the briefing at eight,” Maitland replied.
“I’ll be at the briefing,” Embry told them. “Please keep an eye on the weather.”
The word went out and the crews were awakened at exactly six o’clock. Most of them glanced out of the window in disbelief. Blinding gusts of snow obscured most of the base. The meteorological staff was on the short end of many obscene comments as the men made their way to the dining room. They fell silent when healthy servings of eggs were ladled out. Eggs and the number of crews called out meant a big op was in the making. At ten minutes before eight o’clock, the Tannoy squawked and sent the crews to the briefing room in the Operations Block.
The men were numb from the cold and were slapping hands and stomping their feet when Pickard entered. They came to attention when Embry followed him into the room. He took the low stage and began with the traditional first words. “Gentlemen, your target for today is Amiens.” The surprise came next. “We are going to attack not the railroad marshaling yards, which you have all come to know intimately, but the prison.” Pickard removed the sheet over the papier-mâché model. Embry said, “The Gestapo is being its usual bloody self and is going to execute more than a hundred French Resistance workers tomorrow. Both men and women. We are going to breach the walls, break Amiens wide open, and give them a reasonable hope of escape. I asked the weather prophet if God was helping with the weather and he reports moderate visibility in the target area. I do hope that is the case. The French tell me that the prisoners would rather be killed by our bombs than German bullets.
“We’re calling it Operation Jericho, very appropriate under the circumstances. Group Captain Pickard will be leading the wing”—the quiet looks and nodding of heads among the eighteen crews indicated it was the right choice—“and Squadron Leader Maitland will cover the details. Right, then. John, it’s all yours.”
Maitland stood up and covered the attack and the route that had been selected to ingress the target area. “We want to keep Jerry guessing until the last minute as to the actual target Even when he identifies Amiens as the target, he should be looking at the marshaling yards, not the prison. But the ‘boys from Abbevill
e’ should be up and about. So remember the daytime rules: in fast, out fast. Don’t go around for reattack. Those who fight and run away, live to fight another day. We’ve seen some recent improvements in the Focke-Wulf. The kite is definitely faster than a Mossie above twenty thousand feet, so don’t go there. You still have the speed advantage down low. Use it By the way, there will be a Mossie from the Film Unit going along to see what job you make of it. Look pretty, please.”
There was no doubt in Zack’s mind that every man in the room wanted part of the action. “No doubt,” Pickard said as he stood up, “you’ve been wondering who will go in first.” He looked at the three squadron leaders who commanded 21, 464, and 487 squadrons. “Coins please, gentlemen. First toss for who flies in reserve. Odd man out.” They flipped the coins and 21 Squadron, the British component of the wing, came up odd. Rude remarks from the British pilots. “It’s between the Aussies and Kiwis,” Pickard said. “I’ll call it in the air.” The two men flipped their coins. “Heads leads the attack,” Pickard said. The New Zealanders won the toss and a grim feeling of determination washed over Zack. His squadron, 487, would lead the attack and go after the walls while 464 Squadron, the Australians, would bomb the main building.
“Makes one proud to be an honorary Kiwi.” Ruffy grinned. “Good thing the Aussies got part of the action,” he added.
“Why’s that?” Zack wondered.
“This is all red meat. Look at them. They would have skinned and tanned their commander if he had come up reserve.” Ruffy was right. The Australians were definitely out for blood on this one. The British pilots did not look happy.
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