Call to Duty (43 page)

Shit! he raged to himself. He credited it to “buck fever,” the first-time eagerness when a hunter botches the kill. But their luck held and the second person in the lean-to, puzzled by the unfamiliar noise, scrambled out and ran directly into
Kamigami. She was a pretty young girl, no older than the boy, only wearing a T-shirt that barely covered her bare bottom. Kamigami didn’t hesitate and before she could scream, his huge fist smashed into her chest, crunching bones and knocking all her breath out. He held her up by the hair as he drove his knife into her body, slightly below her heart, the tip angled up. He lowered the body carefully, his face an expressionless mask.

The third man was into the lean-to. He came out holding a radio still buttoned in its case. “She never thought of using it,” he said.

The second man came up. “You’d make a good rattlesnake, Sergeant Major,” he said. There was respect in his voice. “What where they doing up here?”

“An observation post,” Kamigami said. “He probably brought his girlfriend along to help pass the time. Just two kids looking for a chance to screw.” They scouted the area to make sure they were alone.

Mackay came up with the rest of the team and checked their position on the GPS. They were less than a hundred meters from their objective. “They must have chosen this place for the same reason we did,” he said. “We can stay here until it’s dark.” The captain ordered two men to reconnoiter the trail that led down to the valley and to set up an outpost to make sure they would not receive any unannounced visitors. Most of the men were silent, their faces stone hard, as they stared at the two dead teenagers.

The tension eased when Kamigami picked up the two bodies, one under each arm, and carried them down the slope. He found a fold in the terrain and gently laid them out before covering them with the boy’s poncho. He spread some brush over the shallow grave and sat down. For a few minutes he stared into the mist that obscured the flood plain and Chiang’s headquarters below him. The rain started to come down again, this time a deluge. Then: “I’m sorry.” He rose and rejoined the men.

Over Thailand, South of the Burma ADIZ

The second RC-135 monitoring Chiang’s communications had been established in the same orbit for over six hours and
the first ship had returned to Kadena, its base in Okinawa. It was a boring mission and so far no unusual transmissions had been detected and all was normal. The tedium was broken and the technicians in the rear perked up when they monitored encrypted SatCom transmissions from the two teams updating their progress with situation reports. Fastback was safely concealed two miles from Chiang’s headquarters, and Bigboot was in trouble.

The White House, Washington, D.C.

Leo Cox was a tired man and he envied the President’s ability to go to bed and fall instantly asleep. During all his years in the Air Force, he had never been able to sleep when an operation was under way and some deep inner need drove him on. Nothing had changed. He had gone home the previous evening but rest had eluded him and he had finally returned to the Situation Room in the White House at midnight, sent Mazie home to get some rest, and he monitored Jericho’s progress. Some progress, he told himself, as he waited in the hall outside the President’s bedroom with the morning’s news. The door opened and Charles, Pontowski’s valet, motioned him in, directing him to the small office off the bedroom that the President liked to use in the morning. Cox found him looking fresh and rested but far from relaxed. “It’s going to be a long day, Mr. President,” Pontowski nodded in agreement. “Tosh had a comfortable night,” Cox continued, “and is still asleep.”

“Was that from Edith Washington or Dr. Smithson?” Pontowski asked. He had discovered that Washington’s observations were as reliable as Smithson’s and much more concise.

“Smithson,” Cox replied. “He’s staying at the hospital now around the clock.” Cox eagerly accepted the cup of coffee Charles handed him. He needed the caffeine jolt to stay alert. “The rest of the family arrived last night.”

Pontowski drew in a deep breath. “Not much longer,” he said, his voice low and dark.

Cox turned to the next subject. “Jericho is in trouble. One of the teams has not reached its initial position.”

Pontowski glanced at the carriage clock on the mantel and
quickly made the conversion to local time in Burma—six-forty-five in the evening—which meant they had nine hours and fifteen minutes to get into position if the attack was to go off on time. Should he abort the raid before then? Not yet, he decided, only if they are discovered and lose the element of surprise. “What’s the problem?”

“Rain, sir,” Cox answered. “It gave us the cover We needed to insert the assault teams but it has slowed them down moving into position.”

“The rain slowed only one team, Leo, only one. Who’s experiencing difficulty?”

