21 August, 1945 11:0321:03 GMT, 21AUG
Fort Chimo, Kuujjuaq Quebec
A B-29 rolled out on final approach to Fort Chimo’s Airfield, touched down, and taxied to the tarmac, filling it. Spike and his team emerged and were met by a Royal Canadian Air Force lieutenant.
“Major Shanower?”
“I’m Shanower.”
“Sir, we have all the items you requested and two Noorduyn Norseman Mk IV aircraft at your disposal.”
“Excellent, Lieutenant, will you be leading us out?”
“Yes, I know the area.”
The group immediately manned up the aircraft, and Irish dismissed the pilot of the second Norseman and took command. After starting the engine he followed the lead Norseman to the runway, and they rolled together, turning east toward Ungava Bay and then southeast to the crash site.
After only an hour they overflew an Avenger with a collapsed landing gear and four men standing next to it, waving. Spike was in the seat next to Irish. “Well, that would be the missing Avenger, I presume?”
“Yes, and the Hellcat pilot. The Avenger has a crew of three.”
“Can you set down next to it?”
Irish scanned the tundra and pointed to a better spot. “Over there.”
With Hans onboard to evaluate the debris field, the lead Norseman continued to the Seiran crash site, while Spike and Irish picked up the wayward Navy crewmen. As they ran to the idling Norseman, Irish looked up and couldn’t believe his eyes. He began to bellow in laughter, and Spike looked at him as if he had finally lost it.
As the Navy boys piled in, Irish, tears in his eyes, grabbed Kid by the mouton collar of his flight jacket. “David Brennan, your mother would have both our asses if she knew.”
Kid smiled ear to ear and, with a laugh, said, “Well, then, let’s not tell her, eh, Irish?”
“That’s a deal, shipmate!”
Later that evening a group of weary men sat around a fireplace in the Fort Chimo lodge, drinking Moosehead beer and laughing at exaggerated stories. Kid and Irish shared tales of their cross-country trip, and then Irish stunned Kid with the news that he had picked up a Chilean wife and a vineyard along the way to the party. Spike watched and smiled as Irish invited everyone within earshot to visit, assuring them there was plenty of room and plenty of wine to go around.
Hans came into the room and waved Spike over.
“How goes it, Hans?” he asked as he thrust a beer in his hand.
Hans took it and downed half in a gulp, gasping out a thank you.
“As good as we could possibly have hoped for, Daniel. The weapon safe’d itself, and cleanup will be minimal. Canadian Mounties are guarding it tonight. I will have it ready to be flown out in one of the Noorduyns by midday tomorrow.” He took a long pull off the Moosehead beer before he spoke again. “We have been very lucky.”
Spike clasped his arm around the German’s shoulders. “You make your own luck, my friend.”
They clinked bottles, guzzled the rest of their beers, and ordered another round for everyone.
~ The End ~
COMING NEXT
COLD WAR HOT
“From Stettin in the Baltic to Trieste in the Adriatic, an iron curtain has descended across the Continent. Behind that line lie all the capitals of the ancient states of Central and Eastern Europe. Warsaw, Berlin, Prague, Vienna, Budapest, Belgrade, Bucharest and Sofia, all these famous cities and the populations around them lie in what I must call the Soviet sphere, and all are subject in one form or another, not only to Soviet influence but to a very high and, in many cases, increasing measure of control from Moscow.”
- Winston Churchill, Fulton, Missouri
PROLOGUE
An F6F-5 Hellcat pulled hard into the closing flight of A6M Zeros, its guns chattering death. The lead Zero exploded as they passed head on. Pulling into the vertical, the Hellcat pilot heaved on six Gs looping over the top. His move was matched by the three remaining Zeros. Another A6M exploded out of the fight as they met over the top. Using his slow speed, the Hellcat pilot deployed the flaps and snapped back onto the tail of the Zeros. The powerful R-2800-10W engine pulled him to the enemy as the flaps retracted. Turning inside of the trailing Zero he flamed it in a short burst. Twisting and fleeing toward the ocean just below them the last Zero ran for its life. It was short. Twenty millimeter cannon and fifty caliber high explosive rounds shredded the unarmored aircraft as it self-emulated.
