One Thousand Years (23 page)

“We
have the launch order!” Bamberg called from the cockpit. Dale
snapped the pod closed, spun, and pushed herself forward.

Hamilton
was peering up from his side-panel. “We are to scan the Asian
continent, and link up with satellites over that hemisphere, if
necessary, to locate the American.”

*

“Now, no one in his senses regards bombing,
or any other operation of war, with anything but disgust.
On the other hand, no decent person cares
tuppence for the opinion of posterity. And there is something very
distasteful in accepting war as an instrument and at the same time
wanting to dodge responsibility for its more obviously barbarous
features. Pacifism is a tenable position, provided that you are
willing to take the consequences. But all talk of ‘limiting’
or ‘humanizing’ war is sheer humbug, based on the fact
that the average human being never bothers to examine catchwords.”
—
George Orwell, author and journalist, (May 19, 1944)

Pounding into the atmosphere, this was the first time McHenry could
physically feel the hull's vibration within the Tiger. This was a
surprise. The simulations had never hinted at this. He fell back on
his earlier training in Tuskegee, where he had learned to trust his
instruments, and they looked good. This was the
first time he could sense that he was moving— even a little bit
— and that felt good.

But he didn't know that the ship could take it. He worried about the
unterkarbon net, known as it was for being fragile. For the first
time, he thought more seriously about the lack of a full test. The
Luftwaffe must have had these inspection and test protocols for a
good reason. At this point, the only thing he could do was hold on
and pray.

A
heat dissipation warning appeared on the forward dome's alert panel.
Göring
could detect him now, he knew.
No matter
,
he thought. A seasoned Tiger pilot could have avoided this but he
didn't have time for a full pre-atmospheric braking. Besides, he was
counting on being sighted. Once, anyway.

He
was passing far above the western United States, heading northwest.
More warnings appeared that radio sensors were out while transiting
the ionosphere. This was also normal. He'd seen it in every
simulation. The picture of the Earth remained the same, the Tiger's
rechners using whatever sensors remained to display as much as
possible.

He
adjusted the dome to display only visuals. This was America at
night. It was dark below, and long past midnight. Away from the
coasts, there were no lights-out policies, but even the busiest and
brightest cities had long gone to sleep. No matter, he needed to see
America as a free man again.

He
turned on the indicators again. Soon, the warnings disappeared. He
let it continue for another full minute on this course. Not being
certain how good
Göring's
sensors might be, there could
be no taking chances.

Then,
after a quick check on the status of his ship, he brought the
navigation panel to the top of the dome, and initiated his second set
of coordinates. The Tiger's course shifted abruptly southward. He
would be landing in Hawaii.

The
plan was crazy, he knew. Once in Hawaii, it would be a more difficult
trip back to the mainland. But his initial landing would not be
picked up by
Göring
.
If he was quick enough, his pursuers would need to access a
satellite, and that might buy him time to disappear. He had no idea
how much time, but it might be his only
shot. The only certainty was, he would get caught eventually.

He
unlatched the seat, and swung himself around to see the west coast of
the United States receding behind him, wondering whether he would
ever see it again.

*

At 100 kilometers out,
McHenry switched to a telescopic view of the airfield.
This was much larger than his base in Italy.
He slowed his approach while scanning the hangars with an infrared view,
letting the autopilot slowly approach the airfield. He needed an
empty hangar large enough to accommodate his Tiger. Finally, he
spotted one by a squadron of dual-engine
C-47 cargo aircraft.

The base appeared almost like it was abandoned. He slowed his approach
to under 1,000 kilometers per hour, and began circling the field. To
his left, he saw Pearl Harbor and its Battleship Row, also strangely
quiet. A closer scan showed some activity, a man standing watch here
and there, and a few cars. But there were very few people. None of
the ships were loading, unloading or moving.
Then zooming his view back on Hickam Field again,
he noticed that none of the aircraft were flying.
Finally, he saw some activity at a bomber squadron.
It looked like a single B-24 was
being preflighted. This was hardly what one would expect in the
middle of a war.

