Harrison ignored this. "Winston, you mustn't go public. This country has just finished one war and still has two hundred thousand troops in China committed to a cause nobody outside of government feels is worth dying over. I'm losing more and more support in Congress every day on that. The last thing the American public wants is another fight, and if they don't see the cause for it just as clear as clear can be, they'll turn you down flat."
"The American people are tougher than you think. They will fight."
Andrew felt the sting of the rebuke and spoke more personally than he otherwise might have. "Winston, your mother is from the American upper crust, and for an Englishman that may give you some special insight into my people, but I'm telling you that without a clear enemy we will not fight."
"There is no clearer enemy than Hitler."
"We both know that. The Lord knows we do. But some of the characters up on the Hill will play this for their own political gain and the hell with what's best for this country, to say nothing of what's best for England. They'll wring their hands and talk about the coffins coming home from overseas adventures, and how England dragged us into the first war and almost got us into a two-front war back in '41. If you give them the ammunition, I will lose my majority. Consider what that would mean for England. Wait, Winston, wait for '47. We've got a lot of young fellows, veterans who know what it's all about, running for office. They will recognize the nature of the threat."
"By then, Andrew, all of us on this side will know, in the most intimate way, the nature of the threat."
Harrison winced, but his voice was clear and firm. "Maybe so, Winston, but I can't do my job on a 'maybe.' so I'm asking you not to rock the boat. Get your air force on alert, move up your maneuver schedule if you think you must, but don't make that speech."
There was a long pause. The crackling static rose and fell like waves.
"All right, Andrew, I'll hold back. But one more piece of evidence and—"
"We'll cross that when and if we come to it, Winston," Andrew replied quietly.
"Andrew, we will cross it sooner than you think."
"I think you are right on the facts, but not on the timing. We've got to play a close hand until there's a smoking gun."
"Must we await another Pearl Harbor?"
Andrew slowly turned his chair around to look out at the snow which was now falling thick and heavy. "If need be, yes," he whispered, "though anything on that scale would have to be aimed at you, not us."
"I'm aware of that," the war leader of the English replied. "Though I doubt the Germans shall find us so unprepared as the Japanese found you."
"Not with our example to guide you. Keep your guard up, Winston."
"And you yours, Andrew, and you yours."
Both men were certain they were prepared for whatever might come to pass. Both were in for a surprise.
CHAPTER NINE
April 13
Charleston Harbor
"America," Otto Skorzeny said quietly, nodding toward the lights of Charleston on the horizon.
Hans said nothing, spitting over the railing, suppressing yet another urge to vomit.
"We'll be landing soon, Hans."
"For Christ's sake, next time throw me out of a plane without a parachute," Hans moaned. Leaning over the railing, he dry-heaved once more.
Skorzeny struggled not to emulate him. The ocean was still rough, with seas at eight to ten feet, but it was a blessing compared to what they had endured for most of the crossing. Seasickness was the last thing he had ever worried about in his life and, as a paratrooper, the mere thought of it somehow implied a certain weakness. The fact that he had spent a fair part of the crossing either in the head or on his cot had filled him with self-loathing. His men knew better than to dream of saying anything, yet he could sense their amusement, even though half of them had suffered as much as he had. Well, he supposed that once back on dry land he might regain a sense of humor about it himself.
Right now, however . . . struggling with dizziness, he looked over at Hans.
If he would have no mercy with himself, that was reason enough not to spare anyone else. Besides, they had no time to coddle each other. "Remember the briefing, Hans. If anything happens to me, it's your job to take over."
Hans nodded. "Why the concern, Colonel?"
"Remember. We know General Marshall will be at the target along with a number of their top scientists from Los Alamos. Richer has the information as well. Regardless of that, he might get lost coming in. I want Marshall and those people hit. Do you understand me? You are to take care of it personally."
"Sir."
Skorzeny turned as the captain of the freighter approached him. He, along with the rest of the crew, was hand picked from the French Fascist Party, but it still made Skorzeny nervous that the captain knew his identity.
