Code Name: Infamy (Aviator Book 4)

by Shanle, Leland

  “Take care of my people.”

  “I will, Lieutenant Colonel.”

  “Give me your word … as an officer.” He choked the words out, coughing bright red oxygenated blood.

  “You have my word as an officer and a gentleman that I will take care of your people as if they were mine.”

  “They are yours now.” Schroeder cracked a crimson smile, laid back, and breathed his last.

  The moonless night was pierced by runway lights as three C-47s floated out of the darkness. They taxied to the terminal and shut down. The two fallen rangers were loaded first, their stretchers covered with blankets. Next the scientists and their families were herded into the C-47s. Mothers clutched at their children, uncertain of their future. Some stole sideways glances at the orderly digging four fresh graves in a barren garden, wondering if they would meet the same fate. Spike assigned only two rangers per aircraft; there would be no more trouble.

  With the rest of the rangers and Colonel Gerhardt in tow, he approached JT and Irish.

  “Boys, I hate to do this—”

  “No you don’t; you love to screw with us. What now?” Irish interrupted.

  “I need you and your machine.” Spike winked at Irish, which irritated the pilot even further. JT held up his hand.

  “I’ve got an air wing to run, Major, but you can have Irish. I’ll go get a co-pilot for you.”

  “Thanks a lot,” Irish protested with a growl.

  “Irish, I’m assuming Spike is going in pursuit. He’ll need a man of your skills,” JT yelled over the sound of two Pratt+Whitney R-1830-90C Twin Wasp engines revving up as the lead C-47 began to taxi.

  “Well, you better hurry up, if you’re abandoning me to this spook.”

  JT slapped his old friend on the back and sprinted for the last aircraft, holding up his hand to stop it. Behind him, Spike smiled.

  “Irish it’s just you and me now.”

  Irish’s retort was drowned out by the second Skytrain’s engines as it goosed the power. He made a second attempt as the third plane began its taxi. Spike was delighted with Irish’s inability to voice his displeasure. He was even more amused when he saw the cherub-faced co-pilot approaching behind Irish.

  “Are you Lieutenant Colonel Myers, sir?” Irish turned to face his new co-pilot.

  “Oh, perfect.” Spike continued to laugh as he headed toward the flight planning room in the terminal. There he found a young navigator waiting for him.

  “Major Shanower?” He nodded as the last of the C-47s roared down the runway.

  “Lieutenant Jeff Morton. Colonel Dobbs said you needed a navigator.”

  “That I do, Lieutenant.”

  “Where are we headed, sir?”

  “I’m hoping you can tell me.”

  CHAPTER 10

  10:45 Local, 8 May, 1945 (14:45 GMT, 8MAY)

  Santiago de Chile

  It had been the same show in Joao Pessoa, Brazil, and now Santiago, Chile. A single SS Officer met the Condor with a handful of Storm Troopers. They, in turn, directed the locals in refueling and provisioning the aircraft and then got on board to be briefed by Wolf. As pilot, Franz was on the tarmac supervising the fueling when he noticed they stopped early. He walked over and asked the fueler why in Spanish.

  “I have fueled as ordered, Capitan.”

  Franz looked over his shoulder to make sure the SS was still in the aircraft.

  “I am the aircraft commander; double the load.”

  “Si, señor.”

  Twenty minutes later the Condor took the runway at Los Cerillos Airport, Santiago de Chile. Franz did not stop at the maximum power detent, but instead ran the throttles past it into emergency power. His co-pilot looked at him and received a wink in reply. With the engines at a dangerously high power setting, both men silently wondered if all four would hold together.

  When the aircraft left the runway at a shorter distance than the other three takeoffs, Wolf left the cockpit unaware that his fuel order had been doubled. Confident his plan was progressing, he stuck his head in the navigation station and ordered a course for the island of Más a Tierra. Two hours later the Condor settled heavily onto the short island runway. On approach they flew over Cumberland Bay and saw a cargo ship at the pier with a U-boat tied to it. Equipment hung from its King-arms and was being transferred from the submarine to the ship.