Barely 100 feet above the water, the Hellcat pilot detected movement on a cliff off his right wing. He looked over and saw women, some holding children, jumping to their deaths. Suddenly he was close enough to see faces; the faces of his wife and infant son as she jumped: “What are you doing here? This is Okinawa, OKINAWA!”
CHAPTER 1
LaGuardia Airport, New York City
15:03 Local, 17 September, 1945 (20:03 UTC, 17SEP)
A Sikorsky VS-44A flying boat flew low up the East River and skidded with a lurch into the dark water of Bowery Bay. As the large aircraft settled heavily, the red-headed captain shook his head in disapproval. “Damn it, David, that was horrible.”
“Irish, I’m a fighter pilot. This is my first time landing a flying boat. Remember I’m used to landing on boats.”
“You’re an international airline pilot now, son. That means landing these big uglies, in bad weather or good, all over the world. Let’s go, take off again.”
Four Pratt & Whitney R-1830-S1C3-G engines revved to their peak 1,200 horse power, but even at full throttle the eighty-foot-long flying boat wallowed.
“Get us on step!” Irish demanded.
David ‘Kid’ Brennan pushed the control wheel forward elevating the tail and getting most of the flying boats hull out of the water. It was now on the raised forward section of the hull, the step. With the drag of the water greatly reduced, it accelerated rapidly then lumbered into the air.
“Let’s go down the Hudson then loop around lower Manhattan and try again.”
David turned south over the Hudson River and leveled the VS-44A at 2,500 feet. The view was spectacular. To the left was New York City, to the right New Jersey buildings hugged the shore. He was thrilled with the opportunity to fly the Sikorsky VS-44A, known as Exeter, but had to shake off his fighter-pilot mentality and embrace the role of commercial pilot. It wasn’t always easy, but it was definitely going to be worth it.
CR Smith, president of American Airlines, had purchased the Exeter and its sister ship Excambian along with the rights to fly international routes in order to form American Overseas Airline, a brand new division of American Airlines. CR had asked Captain James ‘Irish’ Myers to set up the routes and crews before he retired to his vineyard in Chile. Irish, in turn, had asked David to be one of the first AOA captains. As a decorated Naval Aviator, David had world wide experience and besides he was Irish’s Godson and Irish had been the one to teach him to fly in the first place. Irish had been an ACE in WWI and had flown paratroopers and cargo in WWII. He knew a natural pilot when he saw one, and David, like his father before him—one of Irish’s best friends—was one.
“Sport, you have to be up to speed yesterday. I’m going to fly the first few flights with you, but after that you’re on your own.” Irish knew there were few better pilots than David, but still “Kid” Brennan was just a kid. Even if he had shot down countless Zeros in the Pacific earning the status of multi-Ace, and even if he had saved New York by chasing down and taking out a rogue Japanese Seiran armed with a Nazi nuke.
“Look at that!” David exclaimed.
Alarmed, Irish looked up from the instrument panel. “What?”
“That view. Look at the Chrysler Building.”
Irish smiled and shook his head. “The Empire State is taller.”
“Yeah, but the Chrysler is art.”
Irish glanced at the iconic Art Deco building and shrugged. The New York skyline was beautiful, but he’d seen it many times before. The vista he longed to see was covered with vines
spreading out from an old hacienda. He looked back into the cockpit and monitored the flight instruments. They reversed course around south Manhattan and then flew up the East River toward LaGuardia Airport. The headquarters for American Airlines. David slowed, deployed the flaps and finished the landing check list. He descended at 500 feet per minute to just above the bay.
“Just hold your attitude, don’t flair.” Irish demanded.
Exeter settled smoothly onto the water of Flushing Bay. David pulled all four throttles to idle, as the flying boat squatted in the water it decelerated rapidly.
“I need that every time young captain. Now sail us over to the Marine Air Terminal.
“Sail us?”
“Yes, sail. This craft is now a sail boat, trust me you will find out how much on a windy day.”
