1945 (30 page)

"If we do that we'll lose any hope of support from the Americans," the RAF commander said.

"I know that. Harrison wants us to be as pure and pathetic as a virgin about to receive her rapist. Well, gentlemen, if virgin sacrifice we must be," Churchill growled, "then at least we shall deball the bastard on the first stroke."

Turning, he walked into the small glass-enclosed office reserved for him and reached for the red phone. How similar this felt to the dark days of 1940 when he would talk 
to Roosevelt while overhead the dull concussion of the bombs stalked across London. But he knew that what was to come would not be like the summer and fall of 1940. It would be worse, far worse. Not only must it be assumed that Hitler and Göring had learned from their mistakes; simple technological progress had given the Luftwaffe the range to sweep Britain from one end to the other....
and a new broom sweeps clean.
Also there were nearly four hundred U-boats now, half of them of the latest designs, compared to the sixty at the start of the last go-round. And those sixty old-fashioned subs had come close to strangling England. Along with more and better subs, fighters and bombers, the Germans now possessed massive quantities of landing craft, a huge airlift capacity, and an army that had fought and beaten the world, excepting only America, without even breathing hard....

And what of England? The RAF was more competent and nearly as up-to-date as the Luftwaffe—but too small, too small. There was the secret buildup over the last six months of a reserve force of four hundred additional Meteors based in Wales, Northern Ireland, and Scotland, but that still wasn't enough. The navy was weak, and the army weaker, with but ten divisions capable of being mobilized for immediate home defense. Aside from the vital North African garrison, the remainder were trapped in that foolish—he realized it now, how he realized it — venture in Indochina, and in trying to hold India, badge of empire. What of India when there was no England? What of the jewel in the crown, when there was no crown?

He picked up the phone.

"Get me Harrison," he said calmly while lighting another in the endless stream of cigars.

April 19

Norris, Tennessee

"I'm getting sick of looking at flea-bitten flight schools," Mason announced as they turned off the gravel road that had rattled their teeth for the last three miles onto the deeply rutted dirt road that covered the last few hundred yards to Harry's Crop Dusting Service and Flight School. Finally the place was in sight, as cheap and weather-beaten in appearance as the sign that had announced its existence three miles back.

Having heard this song several times too many already, Jim ignored his friend as he negotiated the car over a rickety wooden bridge and then out to the edge of a grass-strip runway.

Suddenly Wayne's mood changed. "On the other hand, I first learned to fly at a place just like this. I was sixteen at the time. A wonder I didn't kill myself. But I tell you one thing: if you learn to land on something like this you can land anywhere."

"Try a carrier at night in a force-five blow," Jim laughed in reply.

"You damn Navy pilots. You weren't out in the jungle the way we were. Air-conditioning, good food, no malaria. What a life."

"Yeah, well we earned it every time we came down on that damned jerking postage stamp of a deck.... Or near it," he added as he became aware that the jouncing he had just been through had awakened old wounds. "You Army Air pukes think zooming around is all that pilots have to do; you don't know what flying is about."

Seeing the sardonic humor replaced by a look of pain on his friend's face, Mason forbore to reply in kind. For both of them this whole thing was getting damned tedious and frustrating. They had spent yesterday and today on what was looking more and more like a fruitless endeavor, visiting every airport and airfield within one hundred and fifty miles of Oak Ridge. Had Harriman sent them on this wild-goose chase just to get them out of the way? They were both beginning to suspect as much.

They pulled up to the side of a dilapidated hangar, its tin siding streaked with rust. "Guess that's the owner," Wayne said as he nodded toward the pudgy, balding man standing in the open door of a wooden hut behind the hangar. The figure under discussion stepped forth, rubbing his hands on his greasy coveralls, and slowly walked over.

"How you doing?" Jim called, getting out of his car and walking to meet the other. Wayne followed more slowly.

"What do you fellas want?"

Jim extended his hand. "Jim Foster. This is my partner, Wayne Anderson."

The owner slowly took Jim's hand, shook it quickly, let it drop like something a little too hot

"I'm Fred Bachman."

"Where's Harry?"

"Harry sold this place to me. I never bothered to change the name. Now what do you fellas want? I'm kind of busy today."

Jim turned and started to walk over to the hangar. Bachman quickly moved to his side.

"Wayne and I are starting up a little business down in Knoxville," Jim announced. "Tell me, you ever heard of Levittown?"

"No."

"Whole new idea in housing. Make homes the same way you do cars, do it like an assembly line, but right on the site. We've picked Knoxville for our project, and we thought you might be able to help us out."

"How's that?"

Jim put his hand on Bachman's shoulder, turning him slighdy, away from the hangar and casually holding him in place.

"I guess you know there's one hell of a housing shortage around these parts. A lot of government workers and all, and they need places to live. Whoever builds the right kind of housing for these people is going to clean up big time. Now we've got half a dozen possible sites we're interested in buying but we want to get a look from above. You know, fly over them, take some pictures, that kind of thing.

Tell me, do you have any experience with aerial photography?"

As he spoke, Wayne moved behind the two and went up to the hangar door. The overhead casters of the door squealed loudly.

Bachman pulled away from Jim and turned around.

"Hey, what are you doing there?"

Wayne stood marveling before the now-open hangar door. "Damn, you know? I learned to fly in one of those babies!" Wayne announced excitedly as he stepped into the hangar's gloom.

"Get outta there!"

Oblivious, Wayne kept walking. Bachman followed distractedly.

"Yeah, back before the war. Piper Cub, what a plane."

"I said get out of there!"