“Bigboot, sir. They’re the team that initiates the assault, blows one of the walls and seals the compound off.”

“Are the hostages still alive?”

“At last report,” Cox answered.

“We’ll let it run for now. Stay on top of it.” He didn’t tell Cox that he had made the decision to abort the raid at the first sign of serious trouble. Bigboot’s delay in moving into position was about all he would tolerate. The two men went over the day’s schedule before they walked down to the Oval Office.

Six hours later, Dr. Smithson called Cox. He was worried about Tosh’s condition and asked for the President to come to the hospital.

The distance from the White House to the Naval Medical Center at Bethesda, Maryland, is seven miles, perhaps twenty-five minutes by motorcade or a few minutes by helicopter. Pontowski’s staff opted for helicopter because the flying weather was good and security was easier to provide. Only a few minutes in a northwest direction. Pontowski appreciated the dedication and expertise that went into the planning and execution of that short flight. It was a lesson he had learned many years before.

1944
RAF Hunsdon, Hertfordshire, England

The telephone call for Zack came at nine-thirty in the morning. “Zack, darling,” Willi said, her voice captivating and thrilling him with its hidden promises. “I’m on an errand
today and will be free tonight. It would be a shame to waste it, don’t you think?” He stammered out a reply, certain that he sounded like an inane idiot. He knew he was blushing. “Good,” she continued, satisfied with his reply—whatever it was. “Can you meet me at the Swan and Partridge in Rickmans Worth? It’s a pub in the center of town. You can’t miss it. Say seven o’clock? I’ll arrange dinner, if you’re hungry.”

He told her that he would be hungry and she hung up, leaving him filled with anticipation and guilt. He couldn’t put aside the vague feeling that he was betraying Chantal. Does love always get so mixed up? he thought. Or is this just sex and lust? He was a very confused young man and thankful that he had work to keep his mind occupied. Pickard had detailed him to work on the Amiens raid and he had to make the short trip to 2 Group headquarters at Uxbridge to finish planning the attack.

The man in charge of the planning was a tall squadron leader with a classic RAF handlebar mustache. Heavy burn scars on the right side of John Maitland’s face had destroyed his good looks but not his buoyant personality. Zack wasn’t sure if the constant tick that played at Maitland’s right eye was due to neurological damage suffered when his Mosquito crashed and burned on landing or the result of combat fatigue. Still, he enjoyed working with Maitland and had learned much about the details that went into a successful mission. When the planning was complete, the two men sat in the room cluttered with detailed charts and reconnaissance photos. At the center of the room was the target model of the prison. “What have we overlooked?” Maitland asked. He ticked off the attack:

“Weather—wretched but out of our hands.

“Timing—dinner starts at noon and the attack is scheduled to come off at twelve-oh-three. Right at the conclusion of the blessing no doubt.

“The bomb run—three squadrons, six Mossies from each squadron, attack in sections of three. Three minutes between squadrons. First squadron breaches the outer walls, second squadron goes after the main building at a right angle to the first’s attack, and the third squadron held in reserve to clean up what is missed.

“Enemy defenses—expect Focke-Wulfs out of Abbeville. The ack-ack at the Luftwaffe base at Amiens-Glisy will present a problem to your second squadron when they make a left-hand circuit to get the spacing they need. That will bring them fairly close to Amiens-Glisy but heads up, please, and you should be fine.

“Fighter escort—twelve Typhoons from One-ninety-eight Squadron stationed at Manston, rendezvous over Littlehampton. The Tiffies should discourage any Luftwaffe interest while you’re over the target and most vulnerable. Also, they can escort any stragglers back to Manston for an emergency landing.

“Deception—we need to keep Jerry guessing as to the target. He will know we’re out and about but if we’ve done the navigation right, he won’t tumble to Amiens until the last possible minute. And then he will probably decide that we’re going after the railroad marshaling yards.

“Coordination with the Maquis—a chap will be here who can relay the word to the Resistance when you launch. The French have to be ready to move into the area five minutes after the bombing to assist the lucky bastards that make it through the walls.”

“It should all work,” Zack allowed. “Was all this your idea?”