As Exeter taxied close to the concrete ramp, Irish pointed to the ramp crew. The crew chief was driving a tractor connected by a long bar to what looked like a cart. He pushed it into the murky water. The cart ran down narrow tracks like a railroad car. David bumped up the throttles and slowly taxied close to it. Rampers in rubber waders grabbed the wing floats with hooks and guided the big ship onto the cart. The crew chief signaled David to goose the power and the aircraft clunked onto the cart. The men in the water strapped Exeter to it and the chief began to back up. Exeter emerged from the water like a prehistoric sea creature.
David and Irish exited the flying boat and were met by the crew chief, an old friend. Joe Butler walked over and shook hands. They exchanged small talk and then Irish walked to the operations office to fill out the paper work while David stayed with Joe.
“Any word about your brother, Joe?”
Butler shook it off afraid he would shed tears if he spoke the words. Finally after looking out over the bay, he spoke quietly. “My mom got a telegraph from a sergeant who was with him, when … when … he was killed.”
They both stared out over the water. David watched as a seagull settled onto the surface like he had just done in Exeter. Both shared the experience of having lost loved ones in the war. In fact Joe and Irish had been a part of Project 7 Alpha, a secret program on which David’s own father and brother had been killed.
“He’s up in the Sierra Madre Mountains, in the Philippines, I suppose … I’d like to bring him home. For Mom.”
David gripped Joe’s shoulder and nodded. Irish banged out of operations waving a license exaggeratedly at David.
“Son, am I going to give you every pilot qualification there is? I swear if it wasn’t for me—”
“Yeah, yeah; I’d be driving a cab in Jersey. Let’s go find the girls, Irish. They were headed to Fifth Avenue.”
Irish shook his head. “That’s not good, Maria has the check book. Come on let’s go. See you later Joe.”
Both men rushed over to Irish’s 1942 two-door, Cadillac Series 62 parked right next to the operations building. It was a warm sunny afternoon, and Irish had the top coming down as they burnt rubber out of the parking lot and headed towards Midtown. David held on for his life as Irish weaved in and out of traffic. Finally, as they found themselves stuck in a life-saving traffic jam and David allowed himself to breathe, Irish began filling David in on the big picture.
“Here’s the deal, FDR owed CR a favor big time and—”
“Project Seven Alpha?” David interrupted.
Irish looked sideways at his protégé, revealing a hint of concern.
“Yes. Anyway, CR ended up with AOA routes and two VS-44s. We have one aircraft now for training and we’ll get the other as well as the schedule next week.”
“Understood. I’m not senior enough to hold captain, Irish. I don’t want to step on toes…”
“You let me worry about that. AOA is a separate division from AA, so a separate list. Besides, you and I are now the only two pilots at AA with current flying boat ratings. CR will bring over more players as we get the new ground-based aircraft. He wants the A-team.”
“What new aircraft?”
“Son, these flying boats are obsolete. Aircraft are now powerful enough to get off of runways, which are now long enough to let them hold the fuel required for long legs.”
David thought about it quietly, Irish read his mind.
“JT, Thumper, Jon, and Smitty are checking out in the DC-4 right now in California. We are converting six aircraft from their military configuration as C-54s, back to civilian. They won’t be ready until October 24th, so you, me and a couple of new-guy first officers are going to fly the schedule in these boats until then.”
“And after a month?” David asked.
“You will go to DC-4 training and I will go to my winery in Chile.”
“Retire? I don’t believe it, you’d be bored to death in a month.”
“Ha, I will find plenty to do running a large winery and relaxing on the veranda of my hacienda with my beautiful wife. Besides, CR didn’t believe it either so technically I’m just on a leave of absence.”
Irish exasperated with the traffic, leaned on the horn as he jumped the curb and drove onto the sidewalk feeding all 343 cubic inches of the Cadillac’s V-8 engine. Once around the snarl, he got back on the road and was up to speed in no time. Squealing to a stop in front of the Waldorf Astoria, Irish tossed the keys to a valet and strode through the front door as if he owned the place.
