“Admiral-San,’ the man bowed deeply, “it is a great development we will present to you. A revolutionary weapon of war. Please, please, come in,” he begged.
Inside the concrete cavern four gargantuan submarines floated in individual pens. They were marked sequentially on their conning towers: I-400, 401, 402, and 403. Their boat numbers were also sequential 5230–5233, and they were the first four of a class of super submarines planned for a total of eighteen. They were also the only ones complete in their construction.
Most significantly, amidships of each submarine on the top deck was a cylindrical watertight aircraft hangar. Alone the hangar was the size of an average submarine. They were twenty-five percent of the ships 400-foot length.
“So this is Yamamoto’s secret weapon to attack American cities,” Hiroshi sneered.
“They have completed sea trials and will be ready soon for deployment.”
“What about the aircraft?”
“Seiran fighters are in flight test now, Admiral-San.”
“How many?”
“We shall build—”
“No, how many aircraft does each submarine hold?”
“Each chamber or hangar can hold three aircraft,” the engineer boasted.
“Three? Three aircraft? I lost four hundred in a single battle in the Marianas. What possible impact will three have?” It was a humiliating rebuke for the team, and all bowed their heads in disgrace except one. A naval aviator, he stepped forward.
“Admiral-San, the range of these ships is quite impressive. We can select high-value targets behind enemy lines, the Panama Canal for example. Or we could bomb their capitol as they bomb ours.”
Hiroshi contemplated the strategic and psychological impact. It would force the U.S. Navy to commit forces to the rear. They naturally would assume an aircraft carrier task force had slipped by them. It would strike panic and buy him time.
“Continue, Lieutenant Commander…?”
“Atsugi, sir.”
“Very well, Atsugi, we shall give it a top priority.”
10:29 Local, 7 May, 1945 (08:29 GMT, 7MAY)
Ferdinand Po’, Gulf of Guinea, Equatorial Africa
All four BMW Bramo 323 R-2 engines were at full power, straining to get the grossly overloaded Condor airborne. “One thousand feet remaining, rotate!” the co-pilot implored Franz.
“We do not have take-off speed.”
“Five hundred feet, ROTATE!”
“Nein.”
Enticing the nose up at the threshold, the pilot immediately raised the landing gear and then let the nose drop with the volcanic terrain, chasing the downslope to the ocean below he finally built enough air speed to start a climb.
“Turn west.” Both pilots turned to see General von Bassenheim standing calmly with his hands clasped behind his back. He raised a hand pointing a perfectly manicured finger to the west and then proceeded to the navigator’s station. “Plot a course to Joao Pessoa, Brazil.”
10:37 Local, 7 May, 1945 (08:37GMT, 7MAY)
Heereswaffenamt Kernphysik Command, Ohrdruf, Germany
Oberstleutnant Schroeder wrung his hands and tried to keep his knee from bouncing up and down. His heart pounded, and sweat ran in rivulets down his back even though the room was cool. He was in Wolf’s office, sitting at Wolf’s desk, in Wolf’s chair, and the SS colonel stood over him, staring. Just staring. Finally, Spike began to interrogate him.
“Where is Generalleutnant Wolfgang von Bassenheim?” Spike demanded.
“I have not seen him since yesterday.”
“You are certain you saw him yesterday?”
“Yes, I’m certain.”
“And that he left with an SS force in two trucks?”
Schroeder nodded. Gerhardt stepped forward. “Schroeder, what was in the assembly laboratory?”
“His project, as you no doubt remember. He was very secretive.”
“Who helped him in the assembly process?”
“He had three machinists, his own.”
“Where are they now? Send for them immediately.”
Schroeder called in a private and ordered him to retrieve the machinists. Spike waved over Koch and whispered into his ear.
“Go with him.”
“Major we have got to get out of here—” Koch responded.
“I have to understand what was here, what was taken. Go.”
