Code Name: Infamy (Aviator Book 4) (6 page)

“Ja, Condor.”

“Did they file a flight plan?”

“Nein.” Johan was drifting, overwhelmed with the torrent of information he was receiving.

Spike spoke softly, kindly. “Johan, did you see what direction they went?”

Again, he just nodded.

“Johan?”

“They turned to the south and continued for many miles.”

“How do you know this?”

“I watched them for as long as I could with binoculars … in case they turned back.”

Spike patted him on his shoulder and stood looking at the slain family on the floor. “We will need this area.”

“Untie me, and I will get some blankets and bury them.” Johan replied. “He was kind to me.”

“Not yet. Colonel Gerhardt, bring in the scientists and their wives.”

Standing above the butchered family in shock, some of the scientists involuntarily put a hand over their mouths. Many of their wives turned away, refusing to look. Because they were scientists, they had been insulated from the unpleasantness of war. To them, their research was like a grand experiment; it was best not to contemplate the end use. Best to bury one’s head in research. To be close enough to see death—to smell it—was not in their realm of experience. They had not even noticed that their chaperones had stripped off their black coats and were talking among themselves in English.

Spike walked between the blood-splattered remains and the traumatized group, his dog tags resting against the dark khaki of his GI T-shirt.

“Generalleutnant Wolfgang von Bassenheim did this.” Shock became bewilderment as they stared at Spike. They looked around, watching the rangers put on their U.S. Army uniforms. Finally one spoke.

“You are a liar. You Amerikanisch did this.”

Spike pointed to the orderly. “Ask him who did this. He was here. He saw the man who shot the field marshall and his children in cold blood and then commandeered the aircraft and flew off to who knows where. The same man who shot his own technicians. Men you lived and worked with who now lay dead on the floor of the breakroom in the assembly laboratory.”

Dumbfounded, the group swung their eyes to the man still sitting slumped on the floor. He nodded—saying nothing—shock, fear, and sadness in his eyes saying everything. The scientists looked back at the bodies, uncomprehending, attempting the calculus of an unsolvable problem.

“Why would he do such a thing?” a mother whispered.

Gerhardt stood and faced his old colleagues. “Because he stole four functional nuclear weapons which he will use for his own personal revenge in the face of his countrymen’s failure. He was a planner for the General Staff and knew the war was lost. He took the weapons and the manuals—all the technical research. It’s all gone. With those weapons he can extend the war; no doubt in his mind he can win it. Where Hitler failed, the Wolf believes he will triumph. But he can’t, because …” He stopped and looked at Spike, who nodded for him to continue. “Because the Americans have deployed their own weapon. The fatherland at least will be spared its destructive power.”

A door banged open loudly, startling the traumatized group. A ranger, still in SS uniform, stepped into the room.

“Sir,” he reported excitedly.

“What is it?” Spike asked in German. He looked around the room nervously.

“Classified, Major.”

“Speak freely, Sergeant; we have no more secrets.”

The simple phrase riveted the scientists. They wanted to trust this man, because they had no choice. Each was too intelligent not to know that this was an equation any child could solve.

Clearing his throat, the sergeant spoke. “Flash message from Supreme Allied Command …”

“Go on,” Spike prodded.

“German High Command has unconditionally surrendered, effective immediately.”

The juxtaposition of an American in an SS uniform discussing the surrender of Germany in perfect German was more than some could handle. Tears began to escape, while the realization sunk in that those who shed them would not. As a group, the scientists and their wives surrendered without a further word being said. Then the silence was shattered as shots rang out, awakening them from their emotional coma.

Bolt action Kar 98 rifles punctuated the staccato of the MP-40 submachine guns. Women shrieked, children cried out for their mothers, fathers threw themselves at their wives. Spike shouted above the confusion in two languages.

“Take cover! Lieutenant set a perimeter and get me a SITREP!” A cacophony of weapons built to a crescendo as windows shattered and bullets tore through the walls. “SITREP!”