“Not quite,” Maitland replied. “Pick had a hand in it. The guiding hand, you might say. All very brilliant.” Maitland turned his attention to the scale model. Amiens prison was a sixty-foot-high building shaped like a cross that stood in a rectangle of walls twenty feet high and three feet thick. “I’m quite beyond it when it comes to the ‘cookies,’ he admitted.

Zack was an expert on bombs, or “cookies” as the RAF called them, and blast effects. “Each Mossie will be armed with four, five-hundred-pound semi-armor-piercing bombs fused with eleven-second-delay detonators,” he explained. “I read an inspiring report on some of the colorful things that can happen when a SAP is tossed at speeds greater than two hundred and forty miles per—fractured bomb casings or it bounces back up at you. Still, a very nice present for the Germans. We’ll have to tell the pilots to keep their release airspeed under two-forty. The walls should not present a problem.” He pointed to the spots on the northern and eastern
walls where they planned to punch holes for the prisoners to escape. “Bombing the guards’ barracks,” he said, pointing to the one story building tacked onto the head of the cross-shaped main building, “will be more of a problem. The aircraft will have to lift over the walls and then immediately skid their bombs into the barracks.

“But it’s the collateral damage we can expect when we bomb the main building that has me most worried. The most critical place is here.” He pointed to the corner where the long and short arms of the prison building formed a cross. “We’ve got to hit it here to free the Resistance workers and at the same time give them an exit close to the breaches in the walls. Our bombs are going to kill many of the very people we are trying to save.”

Maitland stared at the model. “Is there an alternative?”

“No, not really,” Zack admitted. They dropped the subject.

“Anything else?” Maitland asked.

“I’m worried about the ‘boys from Abbeville.’ I was wondering if we could have a Mossie or two do a daytime Intruder mission on their base and spread a little
Moskitopanik
around. It would keep them preoccupied.”

“Not a bad idea,” Maitland said.

“By the way,” Zack asked, “will you be going on the raid?”

“I would if the quacks would let me,” Maitland replied. His right eyelid twitched furiously and Zack could see his hands shake. “They say my nerves are shot. Probably right.”

Am I going to end up like Maitland? Zack thought, shaking, scarred for life, willing to carry on but sidelined. How much longer do I have?

Maitland’s face cracked into a grotesque smile. He knew what Zack was thinking. “Not to worry, this won’t happen to you. You’re a survivor, old boy. Obviously, meant for better things than this. Come on, let’s run your latest brain wave about a daytime Intruder mission by Pick.”

Group Captain Percy Charles Pickard listened quietly as the two men recapped the planning and Zack presented his idea about using Mosquitoes on a daytime Intruder mission to distract the German wing at Abbeville. He stood and walked to the window, thinking and taking the gauge of the weather. “No, it’s not on,” he finally said. “The Intruder mission, that
is. A day Intruder is too dangerous and the Tiffies can do the job. I was hoping we could do it tomorrow but the weather is beastly and the weather prophets don’t see any improvement in the next forty-eight hours.” They discussed a few more details and Maitland said he would have the Navigation Section finalize the route into and out of the target area. On the way out of Pickard’s office, Zack asked if Maitland would drop him off at Rickmans Worth.

“The Swan and Partridge, no doubt,” Maitland said. “Lovely place to meet a popsie. Use it myself from time to time.” He laughed at the bright red that spread across Zack’s face.

Maitland pulled in behind a bright red roadster parked in front of the Swan and Partridge. “Nice machine, Morgan,” he said. “I make it a 1937 Four-Four. Wouldn’t mind having one myself. Wonder where they came by the petrol?” Zack had never heard of the car but did like its classic lines. Maitland waved him goodbye and pulled away, heading back to Uxbridge.

Willi was waiting for him in the lounge. She was dressed in her Wrens uniform and smiled in relief when he sat down. “You would be late,” she said. “An American colonel”—she glanced at a man standing at the bar—“was most annoying.”

“My fellow countrymen,” Zack grumbled and headed for the bar to get them drinks.

The colonel summed Zack up with a quick look and decided to pull rank. “You’re not wanted here,” he said.

“Then we’ll leave,” Zack replied.

Zack’s American accent surprised the colonel. “What the hell! A Yank in the RAF. If that don’t beat all. Ashamed of your own country, mac?”