  14:52 Local, 8 May, 1945 (18:52 GMT, 8MAY)

  Kriegsmarine, Unterseeboot 862

  U-boat number 862 was a Type IXD2 long-range submarine, and the equipment being off-loaded had modified its two forward external torpedo storage containers. All three of the aft containers had been secretly modified in Penang to carry additional diesel fuel extending its 11,400-mile range by ten percent and allowing them to reach the islands without refueling.

  U-862’s chief of the boat, Ernst Bauer, watched as the swing arm of the freighter picked up, pivoted, and then lowered the fourth crate. His crew, under direction of the SS, slowly, carefully, inserted the crate into the container. It seemed carnal—obscene to him. As if a demon seed was being rooted into his ship. Watching his captain and the Nazi general strut around each other, he knew his skipper was much less happy than even he was.

  Glancing across the bay his eyes rested on the area in which he had helped scuttle the SMS Dresden in the last war. As a teenage conscript, he’d been a part of Vice Admiral Count Spee’s victory at Coronel and the disaster at Falkland Islands. Dresden had been the only survivor. Eluding the British Navy until March 1915, they intercepted a message and found her with her magazines empty and engines unserviceable. Unable to fight she was scuttled by her captain rather than surrendered. Her crew, however, were captured by Chile and spent the rest of the war in rather pleasant accommodations.

  Ernst had been trying to retire since before the war started, but the Kriegsmarine would not let him go, and he’d spent this war at sea in the Wolf Packs. He had seen enough—more than enough—and just wanted to go back home to the family farm in the Black Forest. His captain felt the same.

  Looking up to the U-boat’s conning tower, he could see the distress on his captain’s face. Skipper Fischer had not been happy when assigned the secret mission. They had cast off Penang, in Japanese-controlled Malaya, on the night of 3 March 1945. Penang was home of the 33rd Unterseebootsflottille, code-named Monsun Gruppe, the “Monsoon Group.” Gruppe Captain Gunther Kunke had issued the secret orders that had been hand delivered from the General Staff by an SS captain. U-862 had then set out on a 13,385-nautical-mile cruise to the island of Más a Tierra. It had taken them fifty-six days of constant steaming at an average of ten knots.

  The 862 had been retrofitted with the Schnorchel system in September 1944, a technology Germany captured when the Netherlands fell. A simple retractable pipe, it allowed them to operate the diesels while submerged. However it limited the U-boats speed to six knots. Whenever within range of land-based aircraft, they submerged and snorkeled during the day. At night they ran at eighteen knots on the surface. It had been an arduous trip—especially during the day runs when diesel fumes filled the boat.

  Now Fischer watched from the conning tower as the watertight doors were sealed on the secret cargo. He had a bad feeling about what was in the containers, and he had an even worse feeling about the strutting SS general’s omnipresence.

  “Captain, the load is complete; get underway.”

  Fischer stared back at the impudent Nazi.

  “General, on this ship I give the orders.”

  Wolf returned his glare with malice, thinking, This man will be a problem. Before he could speak, the roar of four BMW Bramo 323 R-2 radial engines stole his attention. What the …? He was incredulous to see the Condor approaching, its aircraft commander shaking his fist out the open side wind screen in victory. There was supposed to be no fuel left! His officers were supposed to have taken care of the impudent crew. In his hand, as he grew closer, Wolf could see the pilot held a large wrench.

  Wolf drew his Lug
er without hesitation and fired on the Condor as it closed within range. His men obediently opened fire without command. Franz buzzed over the conning tower throwing the wrench to the deck of U-862 as the Condor passed overhead. It clanged down hard while the SS continued to fire. Franz wagged his wings in further defiance and then turned toward Santiago as the flight crew crowded in the cockpit laughing hysterically in a mixture of fatigue and joy.

  “The bastard actually shot at us!” his co-pilot yelled over the roar of the engines and rushing air.

  “How did you know?”

  “They were fueling us for a one-way trip, Bubbi.”

  Wolf held large binoculars to his eyes. In the distance he could see four black clad soldiers lying unconscious on the tarmac of the airfield. Dropping the binoculars he turned to see the U-boat captain smirking at him.

  “Interesting reaction, even from the SS.”

  “It is none of your concern, Captain.”