“Bull and Bear in fifteen minutes for debrief.” Irish commanded and then swept into an elevator leaving David in his wake.
CHAPTER 2
Waldorf Astoria Hotel, New York City
17:00 Local, 17 September, 1945 (22:00 UTC, 17SEP)
David entered the Bull and Bear looking around for Irish. He wasn’t there yet so he proceeded to the unusually shaped bar. It had started as a circle that had been cut into four sections. Each section was then turned upside down so that it formed a shallow U. Which were then joined at the ends. In the center was a square back bar with a brass statue of a bull and a bear on top. Homage to the New York Stock Exchange. Done in dark, gleaming wood, the room was impressive. David went to the center of a section which put him close to the bartender.
“How can I help you, sir?”
“Two Budweiser beers please.”
Hearing a commotion, David turned and watched Irish make his entrance. David smiled as he worked the crowd, they had only been in the hotel a week and yet Irish seemed to have met everyone. The waitress swooned, the hotel manager to whom Irish had sold an impressive amount of wine at a deep discount, nodded. And when he sat next to David the bartender asked him by name if he required anything else.
“Why yes my good man, a cigar cutter and ash tray, please.”
“Right away, sir.”
Irish took a pull off his beer and nodded approval to David. Glancing across the bar to the other side he noticed two young Naval Aviators and waved over the bartender.
“Yes, Captain Myers?”
“Johnson, send our two Naval friends a couple of beers.”
David checked his watch. There had been no sign of his wife Theresa in their room. “So, should we look for the women?” Irish was working the cigar with surgical precision. Satisfied he lit the Romeo+Julietta and let out a cloud of smoke with a satisfied sigh.
“They are shopping, young man. When they are done, they will find us.”
David shook his head, laughing.
“Thank you for the beers sir.”
Looking up they saw the two ensigns had joined them. Both were obviously nuggets, brand new, with their bars shining like fresh nuggets of gold. Irish clamped down on his cigar with his teeth, picked up his ash tray and moved over two stools to make room for them.
“Join us, gentlemen.”
“Thank you, sir.”
The young men sat down and sipped slowly at their beer as Irish introduced himself and David.
“Gents, we both just separated from the service. I was a Lieutenant Colonel in the Air Corp, I’m now back with American Airlines and David Brennan here was a Naval Aviator like you
rselves. He is also back with American.”
The ensign closest to Irish stopped drinking his beer and turned to face David wide eyed.
“Kid Brennan, from VF-40?”
Irish responded for him. “Yes, the infamous Kid Brennan, awarded the Navy Cross, triple ace … or was it quadruple, David? There were so many…”
“Okay, Irish—”
“At any rate, lads, I taught him everything he knows. In fact, I was teaching him to fly this very morning.” Irish winked at David and tapped his cigar against the edge of the ash tray.
Looking at each other the young aviators mouthed wow and then began digging through their pockets.
“We need to buy you a beer, sir.”
Irish watched observantly as they scratched together enough for a beer and ordered. It was quite obvious they had spent the last of their money buying David a beer. They each stuck out a hand.
“I’m Ronnie Eckelstone and this is Ralph Green.”
“I couldn’t help but notice men, you seem a bit … strapped?” The young men’s cheeks colored slightly.
“Well, sir, we are brand new,” Ralph said.
“Really? I couldn’t tell.” Irish said, a mischievous tone in his voice.
“Yes sir, we showed up at our ship in Norfolk and instead of checking us in, they processed us out. Gave us each fifty dollars and, well, we thought about going home but came here instead.”
“What’s your plan?” David asked.
Ralph and Ronnie looked at each other and shrugged, Ralph spoke up again. “Well, sir, all I know is I’m not going back to the farm.”
Irish roared with laughter in approval. Within two hours they had drank six beers a piece, eaten three hors d’oeuvres and were now smoking big Venezuelan Cigars. David knew Irish was up to something. He had that damned twinkle in his eye. Finally, Irish held up a hand and said, “So if wishes came true, what would each of you wish for?”
Code Name: Infamy (Aviator Book 4) Page 21