It
was when searching for the barracks, and trying to see through the
walls, that he realized his error and laughed at himself. He'd been
staring at the Tiger's night vision for so long that he forgot it was
night. There would be very few flight operations at this hour.

Now grinning, he used the Tiger's rechner to bring him back
to the C-47 squadron he found.

There
were two men on watch here. He held back a few moments to time their
pacing, now hovering well above the two-hundred meters needed to
maintain invisibility. It was not the Americans he was hiding from.
The base radar was never going to detect him, and he had the cloak of
night even without the unterkarbon net around him. The real danger
was still above.

He
began the dive toward the hangar as each man had turned away. A
warning sounded. The ground was affecting the unterkarbon's stealth
field as the altitude passed below 150 and then 100 meters. The
visibility level status turned red, and then an audible alarm spoke
in German. He ignored them all. He simply swerved into the hangar,
gracefully retracting the newly repaired unterkarbon net as the Tiger
entered. The only adjustment needed was to angle sideways to fit
into the short hangar. He extended the landing gear at the last
second.
The Luftwaffe pilots could not have done better
, he
thought.
Test flight completed.

It
was night outside. The view was illuminated by the Tiger's
night-vision equipment. McHenry wasn't sure how to get the local
time but he estimated sometime between midnight and three o'clock in
the morning.

He
opened the hatch, and allowed the ladder to extract while enjoying
the mild breeze of Hawaiian air. There was a hint of an oil and
gasoline smell to it, which he had missed since his capture.
He stood for a moment, letting his eyes adjust to the dark.

He
thought again of chocks, set the emergency kit down by the ladder,
and went about a quick post-flight inspection. Somebody was going to
be back for the Tiger, and it would be better for them, and for him,
if it was still in good shape. He was at the landing gear when he
heard a shout. A soldier on watch came running into the hangar, with
a whistle in one hand, and an M1 rifle in the other.

“Easy,
soldier,” McHenry barked. Then as the man approached, in a
more normal tone, he spoke the words he had been planning during the
flight. “I am Lieutenant McHenry of the 99th Fighter Squadron.
This is a captured aircraft. It is to remain top secret. My
presence here is to remain top secret.”

The
young private lowered his rifle but didn't say anything.

Another private, with a rifle and a flashlight,
came running in to meet them.

“I
am Lieutenant McHenry, 99th Fighter Squadron,” McHenry repeated,
stepping away from the landing gear. “This captured aircraft
is to remain top secret. My presence here is to remain top secret.”

The
two men looked to McHenry, then to the smooth shape of the Tiger with
its black exterior, back to McHenry, and then back to the Tiger.
One of them pointed his flashlight on the subtle gray Luftwaffe markings.

“Wake
the duty officer,” McHenry ordered. “You are to contact
no one else. You are not to use a radio or your phone. You are not
to let anyone else discuss my presence by radio or phone. This is
top secret.”

The
soldiers still said nothing. Astounded, shy, or simply
disrespectful, McHenry couldn't know. But it didn't matter. This
was one of the times when he just didn't care.

“Do
you understand me?” McHenry asked firmly. It was more an order
than a question.

Finally,
the first soldier looked to the other, who nodded, and then looked
back to McHenry again. “Yes, sir. We'd better take you to Lt.
Donaldson.”

The
duty office was in a different hangar, a long walk made longer by the
fact that his time was limited. McHenry let the first man, Private
Williams, lead the way, and then walked briskly in that direction.
The other, Private Dalton, followed behind.

A C-47 cargo aircraft was parked inside the main hangar.
Even in the faint light, he recognized repair marks indicative of patched-up
bullet holes — a reminder that cargo aircraft are valuable
targets.
Perfect overseas transport, too.

Once inside the duty office, Private Dalton went into a back room to wake
the lieutenant. The office was spartan. The furniture looked small.
It was startling to be again in the company of men about his own
height.