"My crew has been sent belowdecks," the captain reported. "Your pickup boat is coming alongside."
Skorzeny nodded acknowledgment.
"Get the men up, Hans."
Hans started to salute and then let his hand drop. Turning, he slowly weaved his way across the deck, the captain watching him with the mock sympathy that all sailors have for those who have recently sacrificed to the sea gods.
As Hans went below, Skorzeny joined the captain at the railing where he was peering into the fog and spray that hung low over the water.
"Anything on radar?"
"Some traffic, nothing suspicious. The Coast Guard has a cutter chasing down a small boat in distress about ten miles south of here. I think you'll have a clear run in." The captain laughed softly. "It's an open sieve, this country. You could run the Tirpitz right into the harbor and open fire before they woke up."
Otto said nothing. Unknown to the captain, the small boat the cutter was looking for was part of the plan. But even so, he'd not relax until they were ashore.
He heard the low muffled rumble of a diesel engine. From out of the wisps of fog and spray a fishing trawler emerged. Their pickup. Skorzeny looked back over his shoulder and saw his men coming up from below decks, each of them taking a deep gasp of fresh air as he finally emerged from the dank hold where they had stay throughout the crossing.
Skorzeny studied them for a moment, then turned back to his third in command. "Gear check, Gunther." Punctiliously they went down the list: radios, navigation beacons, signal flares, civilian clothing, personal weapons. ... As they did so, Gunther Rothmann slap the boxes that they had brought up from below.
At last, "Everything secured." Gunther knew that Skorzeny would have been shocked beyond measure to discover that a single item of equipment was missing or out of place; he also knew that unlike many officers Skorzeny would insist on this personal checkoff until the day he died, a day that might come much later, thanks to his careful habits.
As they were going over the equipment, the trawler had sidled up along the freighters leeward side, matching speed as her crew tossed fenders over the railing. With surprising delicacy, considering the chop of the sea and the masses involved, it brushed up against the side of the freighter, rebounded, touched again. The captain gestured for some of the commandos to help him manhandle a rope ladder over the side. Down on the trawler two of the crew grabbed the dangling end as it jerked back and forth.
While he and Hans were going over the list, the men had been busy hooking lines to the boxes. Now they began gingerly lowering them over the side. Skorzeny watched the operation nervously, breathed a sigh of relief as each one thumped the deck below and was hustled off to concealment by the trawler crew. Everything had been packed so that if a box were lost or damaged there was back-up equipment in the other boxes, but he did not want to lose any of that reserve.
When the last of the boxes had been lowered, Skorzeny ordered the group to line up for a final inspection. As they did so he asked, "You have all double-checked yourselves and then checked each other before coining up?"
They nodded in unison.
"All clothing is A
merican? No personal identification on any of you? Not even a photo? You're all clean?"
More nods.
He walked down the line of seven men, looking over each in turn. Even though they were dressed as laborers, it was obvious from their conditioning that they were professionals. That was his one concern: their simple physical perfection would not bear the examination of a knowing eye. Had there been time he would have deconditioned them, forcing them to sit around swilling beer and eating great masses of greasy food while their comrades labored like demons. Perhaps had them constantly arm-wrestle each other, but only with their right arms to make them unbalanced, more like laborers.... A soldier's paradise, and how they would have loathed it. In a rare moment of humor that even overcame his seasickness he grinned at the thought.
Except for their remarkable physical fitness he had no fear for their ability to blend into the local population. Each spoke perfect American, and each had assumed and practiced a false identity for months in preparation for this mission. As for himself and Hans, they would pose as Polish refugees; few Americans could tell the one accent from the other. It was not a perfect solution, but it would serve, or so he hoped.
"Let's go," he said quietly as he swung himself over the side and started down the ladder. The dizziness from the twelve days of battling seasickness troubled him and he moved cautiously, gauging the relative motions of himself and the boat below, which was bobbing up and down on the eight-foot swells. He waited for the boat to start coming back up and—at not quite the right instant he let go of the rope ladder and jumped down, striking the deck hard. Almost before he had his breath back he became aware of the new, more emphatic, motions of the small boat; within seconds he was leaning over the side, cursing his weakness.