Koch low-crawled near the door to give the situation report.

“It’s the guards from the compound. Twenty to thirty, single axis attack, line is stable.”

“Casualties?”

“Two rangers down.”

“Damn it!”

Thompson submachine guns joined the chorus, their distinctive sound coming from the hangar. Inside, Irish and JT let fly steady streams of .45-caliber rounds to pin down a flanking squad. Spent cartridges, glass, and Irish’s voice filled the air.

“I’m too damn old for this!”

Inside the terminal, Schroeder reached up and pulled a white needlepoint tablecloth off of a table.

“I must put a stop to this.” Holding the delicate linen he stood up.

“Schroeder get down!” Spike yelled, too late.

A 10-millimeter round cut through the thin wall and slammed into Schroeder’s chest. He was hurled to the floor like a rag doll. Undeterred he struggled to his knees and moved to the door. His hand was hit with a 9-millimeter round as he turned the doorknob. His strength was waning rapidly, but seeing the fear of the children cowering in the hall buoyed him. Finally reaching the front door of the terminal, he cracked it open and waved the tablecloth. His sergeant of the guard saw the white flag and called for a cease-fire.

Slowly the order was passed until the only guns firing were the Thompsons. Since neither of the pilots spoke German, a ranger rolled into the hangar and shouted, “Hey, Grandpa, cease fire! With all due respect, sirs.” JT and Irish looked at each other and shrugged at the silence.

Schroeder methodically walked toward the front gate. Even with a chest wound he was resolute in his determination to put an end to the battle. Spike joined him, taking his arm to steady him. Seeing the condition of his executive officer, the sergeant of the guard laid down his weapon and moved toward the two officers. Letting him pass, the rangers stood silently watching.

“Sergeant, stand down your men.”

“Sir my orders are to—”

“Sprechen sie Englisch?”

“Ja.”

“Can you read it, too?”

“Yes, sir,” he responded in a thick accent. Spike handed him the message from Allied Command.

“Am I to believe …?”

“Let me be the last to die here,” Schroeder said and slowly collapsed to the ground.

“Medic!” Spike yelled. Schroeder sat with his legs straight out like a child while the life ebbed from his face.

“What should I do, sir?” the guard whispered to Schroeder.

He patted the guard on his shoulder and whispered back. “Go home. The war is over for us.”

Standing, the sergeant of the guard rendered a traditional military salute. Schroeder smiled weakly and nodded, unable to return the courtesy.

“Medic!” Spike yelled again.

As he watched his sergeant walk away, Schroeder’s vision began to fade. Slumping onto his back, he pulled a kneeling Spike close to him.

“Take care of my people.”

“I will, Lieutenant Colonel.”

“Give me your word … as an officer.” He choked the words out, coughing bright red oxygenated blood.

“You have my word as an officer and a gentleman that I will take care of your people as if they were mine.”

“They are yours now.” Schroeder cracked a crimson smile, laid back, and breathed his last.

The moonless night was pierced by runway lights as three C-47s floated out of the darkness. They taxied to the terminal and shut down. The two fallen rangers were loaded first, their stretchers covered with blankets. Next the scientists and their families were herded into the C-47s. Mothers clutched at their children, uncertain of their future. Some stole sideways glances at the orderly digging four fresh graves in a barren garden, wondering if they would meet the same fate. Spike assigned only two rangers per aircraft; there would be no more trouble.

With the rest of the rangers and Colonel Gerhardt in tow, he approached JT and Irish.

“Boys, I hate to do this—”

“No you don’t; you love to screw with us. What now?” Irish interrupted.

“I need you and your machine.” Spike winked at Irish, which irritated the pilot even further. JT held up his hand.

“I’ve got an air wing to run, Major, but you can have Irish. I’ll go get a co-pilot for you.”

“Thanks a lot,” Irish protested with a growl.