While waiting for Wolf’s men, Schroeder finally summoned the courage to speak, to ask his old colleague the question everyone wanted to know.
“Hans, where have you been? There were rumors, but—”
“He has been working with us, that is all you need to know,” Spike snapped in response.
The private re-entered the room and reported the machinists were not in their rooms and their beds had not been slept in. Spike looked to Koch, who subtly nodded in agreement.
“Schroeder, did they leave with von Bassenheim?”
Knowing the answer, Gerhardt walked back to the elevator as Schroeder replied, “No.” Spike, Koch, and Schroeder followed Gerhardt down into the assembly laboratory and straight back to the break room. Flipping on the overhead light, he saw what he expected. All three machinists lay on the floor with a single shot to the head.
“He’s very efficient, your General Wolf.”
“You have no idea,” Gerhardt mumbled.
“What does that mean?”
“He could have had a workable weapon years ago, but would not lower his standards.”
“Explain.”
“He wanted a more efficient yield.”
“Why?”
“The Luftwaffe, as you know, has no long-range bombers. His goal was to fit the weapon into a V-1 rocket. An efficient yield means a smaller weapon.”
“The Luftwaffe has aircraft capable of reaching London—”
“But not America.”
“America, why?”
“He thought you—I mean them—impure. I told you, he is a true believer.”
Schroeder continued to stare at the grotesque bloodbath splattered across the floor. Spike called across the room.
“Schroeder, SCHROEDER!”
Startled, he looked up in fear.
“Where are the fatherland’s weapons, Oberstleutnant?”
He just shook his head in disbelief and confusion. Gerhardt watched him and suddenly looked up, snapping his fingers. “Kommen sie.”
They went up the elevator and out into courtyard, and then followed Gerhardt to the motor pool. He opened a log book and went down the page until he saw von Bassenheim’s name and tore out the page. Quickly he walked over to the trucks they had driven there and checked the serial numbers. They matched. He showed Spike the entries.
“Well that almost explains the family on the floor.”
“And the driver’s brains on the truck window,” Koch added.
Spike turned to Koch and issued orders to make sure the rest of the scientists and their families were loaded for immediate departure.
“I must find my family,” Gerhardt said quietly. Spike had been waiting for this; when they left he knew it would be the hardest part of the mission. Without replying, he turned to Schroeder and asked a question he already knew the answer to.
“Where is the colonel’s family?”
CHAPTER 9
11:29 Local, 7 May, 1945 (09:29 GMT, 7MAY)
Ohrdruf Airfield, Germany
Coagulated blood matted the blonde curls and stuck them to the floor. He could not stop looking at the horror. What have we become? echoed repeatedly in his mind. His thoughts raced out of control; he was coming apart. The smell of panicked sweat emanating from his own body mixed with those of the slaughter. No matter, soon I will join the field marshal’s family. They will not allow me to tell this tale.
Spike barged back into the room, still in the uniform of an SS colonel. The orderly looked up, fear painted across his face.
“Who did this?” Spike demanded.
“Ha!” the orderly le
t out in a shrill voice.
“As if you do not know!”
Gerhardt had not spoken since Schroeder informed him that his family had been taken by the Gestapo after he disappeared. Suddenly he lunged at the young man, yanked him off of the floor, and then slammed him against the wall.
“We are out of time and patience!”
Spike stepped in. “Colonel, I’ll handle this.”
“Go ahead and shoot me now! I no longer care. No doubt your SS general has realized his mistake by letting me live.”
“Was it von Bassenheim?”
“God Almighty, I didn’t ask his name!”
“Describe him.” Gerhardt demanded. The orderly looked between Gerhardt and Spike, and then spat out the words: “The perfect Nazi.”
That was enough for Gerhardt. He let go and the orderly slipped back down the wall. Spike continued.
“Age, hair, and eye color?”
“Young, blonde, with cold, steel blue eyes.”
