Code Name: Infamy (Aviator Book 4) (14 page)

“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?”

“The war will end very soon …”

“I should think the millions of Japanese digging in on the mainland might take issue with your analysis.”

“Trust me. I can’t say more than I have.”

Irish set his fork down and pushed away from the table. Swirling his wine, he then sampled it and nodded his approval to Kate. She tried to suppress a smile but couldn’t. She knew he was up to something.

“So, then, the Germans were not the only ones messing around with God’s order of the universe?”

Spike said nothing as the dinner party all turned to face him. That alone spoke volumes.

“How much time, Spike? I mean to get into position?”

“Five or six weeks, max.”

Irish let out a low whistle. “Not much time, Spy.”

Swagger was returning to his damaged Celtic soul. “Where?”

“Okinawa.”

“Still pretty damn hot, isn’t it?”

“You getting soft on me old man?”

“Hardly,” rebuffed Irish.

Kate stood up rolling her eyes. “Shall I have the maps sent in?”

“Charts, my dear,” JT chided her playfully.

“By the way, I got married in Chile,” said Irish.

Kate sat back down as JT spewed wine all over the fine linen tablecloth. JT and Kate stared for a five count and then JT spoke. “Yeah, sure, Irish …”

“Ask the spy; he was the best man.” They both turned to Spike.

“Yes, it is true. I was pressed into service after Irish threatened to shoot me dead in the middle of the National Cathedral of Chile.”

“I did not say I would shoot you.”

“Okay, it was implied.”

“True.” Irish shrugged.

“And neither Kate nor I got an invite?”

Irish cleared his throat. “It was kind of impromptu.”

Kate put both elbows on the table and leaned forward, resting her chin in cupped hands. “Do tell!”

CHAPTER 18

12:14 Local, 25 June, 1945 (12:14 GMT, 25JUN)

Beckwith Manor, England

For three days, they plotted their return to war. Courses, times, fuel burns, and stops were all set. Irish suddenly looked up and asked JT, “Hey, where is the Hass-man?”

“He should be on Iwo by now. After VE Day they were shipped out immediately for the Pacific.”

“No rest for the weary,” said Irish.

“Iwo Jima?” asked Spike.

“Yep.”

“Perfect.”

“How so?”

“He can escort us into Okinawa quietly. No attention.”

21:18 Local, 25 June, 1945 (12:18 GMT, 25JUN)

USS Suwannee, Philippine Sea

Robbie banged into the ready room and flopped into his chair next to Kid like a bag of potatoes. He let out a large exaggerated sigh.

“Okay, I’ll bite. What’s wrong with you?”

“The bridesmaid cruise continues, Kid, that’s what’s wrong! You would think after we saved the day in Leyte Gulf—”

“Fine with me; I’ve had enough,” Kid muttered.

“Wait, the Lone Ranger has had enough vengeance?” Robbie regretted the statement before it left his mouth. He knew about Kid’s father and brother and that they were involved in some secret project called 7 Alpha, and that it had been led by none other than JT Dobbs. Kid took no offense; he had been driven by blind vengeance and revenge. But not anymore. His rage had turned to horror, and now he was fighting just to survive so he could go home and hold his own wife and son. He had no intention of riding a five-inch shell to Davy Jones’ Locker.

Kid patted Robbie on the knee. “Hey, don’t worry. With all the Fast Carriers off the coast of Japan, we will get to sweep the skies of Borneo.”