“Irish, I’m assuming Spike is going in pursuit. He’ll need a man of your skills,” JT yelled over the sound of two Pratt+Whitney R-1830-90C Twin Wasp engines revving up as the lead C-47 began to taxi.

“Well, you better hurry up, if you’re abandoning me to this spook.”

JT slapped his old friend on the back and sprinted for the last aircraft, holding up his hand to stop it. Behind him, Spike smiled.

“Irish it’s just you and me now.”

Irish’s retort was drowned out by the second Skytrain’s engines as it goosed the power. He made a second attempt as the third plane began its taxi. Spike was delighted with Irish’s inability to voice his displeasure. He was even more amused when he saw the cherub-faced co-pilot approaching behind Irish.

“Are you Lieutenant Colonel Myers, sir?” Irish turned to face his new co-pilot.

“Oh, perfect.” Spike continued to laugh as he headed toward the flight planning room in the terminal. There he found a young navigator waiting for him.

“Major Shanower?” He nodded as the last of the C-47s roared down the runway.

“Lieutenant Jeff Morton. Colonel Dobbs said you needed a navigator.”

“That I do, Lieutenant.”

“Where are we headed, sir?”

“I’m hoping you can tell me.”

CHAPTER 10

10:45 Local, 8 May, 1945 (14:45 GMT, 8MAY)

Santiago de Chile

It had been the same show in Joao Pessoa, Brazil, and now Santiago, Chile. A single SS Officer met the Condor with a handful of Storm Troopers. They, in turn, directed the locals in refueling and provisioning the aircraft and then got on board to be briefed by Wolf. As pilot, Franz was on the tarmac supervising the fueling when he noticed they stopped early. He walked over and asked the fueler why in Spanish.

“I have fueled as ordered, Capitan.”

Franz looked over his shoulder to make sure the SS was still in the aircraft.

“I am the aircraft commander; double the load.”

“Si, señor.”

Twenty minutes later the Condor took the runway at Los Cerillos Airport, Santiago de Chile. Franz did not stop at the maximum power detent, but instead ran the throttles past it into emergency power. His co-pilot looked at him and received a wink in reply. With the engines at a dangerously high power setting, both men silently wondered if all four would hold together.

When the aircraft left the runway at a shorter distance than the other three takeoffs, Wolf left the cockpit unaware that his fuel order had been doubled. Confident his plan was progressing, he stuck his head in the navigation station and ordered a course for the island of Más a Tierra. Two hours later the Condor settled heavily onto the short island runway. On approach they flew over Cumberland Bay and saw a cargo ship at the pier with a U-boat tied to it. Equipment hung from its King-arms and was being transferred from the submarine to the ship.

14:52 Local, 8 May, 1945 (18:52 GMT, 8MAY)

Kriegsmarine, Unterseeboot 862

U-boat number 862 was a Type IXD2 long-range submarine, and the equipment being off-loaded had modified its two forward external torpedo storage containers. All three of the aft containers had been secretly modified in Penang to carry additional diesel fuel extending its 11,400-mile range by ten percent and allowing them to reach the islands without refueling.

U-862’s chief of the boat, Ernst Bauer, watched as the swing arm of the freighter picked up, pivoted, and then lowered the fourth crate. His crew, under direction of the SS, slowly, carefully, inserted the crate into the container. It seemed carnal—obscene to him. As if a demon seed was being rooted into his ship. Watching his captain and the Nazi general strut around each other, he knew his skipper was much less happy than even he was.

Glancing across the bay his eyes rested on the area in which he had helped scuttle the SMS Dresden in the last war. As a teenage conscript, he’d been a part of Vice Admiral Count Spee’s victory at Coronel and the disaster at Falkland Islands. Dresden had been the only survivor. Eluding the British Navy until March 1915, they intercepted a message and found her with her magazines empty and engines unserviceable. Unable to fight she was scuttled by her captain rather than surrendered. Her crew, however, were captured by Chile and spent the rest of the war in rather pleasant accommodations.