Code Name: Infamy (Aviator Book 4) (11 page)

“Bridge copies, out.”

Kid was riveted to the instruments. He put everything out of his mind except them. His life depended on them now. There was no doubt this was his last pass, his final attempt. Failure meant going into the abyss. He pushed the thought of sinking inverted in his Hellcat, fighting against the straps, from his mind. He had to make it. There was no other option.

Not waiting for a call from Carrier Air Traffic Control, CATC, Kid turned early to a base leg. His fuel gauges were banging off of empty, so he flipped on the fuel boost pump to get every last drop. After leaning out his mixture as much as he dared, he put his hand on the retracted gear handle and waited for a turn to final, breaking procedure by keeping the gear and flaps up to save fuel.

CATC called his turn to final and cleared him to descend to approach altitude. Kid lowered the gear and flaps, and then descended to sixty feet over the water. All the cockpit lights were set to dim except for the low fuel light that had been on since his last pass. Kid took the gum from his dry mouth and stuck it over the distracting light. He tried to swallow, but couldn’t.

“Vampire one is a quarter mile from mother.”

The transmission invited him to peek out again, and he could clearly see Hoffer holding the paddles level. He was on course. Kid went back on his instruments, forcing his scan back inside the cockpit. He detected a slight deceleration and bumped up the throttle. As he moved it forward out of his peripheral vision, he caught the low fuel pressure light illuminating. His Dual Wasp engine sputtered loudly into the otherwise silent night. All hands onboard Suwannee heard it.

“Turn him away from the ship!” yelled the backup LSO.

“I got him.” CAG stood stoically with arms crossed as the phone rang incessantly. Hoffer moved his paddles lower, showing Kid he was low, even though he wasn’t. He wanted all the energy he could get out of the remaining fuel. Kid responded with more throttle; his Hellcat snorted, popped, and then went still. Kid’s Hellcat whispered toward the deck’s edge, and as it crossed the round down, Hoffer raised his arms. With nothing else to do, Kid lowered the nose. Exactly what Hoffer wanted.

When he saw the movement, he quickly slashed the cut signal across his throat. Kid reset the landing attitude and settled on the number-two arresting cable. As it fed out, the phone went dead, leaving only the mechanical whirring of the arresting gear as it jerked the Hellcat to a safe stop. Stutz climbed up and reached into the cockpit to flip off the battery switch, interrupting the soft glow of the instrument lights. Kid was spent, physically and emotionally. Stutz and Rough pulled him from the aircraft.

“Come on, Kid, let’s go to sick bay and get you some medicinal brandy.”

Later, as Stutz entered the fight doc’s quarters in full flight gear, Kid leaned back contentedly sipping on a brandy, trying very hard to get the shakes to go away.

“Any last minute advice for me, Kid?”

“Yes, sir. Keep your final closure rate under five knots. Close your eyes when you shoot, and hold them closed until the Jap flashes into a fireball. Stay on your gauges.”

“Anything else?”

Kid looked up, staring hard into Stutz’s eyes for emphasis. “Save your gas, Skipper. You’re gonna need it.”

CHAPTER 14

11:58 Local, 10 May, 1945(16:58 GMT, 10MAY)

Diego De Almagro Hotel, Santiago de Chile

Irish emerged from the bathroom cleaned up and in his freshly pressed uniform. Maria had halfheartedly read the local paper, while Irish had spent the better part of an hour making phone calls. Lost in her melancholy, she paid no attention to his business. He did not want to admit even to himself, especially to himself, how he felt. Finally he spoke, his voice soft. “I’ll be back for lunch.”

She smiled sadly and shrugged.

“Wait for me, please. Promise me.”

Maria hesitated, reading his eyes. “I will wait for you.”

