Code Name: Infamy (Aviator Book 4) (31 page)

“David, what happened in Okinawa? You had the dream again last night.” He rolled onto his back and put his arm over his eyes. “Nothing.”

CHAPTER 5

Waldorf Astoria Hotel, New York City

16:49 Local, 18 September, 1945 (21:49 UTC, 18SEP)

Spike sat alone at the bar in the Bull and Bear. He shook a Pall Mall cigarette out of the pack and lit it. On the bar in front of him was a copy of the Washington Times, New York Times and St. Louis Post Dispatch. He had all three side by side and had been scanning the headlines. At 16:59 he checked his watch and had the bartender set up four extra beers.

One minute later, Irish and his entourage burst through the door. “Johnson, beers and fresh horses for my men.”

Spike turned and smiled. “Here’re your beers, Irish.”

“Spike!” Irish rushed over and grabbed the ex-spy, pulling him in for a bear hug. “What are you doing here? How did you find us?”

“Really, Irish?”

“Right, never mind. Hey, wait a minute. Every time you show up it’s followed by a near death experience.”

“That’s not fair. Last time you got a wife. Besides, I’m on paid leave.”

Irish turned Spike to face the group. “David, you no doubt remember Spike.” He nodded to David.

“How are the burns, Kid?”

“Just about gone.”

“And these two rookies are Ronnie and Ralph. Boys, Spike and I saved the world back in the day. Of course Kid here did his part, too.”

They all laughed and Irish pulled Spike away from the group and out of ear shot of the bartender.

“Saved the world, funny.” Ronnie laughed again, picking up his beer.

“He’s not kidding, Spike is OSS.” Both young men looked at David. He held a finger to his lips.

“Shhh, how ‘bout we debrief the flights.”

Both glanced back over at Spike and then at the bar when David tossed his notebook there to draw back their attention. Across the room Irish leaned in close to Spike.

“What’s up, Mr. Spymaster?”

“Truman hates Wild Bill Donovan and is shutting down the OSS.”

“That’s idiotic. Hell, even I can see we’re gonna knock heads with the Soviets.”

“Donovan hasn’t given up yet, but he is and will remain radioactive. He thought I should go hide.”

“How deep? Want a job with us until it blows over?”

“Thanks Irish, just some company. All I have to do is stay out of the political play.”

They moved back to their beers and Spike folded his papers up and then stacked them. Ralph watched with interest.

“Mind if I ask why you have the St. Louis Post Dispatch?”

“I’ve got three papers, young man”

“Yes sir, and one doesn’t fit.”

Spike nodded and then spread them back out in series again. He turned to page two of all the dailies and pointed to an article in two of them accusing the OSS of being America’s Gestapo.

“Well, Ralph, agencies pay for articles to be placed in order to influence Congress.” He pointed to identical articles in the New York and DC papers with the Associated Press byline. “It’s not in the St. Louis paper. If it was, I’d figure it was a real AP story. Since it is not, I know it is a plant.”

“Okay, Ralph, you can earn your decoder ring later.” Irish snapped.

“Are you staying at the Waldorf, Spike?” David asked.

“For a couple weeks, then I will travel or something. I haven’t really decided.”

“I’m retiring when we’re done with this project on 24 October. Then Maria and I are headed home. You want to go with us?”

Spike smiled, remembering the good times they’d had at the winery taking a break from the dangers of the war. “That sounds great, Irish. I’d love to.”

Moving to a table after a few more rounds the group ordered steaks and planned a night on Manhattan. Maria and Theresa had tickets to a Broadway show. The men set out after dinner with Irish as their guide. The first thing he did was move the flight schedule to the afternoon.

Ralph and Ronnie fit in with ease, both were fun loving and easy to get along with. Ralph was a big redheaded farm boy from Iowa. Ronnie was thin about 5’8” from a Chicago suburb. He was chatty while Ralph was a bit more subdued. Each could not believe their good fortune and it showed in their attitude.

Irish led the group to one of his favorite bars in Manhattan, McSorleys Old Ale House. In the East Village, it was a short cab ride away. McSorleys was a traditional Irish bar, open since 1854, no women were allowed. It was a man’s establishment, it didn’t even have bar stools. Saw dust covered the floor and there were only two types of beer. McSorleys light and McSorleys dark.

The boys loved it. The dark wood interior had a centuries worth of memorabilia and pictures on the walls. They found a corner after they each got a dark beer. Irish led the youngsters on a tour while Spike and David talked.

“How are you really doing, David?”

He shrugged and looked into his beer.

“I saw your full military record when we gave you the Silver Star. You should have been rotated home sooner.”

“I’m fine, Spike. When we got back from Canada, Irish got me back on with AA within days. He’s kept me busy. But how are you?”

Spike took a long pull off of his beer. “I’ll know in a couple months. How’s your family?”

“Hanging in there. I don’t think my mother is over my brother and father being shot down. Even after all this time…”

“No closure.”

“What do you mean?”

“No funerals.”

David leaned forward and then met Spike’s eyes squarely. He had been told parts of the story of his brother and father’s death but never felt like he had it all. It had been a secret project and all the records sealed.

“How much do you know?”

Spike leaned back and killed his beer.

“Everything.”

He turned, walked back to the bar and got two more beers. Irish was holding court with the youngsters and a couple of locals. Spike walked back to the corner where David waited and handed him a beer.

“Project 7 Alpha was a program to fill a gap flying combat missions over the Hump into the China and Burma Theater out of the Assam Valley in India. Things were so bad, FDR asked CR Smith personally to put the team together. Your brother and father volunteered, as did Irish.”