“Did he wear the Knights Cross?” Hans asked, slumping into a chair and visibly deflating.
“Yes, he wore an Iron Cross.”
Outside, the scientists and their families began to crowd into the hall. There were fifty-eight including the children. Spike turned to his men and spoke in English. “We’ll need this space.”
The orderly’s eyes opened wide involuntarily.
“Sprechen sie Englisch korperliche?” Spike asked.
“Yes, little.”
Spike walked to where he sat on the floor and leaned down to him pulling out his U.S. dog tag. “Can you read this?” The orderly didn’t answer, turning away from the tag. “Show him, boys.”
All of the rangers pulled U.S. dog tags from under their Storm Trooper tunics. Realization flushed over the orderly’s face as he looked from one to the other. His gaze fell on Colonel Gerhardt, who sat oblivious to his surroundings. Spike spoke again.
“He is German and a little out of sorts since learning the Gestapo took his family.”
“Am I your prisoner then?”
“What is your name, corporal?”
“Johan.”
“Johan, Germany is surrendering today. Do you understand?” He nodded in response.
“What happened here?”
He tried to respond in English and then reverted to German. “Field Marshal Weiskiettle commandeered the general’s aircraft, and the general, he took it back.”
“Luftwaffe?”
“Ja, Condor.”
“Did they file a flight plan?”
“Nein.” Johan was drifting, overwhelmed with the torrent of information he was receiving.
Spike spoke softly, kindly. “Johan, did you see what direction they went?”
Again, he just nodded.
“Johan?”
“They turned to the south and continued for many miles.”
“How do you know this?”
“I watched them for as long as I could with binoculars … in case they turned back.”
Spike patted him on his shoulder and stood looking at the slain family on the floor. “We will need this area.”
“Untie me, and I will get some blankets and bury them.” Johan replied. “He was kind to me.”
“Not yet. Colonel Gerhardt, bring in the scientists and their wives.”
Standing above the butchered family in shock, some of the scientists involuntarily put a hand over their mouths. Many of their wives turned away, refusing to look. Because they were scientists, they had been insulated from the unpleasantness of war. To them, their research was like a grand experiment; it was best not to contemplate the end use. Best to bury one’s head in research. To be close enough to see death—to smell it—was not in their realm of experience. They had not even noticed that their chaperones had stripped off their black coats and were talking among themselves in English.
Spike walked between the blood-splattered remains and the traumatized group, his dog tags resting against the dark khaki of his GI T-shirt.
“Generalleutnant Wolfgang von Bassenheim did this.” Shock became bewilderment as they stared at Spike. They looked around, watching the rangers put on their U.S. Army uniforms. Finally one spoke.
“You are a liar. You Amerikanisch did this.”
Spike pointed to the orderly. “Ask him who did this. He was here. He saw the man who shot the field marshall and his children in cold blood and then commandeered the aircraft and flew off to who knows where. The same man who shot his own technicians. Men you lived and worked with who now lay dead on the floor of the breakroom in the assembly laboratory.”
Dumbfounded, the group swung their eyes to the man still sitting slumped on the floor. He nodded—saying nothing—shock, fear, and sadness in his eyes saying everything. The scientists looked back at the bodies, uncomprehending, attempting the calculus of an unsolvable problem.
“Why would he do such a thing?” a mother whispered.
Gerhardt stood and faced his old colleagues. “Because he stole four functional nuclear weapons which he will use for his own personal revenge in the face of his countrymen’s failure. He was a planner for the General Staff and knew the war was lost. He took the weapons and the manuals—all the technical research. It’s all gone. With those weapons he can extend the war; no doubt in his mind he can win it. Where Hitler failed, the Wolf believes he will triumph. But he can’t, because …” He stopped and looked at Spike, who nodded for him to continue. “Because the Americans have deployed their own weapon. The fatherland at least will be spared its destructive power.”
A door banged open loudly, startling the traumatized group. A ranger, still in SS uniform, stepped into the room.