04:48 Local, 10 May, 1945 (19:48 GMT, 10 MAY)

Wardroom USS Suwannee

Kid was voraciously consuming a slider with cheese, the fatty beef patty oozing a delicious mixture of grease and melted cheddar cheese. Standing over him, smiling triumphantly, was the wardroom chief. A ship has many sailors, but only one crew. Chief Aquino had watched the night’s show from vulture’s row. He knew exactly what the young aviator needed, and he had earned it. The last real hamburger meat on the ship, not the frozen hockey pucks, but real 100% beef. He saw the LSOs coming through the door and set down a steaming plate of French fries and then exited to the galley. He didn’t want to embarrass Kid further; he knew it would be an ugly debrief.

“Hey, Kid, how’s it going? We’ve been looking all over for you.”

Kid nodded, not attempting to speak as he blew air around the hot fry he had clenched in his teeth.

“Interesting night, first for all of us!”

Kid held the white china plate out for the two LSOs and nodded agreement. Hoffer took a long hot fry and then flipped open his grade book with his other hand.

“First pass: wave off, settle on not enough power in the middle, too much power on wave off. Second pass: also a wave off, too much power in the middle, high fast in close. Last pass: OK, a little not enough power in close, a little settle at ramp. We are going to no-count those wave offs and chalk them up to a learning experience.”

Kid spoke around his fries. “Thanks, Paddles; that would have killed my grade point average.”

They all laughed, and then each LSO took a handful of fries as they stood. Hoffer spoke over his shoulder as he headed for the door. “You’ll get better. I’ve gotta go catch your CO; see you later.” As Hoffer pulled open the door, Kid called out.

“Paddles, thanks for keeping the faith.”

“You just keep coming, Kid. I’ll work you. But next time do us all a favor and bring a little more gas to the dance.”

15:18 Local, 10 May, 1945 (10:18 GMT, 10 MAY)

Diego De Almagro Hotel, Santiago de Chile

v

Maria ran to the door when she heard the knock and enthusiastically yanked it open. Spike was startled by the sudden movement, and she was startled by his presence.

“Excuse me, Señiorita, Lieutenant Colonel Myers asked me to escort you to …” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a piece of paper with the scribbled note. “… 1520 Silverado Real.”

“Why?”

“That, I do not know, ma’am.”

They rode silently through the streets of Santiago. Maria was pressed tightly against the door of the cab, clutching her purse, suspicious. Spike was perceptibly uncomfortable, which for a man of his occupation was unusual. As the cab pulled up to the curb, Maria saw Irish standing on the top of a wide set of stone steps. She bolted out of the cab and ran up the steps into Irish’s arms. Spike stepped out and paid the cabby. He turned toward Irish, but his attention was pulled to the sky as he followed the cathedral’s architecture to the tip of its spire. His gaze then fell upon Irish, who was intently speaking to Maria.

“Maria, the entire world has gone crazy …” He tripped over his words, trying to translate his thoughts, trying to translate what was in his heart, into Spanish. “Like you, I started life as a peasant. I have spent most of it alone. Now I have much, but no one to share it with. I want to share it with you.” He took her left hand and slipped a large diamond engagement ring on her finger. Her eyes first widened in surprise and then narrowed.

“I want no man’s pity.”

“It is not pity I offer; it’s love and a life together.” Irish reached down and presented her a large box wrapped in white paper with a satin bow. He nodded to two nuns waiting at a side door and then gently placed his hands on both of her shoulders.

“Maria, will you marry me?”

She stared into his eyes, trying to read his thoughts, trying to know his soul, trying to believe in the cyclonic change this man had made to her life in a matter of hours.

“Si.”

Spike watched the exchange in the shadow of the cathedral and saw Maria slowly walk toward the sisters and vanish with them into the sanctuary. He then walked up to Irish.

“Any chance you are going to tell me what’s going on?”

“You are going to be my best man.”

“Excuse me?”

But Irish had already spun on his heel and was heading through the main doors of the cathedral. Spike caught him halfway up the aisle.

“Irish, wait a minute. Stop!” Grabbing an arm, he turned Irish to face him, and in a more hushed voice, exclaimed, “Think about it! She’s a whore.”

