Casa Miramar, Chile
A young man wearing a Western Union hat handed Spike a telegram as he exited the C-47 in front of the hacienda. Spike read it as Irish and Jimmy shut down the aircraft. When Irish exited, Spike handed him the telegram.
“We need to go back to the embassy.”
Irish looked up, and then began to read the telegram.
WESTER UNION TELEGRAM
15 June, 1945
To: Spike
Casa Miramar, Abarca Chile
Son vacation itinerary and pictures in- STOP
On way to mother via PAC- STOP
I’m surprised by itinerary- STOP
From: Dad
Irish shook his head irritated and handed back the telegram. “What the hell does that mean?”
“Dad is OSS HQ, mother the embassy, and PAC is Pan Am Clipper. It is due in at 16:00. Let’s go get the mail. Apparently they have pictures, and the boat’s not where we expected.” Jimmy started out the aircraft door.
“Billy, crank ’em up. We’re going back.”
Jimmy didn’t even bother to correct Irish anymore; in fact, everyone was calling him Billy now. Later that evening Spike gathered the entire group, including the Germans. They crowded around the billiards table, paging through black and white photos stamped Top Secret. They had been taken by a reconnaissance aircraft thirty-eight hours prior.
“You are sure that’s the sub, Franz? It has Jap markings,” Spike said in German.
“Ja, ja. Look at modification. Is definitely a U-boat.”
Irish picked up the image taken by a reconnaissance F6F-5P Hellcat four days prior. He held a magnifying glass over it. The mod was very apparent. There was no doubt.
“What the hell are they doing in Wake?” he asked everyone and no one. “Why not Truk or any other Imperial Japanese Naval Base for that matter? There’s not even a dock or fueling facilities there. They could have loaded them onto a Cruiser and steamed at flank speed to anywhere to prepare for an attack. I don’t get it …”
Jeff Morton spoke up after charting the route. “Most direct course to Tokyo.” Everyone turned to him.
“That is a damn long way at six knots, Jeff.”
“The lieutenant is correct,” Gerhardt ended the debate. “Wolf would not trust anyone but himself to deliver the weapons, and he needs an agreement with the Japanese. Those weapons are his leverage.” Silence fell over the room.
“We guessed wrong, gents,” Spike said. “We assumed he wanted to get the weapons deployed immediately by going to the closest Japanese stronghold. Now they’re heading for Tokyo.”
“We can’t afford to guess anymore, Spike—”
Spike gave Irish a subtle shake of the head and nodded outside. Spike led the way, and once on the porch whispered in Irish’s ear.
“We broke the Japanese code years ago. The Nazi sent a message. We know it’s him and that he’s going to Yokosuka Naval District in Tokyo Bay.” Irish gave a half nod, preferring not to know such tightly held information. “I wanted to test our Germans, see if we can really trust them. They passed.”
They both watched from the veranda as Maria entered the room demanding the talk of war cease.
“Come on Irish, let’s get a drink.”
Later that night, Irish was packing his bag with the few things he had with him: toiletries, underwear, and a couple uniforms were about it. Maria stood behind him; he turned and she handed him a small-framed picture of the two of them from their wedding day. She struggled for words as tears streamed down her face. Irish brushed them away, his fingers lingering on her cheeks.
“Soon the war will be over, and when it ends, I will leave the Army and American Airlines. My life is here now, with you.”
The fear had not left her eyes. “You must return,” she pleaded.
“I will, I promise.”
“No, swear to me!” she cried.
“Okay, Maria. I swear I will return. Safe and sound.”
CHAPTER 17
07:00 Local, 20 June, 1945 (08:00 GMT, 20JUN)
Gestapo Head Quarters, Berlin
The marvel of modern air travel had torn Irish from the bosom of happiness and tranquility and thrust him into the depths of hell within thirty-six hours. Germany had been bombed and literally burned into submission. Berlin lay in ruins. Unable to stop the waves of bombs that fell around the clock, its destruction was total. Death filled the air; its unmistakable stench lingered weeks after the ceasefire. It permeated the city. Gaunt, shell-shocked survivors peered from dark corners in fear. The Soviet Army had taken revenge. Civilian atrocities had been common. Above him the building on Prinz Albrecht Strabe, like the city, lay in ruin.