Emptied now, gasping for breath, he turned and straightened to watch his men, one after the other, come down. Even though they were all trained paratroopers, this type of landing was different from what they were used to, and for a seasick landsman, just as treacherous as parachuting into gusty winds.
When the rest had all landed successfully, Hans finally eased himself over the freighter's railing and started down. He hesitated for a moment, obviously in the throes of yet another spasm. Gunther muttered a curse when he was hit by some of the spume. The men around him chuckled softly.
Skorzeny lost patience. "Move it, Hans!"
His friend looked down at him, nodded bleakly, and continued his descent. At the final rung he stopped again, waited, and then stepped off the ladder, releasing his hold as he did so. Had he been more alert he might have detected the particularly heavy swell that raised the trawler up on a crest and simultaneously pushed it away from the side of the freighter. In that case he would have turned the step into a leap, or perhaps managed to snatch the ladder again. Instead, an aborted grab at the ladder caused the heel still on the rung to catch, and he slammed transversely along the trawler's gunnel.
Stunned, he began to slide headfirst toward the sea, but as he did so Gunther, lunging from several feet away, | snagged an ankle, and Hans managed a shallow one-handed grab onto the gunnel's edge. Still all might have been well, but then the trawler dropped into the trough, Hans's grip gave way, and he recommenced his slide, Gunther still clinging to his foot. Cursing, Otto staggered across the heaving deck to Gunther's side, reached out, and—the trawler surged back.
The sound of two ships slapping against each other was muffled by the human body between them. "Hang on to him!" Otto roared over Hans's screams as he leaned over and tried to add his grip to Gunther's. Hans continued to scream as the trawler scraped its way up the side of the freighter. Gunther, still clinging to his doomed comrade, was being dragged over as well.
Otto could see he was about to lose another man. He gave up on Hans to grab Gunther around the waist and pull him back aboard. As he did so, Gunther finally lost his grip on Hans's ankle. The sound of two hulls scraping ceased to be muffled by intervening flesh.
"We've got to get the body!" Skorzeny roared over at the trawler captain, who of course had been observing all of this. The captain, still at the wheel, shouted for his crew to cast loose from the ladder. Backing the trawler away from the freighter, his crew positioned themselves with boat hooks as Otto and his men lined the sides, straining to catch sight of Hans.
"I couldn't hold him," Gunther said quietly, coming to Skorzeny's side. I'm sorry."
"It wasn't your fault," Skorzeny replied in a dead voice, knowing too well whose fault it was. He continued to scan the dark waters.
"Do you want some light?" the captain asked. After a pause he added, "Even with lights we'll never spot him on a night like this."
Skorzeny balanced the dangers in his mind. Hans was dead—that he had known from the moment his friend had stopped screaming—and there was precious little chance of spotting his floating body, if it floated, in the failing light. Contrariwise, every minute they spent here would increase their chances of being spotted. Any one of the ships currently in the harbor or approaching the channel could be a Coast Guard vessel, and floodlights trained on the water's surface would certainly draw attention. "His rib cage must have been crushed; with his lungs collapsed maybe he went straight down," Skorzeny finally said. "Just get us out of here."
The captain, obviously relieved, swung the trawler around and throttled the engine up.
Skorzeny looked over at his men, who stood silent, dejected.
"Listen. Probably our comrade is sinking toward the bottom as we speak. But even if he washes up, the chance of anyone linking him to our operation is almost nonexistent. As for his dying, well, we all knew this operation would be the riskiest we'd ever done, Hans included. So now we carry on."
"But to die like that," Gunther replied sadly, "falling off a stinking fishing boat."
"Nonsense, Gunther. Even for us, death seldom comes before some stupid accident has rendered us vulnerable to the enemy. This was no different, and Hans would know that too." But it was different; in this little grotesquerie there had been no enemy.