  “Oh, but it is. Is that the fate awaiting my crew?”

  “Your fate is your duty.”

  “Boatswain, prepare to get underway,” Fischer yelled, never taking his eyes off Wolf.

  On deck, Wolf’s second in command shouted to the conning tower. “General, what about our men at the airfield?”

  “Leave them. They failed me.”

  17:38 Local, 8 May, 1945 (21:38 GMT, 8MAY)

  Chilean Coast

  Bubbi looked out the co-pilot’s side window at the lifeless number-three engine. Behind the still propeller the sun was beginning to set over the Pacific. Cruising at 5,000 feet on only three engines had slowed them, but the Chilean Coast was finally in view.

  “Can you believe they hit it?” he asked Franz.

  “Better it than all of us …”

  Banging loudly off of the bulk head, the cockpit door bounced back almost knocking down the radioman.

  “The war is over!” the radioman yelled as he fought with the door. “We have surrendered.” The men in the cockpit looked at him. “I heard it over the HF radio.”

  “I thought our favorite Nazi shot our HF radio?”

  “We had another. He didn’t ask; I didn’t offer.” All three men burst out laughing and then grew awkwardly silent, their mixed emotions swirling with the pastel colors of the setting sun.

  An hour later and twenty-three nautical miles west of the island of Más a Tierra at a depth of twelve feet, U-862 prepared to surface. Captain Fischer issued commands to the control room.

  “Navigator?”

  “One hour past sunset, all dark,” responded the navigator.

  “Up periscope.” It rose rapidly from below the control room’s deck, extending until it clunked into place.

  “Periscope up.” Twisting his captain’s hat backwards, the skipper snapped the handles into place. He set the magnification to maximum range and quickly walked in a tight 360-degree circle as he shouted, “Naxos?”

  “Negative contacts,” came the reply.

  “Down periscope,” Fischer called out, snapping the handles back up. U-862 had been fitted with a Naxos radar detector on the end of the snorkel and would warn the crew if enemy radar was sweeping the area. Captain Fischer checked his watch and then sat for a full ten minutes.

  “Sonar?”

  “Sonar holds no contacts, Captain.”

  “Up periscope.” Fischer swept the horizon the same way he had before.

  “Prepare to surface.” A bell rang throughout the U-boat as the chief’s command was passed to every compartment.

  “Surface, surface, surface!”

  “Five degrees up on bow plane, blow tanks 1, 5, and 9 port and starboard.”

  Compressed air rushed into the odd-numbered tanks on both sides of the submarine, pushing the salt water back into the ocean.

  “Blow 2 and 8, port and starboard.” Quickly changing the submarine’s buoyancy from neutral to positive, the submarine began to surface bow up. Like a shark’s fin, the conning tower cut the surface first followed by the bow, and finally the spine broached.

  “We are on the surface, Captain.”

  “Shift to ship’s diesels, deploy antennas, and set the watch.”

  Ballast tanks two, three, four, six, and seven were full of reserve fuel, so she would ride low until it was consumed by her diesel engines. U-862 listed slightly to port.

  “Flood starboard regulating tank to one third.” Fischer ordered as he furiously spun the wheel on the internal hatch. Pushing it open, salt water flooded in, drenching him as he quickly went up the ladder. With the ocean water, fresh air rushed into the dank submarine, cleansing it of the smell of humans, machines, and cooking food.

  “Starboard regulating tank one third,” he heard as he reached the bridge of the conning tower. His chief followed him up the ladder. Trade winds blew across Fischer’s face, and he closed his eyes, embracing them. Tilting his head back, he opened his eyes again and stared up at the thousands—no, millions—of stars dancing overhead. He knew exactly where his ship was on the planet by reading the constellations. This is why he had gone to sea all those years ago as a young fisherman. War was as far away as the stars, as far away as his beloved family in the fatherland. He longed for them and the small fishing boat he had captained. The sea had been his mistress, and it was time to return home.

  “Captain.” A soft voice hailed him. He recognized the voice as his radioman.

  “Ja, Georg?”

  “Captain, the war, it is over.”

  “Over?”

  “Ja, over. We are to head to the nearest Allied base and surrender our boat.”