Irish now found himself at the very epicenter of hell, in the basement of Gestapo Headquarters, sitting across from the embodiment of evil, an interrogator from the Gestapo.
Slight, with almost feminine features, his well-oiled hair was combed straight back on his pointed head. A thin, meticulously trimmed mustache betrayed a smirk of arrogant defiance. Irish had read his file. He had been a particularly nasty interrogator. His specialty was torture, and the Germans had kept tidy records of it all. Colonel Gerhardt’s family’s record ended with him. The Nazi knew he would be executed. He had no remorse, no conscience, and absolutely no intention of helping the Americans find the treasonous colonel’s family. He smugly refused to respond to any of Spike’s questions.
Irish had had enough. He struck in a fluid motion, flinging the table aside, planting a boot squarely in the Nazi’s narrow chest, kicking him backwards. Drawing his .45 he fired off a single round right next to the interrogator’s ear. Chips of concrete floor cut into the Nazi’s cheek as he lay stunned, still handcuffed to the chair. Then, slowly, the interrogator’s smirk returned.
“Americans don’t torture,” he said in perfect English.
Spike grabbed Irish’s arm. “He’s right, Lieutenant Colonel Myers. Please leave.”
Irish eased the hammer down on his pistol. Cordite stung his nose as he glared at the Nazi. Without saying a word, he holstered his weapon and left the room. Spike righted the snickering interrogator.
“You are correct, Herr Major; we don’t torture.” Spike smiled at the Nazi and then patted his knee. The man’s smirk disappeared as he watched Spike walk to the door and tap it twice. Spike walked back in front of him as the door opened.
“I’d like to introduce you to Colonel Gerhardt. Hans, do come in.”
A wheeled cart with the tools of the interrogator’s trade came through the door first, then the colonel. He was not smiling.
“Gutenmorgen, Herr Nazi.”
Spike walked out of the room as the interrogator began to scream. “You can’t leave me with him … Wait! … Dachau … I sent them to Dachau!”
17:00 Local, 20 June, 1945 (08:00 GMT, 20JUN)
USS Suwannee, Philippine Sea
Blackness, total blackness. Is this the color of a watery grave? Kid moved his head slightly. It throbbed with fury, shooting pain across his cerebellum. Fumbling with the light over his rack he finally found the switch and toggled it on. Flooding the space with light, it revealed an unfamiliar stateroom—Rough’s.
Kid looked at the two sea lockers on the deck and remembered. The lockers were the only things that would go home to his family. Lieutenant Junior Grade Scott “Rough” Ryder was in a canvass sarcophagus, weighted by five-inch shells, on the bottom of the Philippine Sea. Kid swung his legs out of the rack accidentally kicking Robbie awake on the deck.
“Ow! My head.”
“I didn’t kick you in the head unless it is still up and locked.”
“Stop yelling, Kid.”
Kid laughed and then stopped suddenly as grief seized him again. It was coming back to him now. Stutz had walked in the night before while they were sanitizing and packing Rough’s personal effects. He set a bottle of rum on the desk and left. It, along with a six-pack of Coca Cola bottles, was now empty.
“Man, what time is it?�
�
Kid looked at his watch. “It’s either 0500 or 1700. I have no idea which.”
Robbie struggled to his feet and staggered the short distance to the door. He looked into the passage way and then closed it.
“White lights, 1700. Glad it’s a no-fly day.” He walked over to the small sink and threw up.
20:58 Local, 20 June, 1945 (11:58 GMT, 20JUN)
Kriegsmarine, Unterseeboot 862
Vomit mixed with salt water sloshed from side to side as the U-boat heaved in the heavy sea. Frightened eyes were on the chief of the boat as he descended from the sail bridge. More salt water followed him before the hatch was closed above him. Wolf watched with lifeless eyes.
“General, allow us to submerge where it is smooth.”
“Nein. Flank speed on the surface. The storm will hide us.”
“That hatch modification was not designed for this pounding; you will kill us all!”