With Hans gone, Gunther would have to be their primary radio operator. But Gunther wasn't Hans, a man who had been with him from the beginning. And Gunther was right: Hans had survived all the missions into Russia only to die senselessly because of being seasick and losing his footing. A sad, bad way to go.
The trawler turned into the main channel of Charleston Harbor, clearing Moultrie and Morris islands. Directly ahead, the lights of the city were now clearly in view, and in the middle of the harbor the dark foreboding bulk of Fort Sumter was silhouetted by the glare of the city.
The trawler turned out of the main channel, heading in behind Morris Island. Skorzeny watched intendy as it weaved its way through the maze of channel markers and headed toward a labyrinth of broken-down wharves. He went back to join the captain.
"Should we get below?"
"No one's there. We bought the marina a couple of years back. Our rents tended to be a little too high and the maintenance a little too sloppy, so folks moved elsewhere. It's nice and private now."
"You've run other teams in?"
Perhaps realizing that he had been overly talkative, the captain looked at him coldly. "Look. I don't ask your business and you don't ask mine. Do we understand each other?"
Smiling inwardly, Skorzeny nodded solemnly at the rebuke.
Breaking off the conversation, the captain slowed the boat and weaved his way through the final needle-thin inlet, and cut the engine as the trawler drifted up to bump gently into its slip. As it did so the crew, waiting poised on the gunnel, leaped to the wharf and tied the boat off.
"You've got a truck waiting for you at the end of the wharf. You'd best get your men and gear the hell out of here."
"Thank you, Captain."
The man simply nodded and turned to bark orders at his crew. Skorzeny wanted to suggest that a slightly reduced crispness might constitute better tradecraft, but resisted the temptation, and instead motioned for his men to grab their gear. A gangplan
k was thrown across the railing and the men started off.
The captain turned back to Otto.
"I don't normally pass out free advice, but you should let someone else—anyone else—do the talking."
"Thanks for the free advice," Skorzeny replied with a grin. "I was planning to."
"Good luck."
Skorzeny shook the captain's hand, and then turned to follow his men to the waiting truck. As he did so, to his immense delight he realized that he was no longer seasick.
It was a joy to be alive.
April 14
Bergen, Norway
As the He-177 transport plane drifted to a stop, the door swung open and the strains of Deutschland Ober Alles entered along with the crisp northern air. To Field Marshal Erwin Rommel such ceremonies were one of the more annoying aspects of high command: No matter where he went, the local commander had to put on a show, and Rommel in turn had to pretend appreciation of the tinny band and the troops drawn up in review.
"It's not every day that our old commander, hero of North Africa, comes to visit us," Major General Hans Bayerling commented in response to Rommel's muttered complaint as they walked along the front rank, pretending to inspect it.
Yes, there had to be the brass band and its tinny music, and yes, there had to be the honor guard. But the inspection? That was gratuitous. Having at last reached the end of the interminable rank of soldiers, Rommel nodded curtly and stepped into the waiting black Mercedes, first having motioned for one of his aides to replace the driver. Once seated he beckoned for the man who had been one of his staff officers and later a divisional commander to join him.
When they were both settled, Rommel unbent a little. "It is good to see you again, Hans."
Bayerling smiled. "Nearly two years now since you left Africa. A long time, my friend."
In response, Rommel looked over to his Afrika Korps comrade and patted him on the shoulder.
Americans would be startled to discover the degree of camaraderie that existed not just between different ranks within the German officer corps, but between officers and rankers. Though the practice had its roots in the mutinous conditions prevalent in the German military at the end of the Great War, perhaps Germans could afford the informality because German society was so thoroughly status conscious —whereas Americans, so unready to grant superiority to anybody, needed the outward manifestations of rank because otherwise they would lose track of who issued orders and who took them. Whatever it said about the intrinsic merit of the two cultures, certainly the resulting increased unit cohesion, unanticipated side benefit or not, was a major advantage for the German side—
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