“Sir,” he reported excitedly.
“What is it?” Spike asked in German. He looked around the room nervously.
“Classified, Major.”
“Speak freely, Sergeant; we have no more secrets.”
The simple phrase riveted the scientists. They wanted to trust this man, because they had no choice. Each was too intelligent not to know that this was an equation any child could solve.
Clearing his throat, the sergeant spoke. “Flash message from Supreme Allied Command …”
“Go on,” Spike prodded.
“German High Command has unconditionally surrendered, effective immediately.”
The juxtaposition of an American in an SS uniform discussing the surrender of Germany in perfect German was more than some could handle. Tears began to escape, while the realization sunk in that those who shed them would not. As a group, the scientists and their wives surrendered without a further word being said. Then the silence was shattered as shots rang out, awakening them from their emotional coma.
Bolt action Kar 98 rifles punctuated the staccato of the MP-40 submachine guns. Women shrieked, children cried out for their mothers, fathers threw themselves at their wives. Spike shouted above the confusion in two languages.
“Take cover! Lieutenant set a perimeter and get me a SITREP!” A cacophony of weapons built to a crescendo as windows shattered and bullets tore through the walls. “SITREP!”
Koch low-crawled near the door to give the situation report.
“It’s the guards from the compound. Twenty to thirty, single axis attack, line is stable.”
“Casualties?”
“Two rangers down.”
“Damn it!”
Thompson submachine guns joined the chorus, their distinctive sound coming from the hangar. Inside, Irish and JT let fly steady streams of .45-caliber rounds to pin down a flanking squad. Spent cartridges, glass, and Irish’s voice filled the air.
“I’m too damn old for this!”
Inside the terminal, Schroeder reached up and pulled a white needlepoint tablecloth off of a table.
“I must put a stop to this.” Holding the delicate linen he stood up.
“Schroeder get down!” Spike yelled, too late.
A 10-millimeter round cut through the thin wall and slammed into Schroeder’s ches
t. He was hurled to the floor like a rag doll. Undeterred he struggled to his knees and moved to the door. His hand was hit with a 9-millimeter round as he turned the doorknob. His strength was waning rapidly, but seeing the fear of the children cowering in the hall buoyed him. Finally reaching the front door of the terminal, he cracked it open and waved the tablecloth. His sergeant of the guard saw the white flag and called for a cease-fire.
Slowly the order was passed until the only guns firing were the Thompsons. Since neither of the pilots spoke German, a ranger rolled into the hangar and shouted, “Hey, Grandpa, cease fire! With all due respect, sirs.” JT and Irish looked at each other and shrugged at the silence.
Schroeder methodically walked toward the front gate. Even with a chest wound he was resolute in his determination to put an end to the battle. Spike joined him, taking his arm to steady him. Seeing the condition of his executive officer, the sergeant of the guard laid down his weapon and moved toward the two officers. Letting him pass, the rangers stood silently watching.
“Sergeant, stand down your men.”
“Sir my orders are to—”
“Sprechen sie Englisch?”
“Ja.”
“Can you read it, too?”
“Yes, sir,” he responded in a thick accent. Spike handed him the message from Allied Command.
“Am I to believe …?”
“Let me be the last to die here,” Schroeder said and slowly collapsed to the ground.
“Medic!” Spike yelled. Schroeder sat with his legs straight out like a child while the life ebbed from his face.
“What should I do, sir?” the guard whispered to Schroeder.
He patted the guard on his shoulder and whispered back. “Go home. The war is over for us.”
Standing, the sergeant of the guard rendered a traditional military salute. Schroeder smiled weakly and nodded, unable to return the courtesy.
“Medic!” Spike yelled again.
As he watched his sergeant walk away, Schroeder’s vision began to fade. Slumping onto his back, he pulled a kneeling Spike close to him.
Code Name: Infamy (Aviator Book 4) Page 4
