Code Name: Infamy (Aviator Book 4)

by Shanle, Leland

  “You’re losing me,” Spike interrupted. “Besides, I thought we took out their heavy water facility.”

  “We did. Apparently there were two. Neither facility knew of the other’s existence, nor could they.”

  “Shit. Where’s the other one?”

  “Japanese occupied Korea, the Chosin Reservoir in the north.”

  “Okay, we will deal with that later. Why would he waste time? Why not field a weapon sooner?”

  “Remember, he needed to put it on a rocket. A thermonuclear device allows a bigger yield than either of our nuclear bombs at a much smaller size. And we did delay their production of plutonium.”

  “Okay, so now we know where he’s going. I’ll get a B-29 strike on Chosin as soon as we land—”

  “No.” Gerhardt shook his head violently.

  “That’s not where he’s going. He already has deployable weapons.”

  Spike lit another cigarette off the end of one only half burnt. Lost in thought he finally turned to Hans and asked, “I have to know the probability of success, of achieving an explosion.”

  “I believe, from what I learned in Alamogordo, it will work.”

  “Give me a number.”

  “One hundred percent.”

  “Why do you believe this?”

  “Science aside, because of this.” Hans waved the document.

  “He told us everything. He wants us to know, especially that he has four weapons. I believe he will use two bombs to take out large America targets in the Pacific and then negotiate for peace with him as Germany’s benevolent ruler for life, of course.”

  “The president would never negotiate with a Nazi, Hans.”

  “I know this. It would not go well for Germany. In fact, I’m sure the fatherland would cease to exist forever.”

  “Solution?” Spike changed the subject.

  “We must prevent him from reaching Japanese lines.”

  02:55 Local, 9 May, 1945 (05:55 GMT, 9MAY)

  Joao Pessoa, Brazil

  Irish sat in the dark leaning against the main tire under the left wing. He finished off a cold can of pork and beans and, when it was empty, tossed it near the head of his sleeping co-pilot. It clanged down the tarmac, but the youngster—Billy, Jimmy, whatever his name was—didn’t move. He remained frozen in the fetal position, using a c-ration box as his pillow. Still bored, Irish rummaged through his c-rat box until he found a four pack of Lucky Stripe cigarettes and pulled one out. Reaching into a breast pocket he produced a Zippo lighter and lit up. Inhaling deeply, he let the blue smoke escape as Spike walked up with Jeff, their new navigator. Jeff had used old flight plans to figure out the range of the Condor. He then contrasted it to the fuel load it had taken. The first two stops had been easy; both were max range. Now, with an entire continent to choose from, they needed more information.

  “Nice toss, Irish. You are a regular humanitarian.”

  “I do try, Spike, I do try.”

  “Sir, you know we are fueling,” Jeff said, looking at the glowing tip of Irish’s cigarette. Irish looked up at Lieutenant Morton.

  “Really? I hadn’t noticed. Must be all that liquid rumbling through the wing tanks distracting me.”

  Jeff quickly retreated to the navigator’s station on the C-47, hoping he wouldn’t be blasted skyward because of an errant ember.

  “So what did you find out, Mr. Spymaster?” Irish tipped his head back to see Spike better in the dim light.

  “Oh, the Brazilians were very cooperative …”

  “Imagine that. I’m sure it has nothing to do with us winning the war.”

  “Banish the thought, Irish, banish the thought. On to Santiago. Shall we go?”

  “Oh, yes, please. I do love sitting in that cockpit for days on end.”

  “Brilliant, we’re off then!” Spike said with an exaggerated British accent.

  Hours later and with the afternoon sun at his back, Spike was arguing with an overly excited Chilean customs official. His rangers approached after searching the Condor.

  “Empty, Major. No sign of a crew.”

  Colonel Gerhardt circled the Condor with a Geiger counter, its clicking increasing as he approached the cargo bay. He turned and yelled to Spike.