Wolf said nothing, glaring a response. Chief Bauer snapped the collar of his slicker up and returned to the sail bridge. Wolf stood and stared down the crew, then made his way back to the captain’s quarters to review his plan. His message to Imperial Japan’s Naval Head Quarters had been cryptic; however, his reference to a special weapon and a request to liaison with scientists at Chosin Reservoir would tell them exactly what he had.
Chosin was a heavy-water facility, integral to Japan’s nuclear program. He didn’t need their help, though, only their attention. A sharp knock rapped on the cabin door.
“Kommen sie.”
“Heil—” the SS major caught himself and stopped. “Generalleutnant von Bassenheim?”
“Ja?”
“The crew, upon arrival?”
No more need be said. Wolf thought for a moment and responded matter of factly. “We would draw more attention executing them. We need the Japanese to think this is a larger project than just our efforts. We shall request that the Japanese Navy confine them to the U-boat for security reasons.”
“Jawohl, Herr General.”
21:08 Local, 20 June, 1945 (12:08 GMT, 20JUN)
USS Suwannee, Philippine Sea
Dice ricocheted through a metal chute tumbling into the tray at its base. Each slam of the dice sent pain through Robbie and Kid’s heads. Bugs yelling ace-duce at the top of his lungs didn’t help. The board game was an aviator version of Backgammon; the ingenious auto roller had been designed by a metal smith in the air-frames shop.
“You boys don’t look so good.”
“Must be the flu, Skipper.”
Stutz smirked at Robbie. “No doubt, shipmate. You boys going to be up by tomorrow night?”
“Standing by with glee, Skipper,” Kid responded with false enthusiasm.
“Ah, sir … you, boys?” Robbie asked, brows knitted in confusion.
“Sorry, Robbie, you are my new night player.”
“Lucky me.”
“Kid, brief him up. We are back on line tomorrow night.”
Dice slammed home, punctuating the tension.
15:10 Local, 20 June, 1945 (16:10 GMT, 20JUN)
Dachau Concentration Camp, Bavaria
Standing on the commandant’s porch, Spike looked past where Irish stood in the yard and took in the panorama—tracks leading to the showers that were in fact gas chambers. Ovens. Ovens for burning men, women, and children, their doors hanging open revealing cremated remains. It was a factory of death. They had thought Gestapo HQ was hell, but they were wrong. It had merely been a portal, this camp was truly hell. Such barbarity, such cruelty. The descriptions of hell from his seminary days paled when compared to its reality. It was devoid of humanity, of any semblance of mercy. And yet, he knew it was all too human. A look into a dark past, as if Attila the Hun had roamed the camp. But it was here; it was now. He watched a soldier approach Irish in the yard.
“Shocking, isn’t it, sir?” Irish turned to face a young handsome captain with eyes that displayed a hint of instability.
“My men went crazy shooting the SS guards at first … I almost let them finish.” He looked around suddenly dropping out of the conversation as if he’d gone somewhere else. Abruptly he re-entered. “It was right, right? I mean to stop them?”
Irish suddenly felt the urge to cry. He fought back the sensation and placed his hand on the young man’s shoulder. Squeezing, he looked deep into the captain’s eyes. “You did the right thing, Captain. We don’t do that. I’m proud of you, son.”
The young man nodded in acknowledgment then looked into the ovens. “How are we going to go home?” He mumbled something else and then walked off, leaving Irish standing in the middle of the camp.
Spike had watched the exchange from the porch and joined Irish as the young captain disappeared around a corner.
“Is he okay?”
“No, Spike, he most definitely is not okay.”
“Roger that. I’ll get these guys rotated out.”
“You had better hurry.” Irish looked nervously at Spike and asked, “What did Hans do to that Gestapo slug?”
Spike smiled. “Well once he shit himself, Hans just laughed at him. Before he went in, I assured him we would execute the bastard. He’s good with that.”
Irish nodded and walked off.