Irish leaned into him seething.

“You ever say that again, Spike, I swear to God, I will kill you!”

Spike nodded toward the basilica where a priest and two altar boys stood piously, watching.

Irish cleared his throat and whispered, “So was Mary Magdalene.”

“Not all theologians agree with that, Irish. In fact, many believe it was a deliberate attempt by the Counsel of Nicaea to discredit her—”

“How the hell would you know?” Irish snapped.

“I was in the seminary on December 7, 1941.”

Both men stared at each other, shocked at how fast their perceptions melted away. The spy turned intellectual theologian, the Lothario turned hopeless romantic. High-pitched tones from the great organ ended their conversation. Spike held out his hand, beckoning Irish forward.

CHAPTER 15

16:00 Local, 10 May, 1945 (07:00 GMT, 11 MAY)

USS Suwannee

Kid awoke to the sound of aircraft launching. He reached up and turned on the small neon light attached to the bunk above him. Looking at the Big Ben clock on the ledge next to his pillow, he read “4:00,” and wondered: p.m. or a.m.? Must be p.m. … I watched Stutz’s three passes at the ship almost twelve hours ago.

His stomach tightened at the thought of going back out at night again. Fear burned slowly in his gut, releasing its acid. Pulling open the curtain of his rack, he grabbed a canteen from his desk and forced down some water to suppress it. Still in a fog, he kicked off his boxers and wrapped a towel around his waist as he pulled the door of the stateroom open. Blinking at the bright lights in the passageway, he made his way to the head. A voice shouted after him as he pushed through the hatch.

“Sir, wait.”

Too late. Splish-splash, he was ankle deep in sewage water, again. The hatch scupper had performed to design and contained the mess, again. He really had to remember to check the deck before barging into a head. Kid reached over to a shower nozzle and pulled it from its cradle. He hosed off each foot as he stepped back into the passageway. Undaunted he went in search of a functioning head, leaving a trail of fresh water. The young sailor in his wake trying not to laugh.

After he was cleaned up and back in his uniform Kid went to the ready room, he went straight to his mailbox and found a letter from Theresa. She didn’t write as much as she and Kid wanted her to. But he understood. With a baby in the house, she was busier than he was fighting a war. And that was the problem: she had no time, and he had nothing but time. Even with his administrative duties as XO, he had a lot of down time. Mix in spotty delivery, and letters from home were a welcome event.

He pulled it from his box and inhaled the perfume. So many wives and girlfriends doused letters with their perfume that they all mixed in the mail bags into a generic scent. Even official USN letters smelled like a French bordello. He knew that but didn’t care; just the reminder of femininity was enough to make him smile and long for his wife’s presence. Kid stood in front of the mailbox looking at Theresa’s elegant handwriting, debating whether to read it now or risk never. He set the letter back in the mailbox, deciding to save it for after his flight. He didn’t need a distraction from the ship during night flight. Just the thought of it clenched his stomach again.

“Let’s get some chow, Kid.”

Kid turned to see Rough Ryder smelling a pink envelope.

“First chow is the best chow.”

“Sleep until you are hungry,” answered Kid.

“Eat until you’re sleepy,” retorted Rough, as the rest of the aviators in the ready room chanted.

“If you sleep twelve hours a day, cruise is only half as long!”

Robbie banged through the hatch and added, “Anything more than twelve is gravy.” All hands laughed and then shuffled out the door to the dirty shirt wardroom. Aviators preferred the working uniform wardroom. It was much less formal than the main wardroom in attire and function. They could talk with their hands and have boisterous conversations without running afoul of naval tradition. They did stick to one cherished tradition: no business talk at the table. Conversation was light and lively—sports, news from home, and future ports of call were common topics. Squadrons ate together like families; it was their only sanctuary on a war ship. Even here they stuck together as a flight. A trained eye could take a snapshot of a ship’s morale with a quick trip to her wardroom.