  A tear ran down Fischer’s face—a tear of joy and shame. Germany had lost and he cared not. How many had he killed? They would haunt him, he knew.

  “Chief, I have the watch. Go below and bring us about. Set course for Santiago. I’ve had enough of this boat.”

  Below, Wolf felt the ship lean as it reversed course. A dark specter rose in the hatch, and onto the conning tower bridge.

  “Was ist das?”

  “The war is over, General. We are going home.”

  A muffled shot was heard below in the control room. Storm Troopers slammed back bolts charging their grease guns. They then yelled for all to remain frozen in place. Ernst ignored them and scampered up the ladder. In the dim light of a rising moon he saw Generalleutnant Wolfgang Walpot von Bassenheim leaning back against the railing. He held a Luger across his chest like a Pharaoh holds a scepter, and on his brow, like a crown, he wore Captain Fischer’s hat. Chief Bauer looked over the side and could just barely see a dark stain on the deck that smeared over the side. He watched as the waves gently washed it away barely hearing the Nazi speak.

  “I am now in command.”

  CHAPTER 11

  01:55 local, 9 May, 1945 (03:55 GMT, 9MAY)

  South Atlantic Ocean

  Cumulonimbus clouds rose into the equatorial Atlantic sky to heights the young co-pilot didn’t think possible. They hung in a line north to south that seemed to stretch the length of the South American continent. Already the ride was deteriorating, even though the storm front was still at least a hundred miles away. Lightning leapt like sparks between giant anvils, each bolt illuminating the cockpit. Irish’s loud snoring was a weird punctuation to the scene.

  “Lieutenant Colonel Myers, wake up, sir.”

  “Just hold the damn course, Billy. They taught you that much, didn’t they?” he snapped and then rolled toward the side windscreen.

  “But sir, the storm front!”

  “The lightning will let you see the cells so you can go between them. Now leave me alone, Billy.”

  “It’s actually Jimmy, sir.”

  No response, except a loud snore. Spike smiled from behind them and then went back into the cabin and sat down across from Colonel Gerhardt. Hans was going through the documents they had retrieved from Wolf’s office when he came across one that made his eyes open wide. A large leather-bound folder had a red ribbon tied around it in a bow. He pulled a loose
end of the ribbon and it fell away. Spike watched as Hans opened it with trembling hands. He looked up at Spike and then turned it so Spike could read it in the soft red light. There was a handwritten note on the cover page.

  Hallo Hans, ich hoffe mine kleines spielzeug dir gefällt.

  “I can’t read it in this light, what does it say?”

  “It says, ‘Hello Hans, I hope you like my little toy.’” Hans looked up at Spike.

  “How did he know?”

  “You said he’s smart. Not hard to figure out we’d bring you with us.”

  Gerhardt nodded almost imperceptibly as he began to study the document. Spike chain-smoked, lighting one cigarette off of the other as he watched the German’s facial expressions. After Hans unfolded a diagram, his eyebrows rode high on his forehead in shock. Spike dropped his cigarette with the other ten or more on the deck and crushed it with the toe of his boot.

  “Okay, what do we have?”

  Gerhardt shook his question off and continued to read, eyes skimming back and forth, brow still furrowed. After another hour he slowly closed it, rubbed his eyes, and then set the paper on his lap.

  “And?” demanded Spike.

  “It is worse than I thought … he has done it.”

  “Done what, exactly?”

  “Achieved what we could not in Alamogordo.”

  “Hans, you have my attention, but you’re starting to piss me off.”

  Gerhardt stood and began to pace, raising his voice above the engine’s drone so Spike could hear every word. It woke the rangers, who were as transfixed as Spike was.

  “Remember I told you we could have achieved a rudimentary bomb, much like Big Boy?” Spike nodded. “There are two ways to achieve a nuclear explosion: fission and fusion. Fission, or the gun-type bomb, simply smashes together two shapes of U-235 to achieve a nuclear yield and explosion. Fusion is much more complex and requires plutonium. A sphere of plutonium is compressed at the core until it implodes, producing yield. There was a theory that both could be designed to achieve a thermonuclear yield by triggering the implosion device with a gun barrel device—”