  “This is the aircraft, no doubt. It is hot.” The four bombs had irradiated the aircraft, leaving their unique signature. A general with row upon row of medals and ribbons decorating his chest marched toward the unannounced group, his staff following in his wake. He strutted with the pomposity of a conquering Roman emperor. Spike was tired, hungry, and done tap dancing with bureaucrats.

  “What is the meaning of this intrusion onto the sovereign soil of Chile?”

  “General, a minute of your time, please.” Spike walked the general out of earshot from the rest of the group, and, at a sufficient distance, he flashed his OSS badge with authority and hissed into the general’s ear in Spanish.

  “Let’s face facts. You backed the wrong dog in this fight. Not once, but for two wars now. Not only that, you just let one of your Nazi buddies waltz through here with a secret weapon bound for our enemies.”

  The general’s eyes widened, and he tried to back away as Spike continued, clasping a hand on his elbow with just enough pressure to keep the general close.

  “I can tell you the Allies—the winners—will not be happy when they hear about that.”

  “But—”

  “What are my options, General? I suppose I can tell them you have committed an act of war. Or I can tell them the weapon was smuggled through without your consent and that you assisted me greatly in my pursuit.” Spike stepped back and looked the general in the eye. “Your call. You make the choice.”

  Smiling with a mouth full of gold caps, the general said, “How is it I can help you, my friend?” He put his arm around Spike, and they walked back to the group, chatting cheerfully in Spanish.

  15:58 Local, 9 May, 1945 (22:58 GMT, 9MAY)

  Kriegsmarine, Unterseeboot 862

  With the SS in charge, the crew of U-862 had been held captive for almost a day. Wolf had anticipated the animosity and knew he needed to control it with the long journey ahead. Surfacing early before dark, he had his men paint the Imperial Japanese rising sun on the U-boat’s conning tower and fly the IJN ensign from the yardarm. He now stood in the small control room still wearing Fischer’s hat. Reaching up he pulled a microphone off its hook to address the crew.

  “This is your captain speaking, Generalleutnant Wolfgang Walpot von Bassenheim of the Waffen SS-Totenkopfverbände, ‘the Death’s Head Unit.’” He let that sink in for a long moment. “Contrary to what you have heard, the war is not over. Japan fights on, and we will not turn our backs on our allies. Instead, we shall bring them the means to achieve victory, and with that victory will come a rebirth of Germany, a Fourth Reich that shall never falter. To do that, we must reach the safety of their lines as soon as we can. That is all.” Wolf flipped off the ship’s com, rehung the microphone, and then turned to the chief.

  “Jettison all torpedoes and excess weight—”

  “But General, we will be defenseless, and with the Japanese markings …”

  “Then you had better see to it that we are not detected. Lighten the load, flank speed. Now.”

  16:06 Local, 9 May, 1945 (23:06 GMT, 9MAY)

  Diego De Almagro Hotel, Santiago de Chile

  Escorted by the generalissimo, the rangers stormed the Diego De Almagro Hotel. They contrasted against the old world luxury of ornate columns, fine furniture, and carpets. Securing the German’s room numbers and duplicate keys, the rangers went up the grand staircase. Irish caught Spike’s arm, pointed to his watch, and cocked his head toward the cocktail lounge. Spike followed as Irish sauntered into the lounge and up behind the five crewmen who were bellied up to the bar.

  Bubbi glanced up and saw them in the mirror. He elbowed his aircraft commander and then nodded to the reflection. Franz turned and offered Irish a freshly poured shot of Schnapps. Irish took it
with a smile and downed it. Franz turned to face the more serious looking of the pair.

  “Chile is a neutral country,” he said in Spanish.

  “Ja, ja, and the war is over, mein freund,” Spike answered back in German. “We’d like to have a word with you—or would you rather deal with our new friend?” He pointed out to the lobby toward the generalissimo who was flagellating his staff for their failures. All five crewmen turned and watched the scene for a five count and then in unison faced Spike again.

  “Nein!”

  “Excellent,” Irish jumped in.

  “There must be somewhere we can talk piloto y piloto.”

  Franz’s face split in a wide, genuine smile. “I know the perfect spot.”