07:18 Local, 21 June, 1945 (22:18 GMT, 20JUN)
Yokosuka Naval District, Tokyo
A lone Seiran fighter dove for the bay below, the constant-speed propeller wailed as it changed pitch to keep the Atsuta 30 engine from over revving in the power dive. Atsugi let it accelerate to red-line speed, leveling off just above the chop of the bay. Slashing between the sub pens, he pulled four Gs into the vertical. At the top of the loop, he eased back-stick pressure and floated out over Tokyo Bay still inverted. When his speed decayed to 40 knots, he extended the landing flaps and dive brakes as he buried the stick in his lap. Pointing straight down, Atsugi eased the throttle to idle and played out the stick force to finish the loop just above the water. He held a constant pitch attitude as the fighter settled onto its floats.
His ground crew had watched from the dock until the Seiran pointed at them with the completion of its loop, scattering as the aircraft squatted on the bay. Atsugi smiled at the sight as he decelerated. He noticed one had stood fast, at parade rest. Slowing dramatically as he approached the dock, Atsugi kicked the port rudder hard and goosed the engine to bring the starboard wing float to the perfect position for docking as his men scurried back into position.
Having lost face, they moved with extra purpose. Atsugi shut down the Atsuta 30 engine and released his harness. He was on the wing before the engine sputtered to a stop. Looking down he saw the man who had not flinched. Admiral Hiroshi. Sliding down the wing he saluted the admiral as his aide returned to his side, protesting the dangerous risk of an important asset.
Admiral Hiroshi ignored his aide-de-camp’s—his nephew’s—comments. “Am I to understand the Seiran fighter has been judged sufficient for its mission?”
“Yes, Admiral.”
“Very well, walk with me, Commander.”
As his nephew moved to join them, the admiral glared.
“Alone.” Nodding with deference, the young man slipped away.
“I received a personal message today from Colonel Yahara. Generals Ushijima and Cho have committed seppuku. Okinawa is lost.” He let the significance of that sink in and then handed Atsugi a copy of Wolf’s message from Wake.
“Do you understand its significance?”
“I do, Admiral-San.”
“Can it be carried on one of your Seirans?”
“Perhaps, in the rear cockpit, with the weight of the floats removed, the catapult’s capacity can also be increased.”
“Excellent. Your experiment shall be the divine wind of our ultimate victory.”
22:34 Local, 22 June, 1945 (22:34 GMT, 22JUN)
Beckwith Manor, England
Embers flared as JT Dobbs stoked the fire. Satisfied, he leaned on the stone mantel of the grand fireplace and returned
the brass poker to its holder. Turning he looked first at Spike and then Irish. Neither man had touched their twenty-year-old single malt Scotch. Each drink rested on over-stuffed leather chair arms, cradled by listless hands, the two men staring into the fire.
“What is wrong with you two?”
“We’ve been to hell.”
“We have all been to hell, Irish.”
“No sir, we have not! Not until two days ago.” After a long awkward pause, Irish spoke again in a hushed tone. “JT, when we got to Dachau, and Hans drug that camp commandant out of his quarters sniveling and crying, I didn’t feel anything. When he pumped two rounds into his forehead, right at our feet, I didn’t feel anything. I felt nothing. Even when I wiped the gray matter and blood off my face I felt nothing. Later when I looked into Hans’s daughter’s eyes, nothing reflected back. It’s like they robbed her of her humanity. ” Irish slammed back his Scotch in a single gulp, meeting JT’s eyes. “Let’s just forget about it …”
“I don’t think that’s possible,” Spike muttered. “I don’t think it will ever be possible.”
They fell back into silence; only the crackling of the fire and tinkling of ice cubes were audible. JT stared, too, knowing Spike was right.
“Gentlemen.” JT’s wife Kate entered the room, walking up behind the chairs. Light from the fire gently caressed her face; its soft glow hid the worry lines of a combat aviator’s wife and highlighted her beauty. “Dinner is ready. I don’t think the Gerhardts will be joining us. They seem to be, well, in shock. I sent food to their room.”
Dinner was painfully quiet; a distraction was needed. Irish, a man not capable of long periods of silence, invited a distraction. “What’s the plan now, Spike?”
Code Name: Infamy (Aviator Book 4) Page 10