McHenry
could hear a groggy voice, and then Dalton talking about a Negro
officer and a Nazi zeppelin. When he heard that, McHenry made his
way through the door.

“That
must be a blimp,” said the lieutenant. “A zeppelin
wouldn't fit into these hangars.”

“It's
neither,” McHenry interrupted. “Look, I don't have time
for this. I'm on a top secret mission. Could we speak privately?”

First Lieutenant Donaldson, wearing pilot wings,
was blond and tall, like an American version of Vinson
but only about McHenry's height rather than in excess of seven feet.

“You
apparently had time to pull your aircraft, blimp, or whatever it is,
into another squadron's hangar,” said Donaldson. He looked as
though he was sizing McHenry up as well, scanning up and down at
McHenry's immaculate, apparently too-crisply pressed uniform. “Can
I see your orders?”

“I
don't have any. This is a special circumstance.”

Donaldson fixed his eyes on McHenry's pilot wings.
“Are you really a pilot?”

“Yes.
My name is First Lieutenant Sam McHenry. 99th Fighter Squadron.”

“What
did you train on? Did you fly the BT-13?”

“Yes,
in training.” He wondered what Donaldson was getting at.

“What's
the service ceiling?”

“What?”

“The
service ceiling. You ought to know that one in your sleep.”

Now
he understood Donaldson's intention. Tuskegee seemed like a lifetime
ago now, but those numbers that had been drilled into his head. He
recited from memory, “twenty-one thousand, six hundred and
fifty feet.”

“Yup.
You're an Army pilot,” Donaldson said more cheerfully.

McHenry
relaxed a bit. He was impressed with Donaldson. His plan needed
somebody like him, although he didn't want someone so close to where
he parked the Tiger. Still, he didn't have much time, and he could
do worse in finding help.

Donaldson
waved the men outside, and then his face took a more serious tone.

“I
believe you're a pilot, and I believe you're an officer. I don't
believe any cockamamie story about you being on a secret mission, but
I didn't want to argue with you in front of the men.
Look at that uniform you're wearing.
Nobody outside of Washington irons their shirts that way for a
utility uniform unless they've got you serving some generals'
coffee.”

“I
don't care whether you fully believe me or not. You can have my
aircraft, for all it will do you, but I don't recommend being too
close. The Reich — that is the Nazis — are coming back
for it.”

“In
Hawaii? I hardly think they'll be invading Pearl.”

“Think
what you like. They'll be here sooner than you think. I only need
two things: Assistance getting out of here, and secrecy. You can't
inform anyone of my presence by radio or phone.”

“That's
a no-can-do,” said Donaldson. He shook his head and reached
for the phone on the desk.

Startled,
McHenry jumped for it, yanking the line out of the wall. Donaldson
grabbed the base of the phone, and tried to kick McHenry away. Both
were quickly on the floor, but McHenry eased back when the two
privates came rushing in, Private Dalton aiming the muzzle of his
rifle at his face.

“Sit
down in that chair!” Donaldson demanded, rising to his feet,
and feeling his face for injuries.

McHenry
complied. “I didn't want that, but you cannot use the phone.
This is more important than you know.”

Donaldson
grabbed his hat, and looked to Dalton. “Keep an eye on him.”

“Don't
make any phone calls,” McHenry insisted.

“I'm
not doing anything until I take a look at your blimp.”

“Donaldson!”
McHenry called. “There's a radio — of sorts —
sitting by the ladder. Bring it back with you.”

Donaldson
nodded, then gestured to the other private, and the two went outside
through the dark hangar.

*

Alone with Private Dalton,
McHenry looked up and noticed a clock showing two-forty-five.
He regretted the time he'd wasted here, and the
additional time before he could get out. Any flights to the States
would probably be leaving early in the morning.
He knew he only had a few hours.

Dalton
lowered his rifle and reached into a wastebasket. He pulled out a
newspaper and tossed it to McHenry. “Here's a Negro paper some
passenger left behind.”