  Cheap booze and beautiful women formed the second and third tiers of the trifecta of pilot interest. In this case, a seedy bar full of desperadoes, smugglers, and various characters out of a Latin Charles Dickens novel was the German’s perfect spot. Irish heartily approved.

  They sat at a rough-hewn table decorated with carved initials. Kerosene lamps fouled the air and provided dirty light. They sat, ordered drinks, and settled in for a long talk. As Irish surveyed his surroundings, he noted that one small window allowed a solitary beam of sunlight into the dark and dank dive. He followed the sunbeam, and there, bathed in its pure light, sat the most beautiful woman he had ever seen.

  She was a testament to the subtle and rich beauty of brown. Her hair dropped around her face in gentle curves, lighter streaks highlighted by the single shaft of sun. Her skin radiated a bronze glow that was accentuated by a dusting of freckles. Dark eyes punctuated the kaleidoscope of dusky hues and spoke of a thousand crushed dreams, a hundred generations of despair, a millennium of dashed hopes and lost dignity. Irish was transfixed. The conversation continued without him as he rose, abandoning his beer and a cigarette burning in the ashtray.

  She knew he was there, looking at her, standing over her. It would be another long night of living for someone else and dying just a little inside. She drew in a breath and prepared herself.

  “What are your dreams?” he asked.

  She laughed at him. “I have no dreams.”

  “Everyone has dreams.”

  “Mine are dead and best forgotten.”

  Undaunted, he sat with her. They talked for almost an hour before she finally told him her dream. A small vineyard for her family to raise grapes nestled in a valley south of Santiago called Cachapoal. Spike tapped him on the shoulder.

  “I’ve got enough, let’s go.”

  What about the Krauts?” Spike shrugged.

  “They seem unconcerned with recent events.”

  “Really?” He thought for a moment and then smiled. “I’ll be right back.”

  Irish sat back down with his new Luftwaffe friends. “How much did you get for it?” he asked again in broken German; there was no reply. Slowly he pulled his .45-caliber pistol out of the holster and set it on the table. “How much?”

  Spike and the girl watched from across the room. A few curt lines were spoken, none that they could make out, after which the Germans begrudgingly emptied their pockets. Irish collected the money, collating it into stacks by denomination. He then carefully counted it, split it into two stacks, and handed Franz one. The other stack of bills he wedged into the holster. The Germans watched as Irish crossed the room and presented it to the girl.

  “Here is your dream.”

  Her eyes welled with tears, glistening as she tried to speak, but Irish shook it off and nodded toward the door. Handing her the pistol he simply said, “Go now.”

  Not knowing what else to do, she fled the bar. Irish noticed movement from some of the less savory clientele and pulled Spike’s pistol from its holster and fired a round into the ceiling.

  “Barkeep, a round for the house. We are all going to sit and enjoy it together.”

  Spike sank into a chair and tilted it back, absolutely flabbergasted, speechless for perhaps the first time in his life. Irish looked at him and shrugged.

  “By the way, I told the Germans we’d give ’em a ride home. Seems they sold their airplane.”

  CHAPTER 12

  10:05 Local, 10 May, 1945 (01:05 GMT, 10MAY)

  USS Suwannee, off the coast of Okinawa

  A brand new F6F-5N Hellcat night fighter sat glistening in the morning sun. Lieutenant Commander Bruce “Stutz” Stutzman inspected a small radar pod on its right wing and then examined the AN/M2 twenty-millimeter cannon barrels that stuck out of each wing root much farther than the other four .50-caliber M2 Browning machine guns in the wing. Next to him stood a very young lieutenant, David “Kid” Brennan. Both had recently been promoted and moved up a position in the squadron since VF-40 had lost its commanding officer over Okinawa a few weeks prior.

  “Skipper, you have got to be kidding! Night traps … on an escort carrier? Has a successful night landing ever even been done on one of these small carriers?”

  Stutzman shrugged. “Probably not.”

  “Shooting bandits at night is hard enough, but at least we land at dawn.”