Jim watched Bachman closely. There was a nervous tension that was almost palpable. At the other fields they had visited, the owners, ever on the lookout for a quick job, had been eagerly forthcoming, and more than ready to trade war stories with Wayne.

Bachman pushed his way in front of Wayne.

"Leave the hangar."

"Ah, come on. I haven't flown since I got shot up over Bougainville. Say, where were you in the war?"

"Right here."

"How come? The army was desperate for pilots."

"I flunked my physical. Now get out of here."

"Say, you hiding some sort of military secret?" Wayne asked, as if cracking a joke. Moving past Bachman, he quickly walked down the line of Cubs, looking each of them over.

"I'm not hiding anything," Bachman shouted after him excitedly.

"So what's your beef? Come on, I'd like to rent one of these Cubs and take a spin. I haven't flown since the Japs shot me up. I'd love to get back up again, even if I have to have someone flying behind me."

"I don't have the time."

"What about arranging for that photo flight we need?' Jim interjected quickly, forcing Bachman to turn back around.

Bachman nervously rubbed his hands on the sides of his pants.

"I'm booked up. Dusting." "This time of year?" Jim asked with mock incredulity, still smiling.

"Yeah. Orchards."

"What are you using?"

"DDT." Bachman looked back at Wayne, who was walking around one of the Cubs and leaning over to peer into the cockpit.

"That's why I don't want you guys in here," Bachman announced. "Some people get sick from that stuff if they breathe too much."

"No sweat, buddy. I got hosed down with it all the time out in the Pacific. Ain't nothing dangerous about a whiff of that juice." Wayne pulled the door of the Cub open and looked inside. "Say, what's this rig up here in the cockpit?
Damn ...
nice
radio gear you got in here."

Bachman quickly moved over and slammed the plane door so vigorously that Wayne had to lean back to avoid being hit.

"Got it surplus. Now
leave the hangar!
I don't have time for you two. If you need a photo flight try Benson's down at the Knoxville Airport. He does that sort of thing."

Bachman walked over to the hangar door and, turning, looked back at the two coldly.

"Okay, buddy," Wayne said. "You're losing some good business with us. Too bad for you."

The two walked back out into the sunlight and started toward their car. Bachman remained by the hangar door. Jim suddenly turned.

"Hey, just one question."

"Yeah, what?"

"Just what is it that they're doing over there at Oak Ridge?"

"What do you mean?" Bachman said, his voice barely a whisper.

"You know, that government project over there. Nobody wants to tell us."

"I don't know."

"I understand it's pretty big." "I guess so."

"Well, you must fly near it a lot, so what's it look like?"

Bachman hesitated.

"It's restricted airspace."

"Yeah, that's what the guy at the airport we were at this morning told us," Wayne interjected.

"You've been to another airport?" Bachman whispered.

"Sure, just comparing prices," Jim replied. "Anyhow, I heard they were fooling around with atoms and stuff."

Bachman looked at him, wide eyed.

Wayne turned and slowly walked back toward Bachman. "Anything you want to tell us, buddy?" he asked softly.

Bachman looked back and forth at the two.

"I know nothing. Nothing!"

"Relax, buddy," Wayne said softly. "We aren't giving you the third degree. I guess this is all secret type of stuff. If you knew anything the FBI would be down your throat, is that it?"

"I know nothing."

"'Course not." Wayne grinned a conspiratorial grin. "I heard they lock people up around here if they find out anything about what's going on over there, even if they don't do it on purpose. I also heard they can get pretty rough on people they suspect of being a little too curious. You know what I mean?"

Bachman said nothing as he again wiped his hands on his trousers.

"Yeah, like the cops who pulled us over. They were looking for those cop killers," Wayne continued. "Said if they ever get the bastards who did it, they'll shoot them first and worry about the trial later. Hah! You shoulda heard where they're gonna shoot 'em. Buncha comedians, these Southern cops."

"Get out of here," Bachman shouted. "You're wasting my time."

"Sure thing," Wayne replied. "Didn't mean to get you riled." He stepped back and looked around.

"Yeah, you sure do look busy."

Wayne slowly walked back toward Jim.

"Come on. I guess the man doesn't want our business." They walked back to the car. When they had crossed the bridge and started down the dirt road, Wayne finally broke the pregnant silence.

"They're here."

"Yep. Sure as shit."

Jim pulled out onto the gravel road and drove for a while, then pulled the car over and turned the engine off. "What'd you see in the hangar?"

"Like I said, nice radio. I got the frequency number it was set to: a military channel. And that guy was seriously ratded, scared to death. Skorzeny's there and little fat boy's petrified. He was most likely running a nice cushy operation more for the money than anything else. Do an occasional fly-by, get a few photos, and send them out. No one suspects, no risk, and plenty of pay getting socked away, and then old Otto shows up and starts kicking up dust. So in comes the FBI sniffing around, and now he's ready to crack."

Jim nodded. At all the other fields they'd checked, a recent visit from the FBI had been a feature of the conversation, and most of them had already heard through the grapevine enough to know all about the illegal flight. The one common refrain was that nobody who could fly like that was idiot enough to get where that plane had been by accident.

That certainly jibed with the earlier conversation they'd had with the P-51 pilots. They had been in no doubt whatsoever that the man they had been chasing was a professional. A student pilot would have killed himself trying a split-S with a pullout at fifty feet and then going into the fog. As for going under a country bridge with less than six feet of clearance, that was a barnstormers trick. "Frankly," one of them had said, "I was too filled with admiration to be properly humiliated."