Spike pointed his glass to the animated aviator and smiled.

“Right before they rolled back to the USA, a Marine Raider unit got pinned down in China, on the Burmese border. Irish and his crew tried to get in to resupply them. That’s when he got wounded.”

He took another long pull off of his beer.

“He made it back to the 7 Alpha base and told them the Marines were jammed up and running out of ammo. Two crews scrambled to try again. JT and Danny-boy and your father and brother. Jon Edmunson was supposed to go with your dad but your brother refused to get out. JT didn’t even want a backup, but they launched anyway.”

David was riveted and didn’t even seem to breathe.

“JT and Danny-boy dove in and got the shit shot out of them, had to come off. That’s when Danny got it in the neck, he didn’t make it. While they were coming off your father dove in. A wing was blown off on short final. They rolled inverted and impacted on the edge of the air field.”

Spike shook out a Pall Mall cigarette and lit it. He looked through the flame of his Zippo at David.

“Anyway, JT had the Chief in the back on a fifty. They kind of went nuts strafing and dropping grenades on the Japs and then used their own parachutes to drop in the ammo for the Marines. That’s when JT got wounded, as you know they made it back and the Marines, once re-supplied, held off the Japs and slipped away that night.”

Are they still there? Spike thought about lying or claiming he didn’t know. But he did.

“Yes, the airfield is in China.”

David started to ask another question but saw Spike was not listening. His eyes were riveted on two patrons that had just walked through the door. David followed his gaze. Two shifty looking men were standing just inside the door. Both had greasy and unkempt hair. One, with the sunken cheeks of an addict, looked around nervously. The second one wearing an ill-fitting trench coat, with his hand deeply in the right pocket, filled the door.

“Shit, wait here.”

He watched as Spike moved quickly to the pair pulling his pistol from its shoulder harness he held it discreetly at his side and walked boldly right up to the suspicious pair.

“What are the odds?”

Startled the man with sunken cheeks looked at Spike.

“What? Get lost, man.”

“I said, what are the odds?”

“What odds?”

“The odds that I shoot both of you with the .45 in my right hand before you can pull your revolver from your belt and Dumbo behind you swings that sawed off from beneath his coat.”

Startled, darting eyes, looked at the gun and then into the eyes of Spike. Fear registered in his dilated pupils.

“Leave now and I won’t kill you.”

Shifting nervously the man in the trench coat looked from Spike to the back of his partners head and back to Spike.

“You move again Dumbo and I will blow your head off. Decision time boys, I’m out of patience.”

Spike read the eyes of the one with sunken cheeks and pushed the barrel of his weapon into his stomach. He snatched the .38 caliber revolver from his belt and then began to push him out the door. David appeared at his side and Spike handed him the 38. With the men pushed close together there was no way Trench-coat could swing his shot gun. Once out the door David pressed the barrel of the 38 against Trench-coat’s temple.

Smiling at the now very confused man. Spike reached around his human shield and grabbed the sawed off shot gun. David pushed the big man’s head sideways with the barrel of the gun, he winced as if waiting for the bullet to crash into his brain. Spike jerked the shot gun from his shaking hand.

“Federal Bureau of Investigation,” Spike lied. “We’ve been following you two scum bags for weeks.”

Shock registered in their eyes.

“But I’m relaxing with my friends and don’t feel like doing any paper work tonight, so you two pieces of shit get off easy. Next time, I’ll kill you. Get the hell out of here.”

Both men stood frozen, sure it was a trap, an excuse to kill them as they fled. David pushed the big one away with the gun. Spike did the same to the other man. Finally they turned and ran away. A trash truck lumbered loudly down the road. Spike took the 38 from David and threw it and the shot gun into the bin as it drove by.

Once back inside, Irish met them both near the bar and put his arms around Spike and David shaking them vigorously.

“Isn’t this place great?”

CHAPTER 6

LaGuardia Marine Terminal, New York City

10:40 Local, 20 September, 1945 (15:40 UTC, 20SEP)

Skipping twice then settling onto Flushing Bay, Exeter slowed to taxi speed and then turned toward the extended dock. Ralph fought it for a while and then got it close enough so the ground crew could hook it. He roughly goosed the power and brought the air boat alongside. Butler signaled them to shut the engines down.

They got out of the hot cockpit and stood on the dock. David debriefed him on the entire flight. When it was time to talk about landings they walked to the end out over the water. David pointed out the water fowl and how they hung in ground effect and held their attitude before settling onto the water smoothly.

“You are doing great Ralph, don’t worry about it.”

“I feel kind of overwhelmed.”

“Hell, you should. Big transition from the Wildcat to a four engine flying boat.”

Butler walked up as they stood on the docks edge.

“Any gripes on the machine captain?”

“None Joe, good airplane. Ralph I’ll meet you inside.”

Ralph nodded and headed into operations to start the paper work. Once he was out of ear shot David turned to Butler.

“Do you really want to go get your brother?”

Joe’s hairline raised in surprise and his eyes narrowed.

“What are you talking about, David?”

“Going to get our kin.”

“How?”

“I’ve got an idea.”

David walked into the Bull and Bear with purpose, he headed straight for Spike who was reading his three newspapers and drinking a cold beer. Reaching over Spike’s shoulder, David dropped a map of China on top of the newspapers.

“Well that didn’t take long.”

Spike pointed to an empty bar stool without looking up and unfolded the chart over the papers. He scanned the Burma border area and then pulled a fountain pen out of his shirt pocket. He circled a small airfield and tapped it with the pen.