  “Look, Kid, I’d like to bullshit you, but the truth is that you, me, and Rough Ryder have the most instrument and night experience. We need four cycles a night to make it work, and the middle two cycles have to trap onboard at night. Barrier combat air patrol, BARCAP, one will divert to Okinawa, swap crew, and return for BARCAP four. We will alternate nightly and man BARCAP two and three, landing onboard. BARCAP four will land at dawn. These Kamikazes are killing the fleet, and they are coming 24/7.”

  “I don’t even know what radar is, let alone how to use it.”

  “That’s what he’s for.” Stutz nodded toward a petty officer approaching with the rest of the night fliers in tow. The aviators all had a sick look on their faces. Stutz grabbed Kid’s elbow.

  “Bottom line: you, me, and Rough are going to be landing on this tub in the dark. You are now the second in command, and whether you agree or not, your duty is to support naval policy.”

  A chill ran down David’s spine. Land on a postage stamp at night? It was crazy. He would never see his wife or son again. In fact he was quite sure he wouldn’t see his own twenty-first birthday just over a month away. The promotion was great, but he’d seen enough of this war. After Okinawa, his thirst for revenging his father and brother was gone. Now, all he wanted was to go home, but that obviously wasn’t going to happen.

  “Aye aye, Skipper.”

  The group walked up, and Petty Officer Jenkins reported to the CO of VF-40.

  “Thanks for the brief, Jenks. I hope you can teach some old dogs a new trick.”

  “No problem, sir.” Jenks went right into instructor mode. He signaled, and the aviators followed him, circling the new aircraft, stopping at the radar pod on the right wing.

  “Gentlemen, let’s start with the basics. The AN/APS-6 is capable of determining the direction and range of a target and of presenting this information visually to the pilot. To accomplish this, a pulse generating modulator will pulse an X-band magnetron at repetition rates of 500, 1000, and 2000 cycles per second. The short pulses of microwave energy will radiate from a rapidly rotating paraboloidal antenna. The beam from the antenna describes a spiral pattern with a maximum conical angle of 120 degrees …”

  To a man, the naval aviators stared blankly at him. Stifling a laugh, he turned to the CO.

  “Sir, how soon do you need to be operational?”

  “Sunset.”

  “This sunset, as in the one coming in eight hours?”

  “That would be the one.”

  “Wow. Okay, we’d better skip the tech stuff then.” They all nodded in agreement. “Anyone know how a bat finds a bug?”

  “Something to do with echoes,” someone said.

  “Correct. It uses its voice to bounce off targets and can then tell where the target is by how fast and from what direction the echo bounces back. This system does the same thing.” Jenks then concentrated on the cockpit boxes
and scope. He went into detail on how he would direct their fighters via the long-range ship’s radar close enough for them to take over by themselves. In the initial intercept they were to position the radar in beacon mode to allow Jenks to be sure it was them. Once he got them within sixty-five miles, they were to switch to radar mode, but he would continue to update via radio. He then passed out manuals and asked if there were any questions. Every single hand went up, and this time he couldn’t suppress a laugh.

  22:45 Local, 9 May, 1945 (03:45 GMT, 10MAY)

  Diego De Almagro, Santiago de Chile

  Irish Myers awoke to a soft knock at his door. Instinctively he reached for his .45 pistol. Shit, I don’t have it anymore! Slipping silently out of bed he made his way to the wall next to the door of his suite. Quietly he slid to the floor and rested the right side of his head on the marble floor. Closing his left eye he looked under the door. He saw two small feet instead of the German boots he expected. Straining to look as far left and right as possible, he then rose and opened the door. Standing in front of him, in traditional dress, was the señorita from the bar. Irish stood in shock for a few seconds then spoke.

  “You don’t have to—”

  “I don’t have to do anything I do not want anymore. I am here because you make me feel safe,” she whispered.

  He took her hand and led her into the dark room. Fumbling around he finally found the switch to a lamp and turned it on.

  “Such luxury, I’ve never …” her timid voice trailed off.

  “Are you hungry?” A stupid question, he realized, and picked up the telephone.