Call to Duty (53 page)

A series of sharp jolts shook
K for King
and the gray beating against the windscreen turned five shades darker. Water poured into the cockpit and the Mosquito creaked and moaned, sending him a message. They had flown into a weather cell. He dropped a few feet of altitude and the jolting decreased. A few more feet and the ride smoothed and the water that was drenching them slowed. “Must have been in the bottom of it,” he muttered. He strained to see ahead and was relieved to see a lighter shade of gray. They flew into an open patch of sky. Yes, they were definitely between layers. Now they were in and out of the weather. He listened to the Merlin and checked the engine instruments. All was well there. But where were they? Time for help. He slipped his helmet back on.

He dropped his left hand down to the radio controller for the number one set and punched the top button: the emergency frequency. Nothing. The radio was dead. He reached lower and hit the same button on the controller for the number two set. Light static and voices filled his headset. What was Manston’s call sign? He couldn’t remember. Ruffy always took care of that. “Manston,” he radioed, “this is
Dypeg. Mayday. Repeat Mayday.” He waited. Would they acknowledge his call without the proper call sign of the day. Nothing. The bloody British, he raged to himself. They could be so damnably stubborn. Didn’t they recognize a friendly transmission when they heard one? Still no reply so he repeated the Mayday call. Come on! he raged. He felt dizzy.

“Dypeg aircraft calling, please use correct call signs,” a voice said.

“This is
K for King…
” He wracked his brain to remember the call signs. He couldn’t. “Request a QDM. Wounded on board.” A QDM was a vector to the base. No reply. “Goddamn it!” he bellowed into the radio. “Get us down, you bastard!”

“Understand,
K for King
” came the cool and collected answer. The British controller had reasoned that no self-respecting German would talk to a superior officer in that manner. “Give us a short count.”

Zack counted to five over the radio while the direction finder at Manston homed on him.

“Sorry,
K for King
,” the controller said, “we cannot find you on radar or get a radio bearing. A longer count please.” This time Zack counted to ten and then back to one. “Sorry, old chap, no joy. Can you climb a bit and try again.”

“Will do,” Zack answered. He nudged the throttle forward to increase power. The Merlin hesitated and coughed. Something was wrong and he wasn’t about to change the power setting again. Fuel! he thought. One of the pipes from the main tanks that fed through the fuel gallery had been cut. Then he remembered. The outboard tanks could feed directly into their respective engines and did not feed through the fuel gallery. More coughs from the Merlin. He twisted the starboard engine fuel cock to outer tanks and the engine smoothed. What is the matter with me? he raged. But he knew the answer. Shock combined with the loss of blood was taking its toll.

He tried to climb but heavy turbulence knocked the aircraft up onto a wing and almost turned them over. His right leg banged the splinter against the frame and long flashes of pain streaked up his leg and into his lower body. He heard a loud snap from the fuselage behind him as he recovered. How much damage had the repeated machine-gunning caused?
With a sure instinct, he knew the Mossie was dying and couldn’t stay airborne much longer.

“Manston, this is
K for King
,” Zack transmitted. “I cannot climb at this time. Any joy on the QDM?”

“Negative,” came the answer. “Your transmissions appear to be increasing in strength but the weather is giving us false bearings.”

And our low altitude, Zack mentally added. If he could overfly the radio beacon with any precision or had something for an initial approach fix, he could fly a pattern to Manston’s wide runway. But where are we? He glanced at Ruffy and a tight vise clamped on his heart. The navigator’s face had gone deathly white and blood had pooled on the floorboards. He stared out into the gloom. They were skimming along on top of what looked like a fog bank with a heavy layer of clouds directly above them. He estimated his forward visibility was intermittently out to four miles. But he couldn’t see the ground. Then they would be back into the muck. “Manston,” he radioed, “help please. I’ve got to get on the ground.”

“Roger,
K for King
. Turn to a westerly heading for five minutes. That should put you over land. Then reverse course and when on a heading out to sea, bail out.”

Zack looked at his best friend. “Sorry, Manston. Out of the question. I need to get my nav down.” Without any way to fly an approach, he would try to ditch blind in the Channel. At least it was a smooth surface and he didn’t have to worry about smashing into obstacles. Had their dinghy been holed by the machine gun fire? Despair crashed down on him as he calculated their chances of survival. Even if he did get Ruffy into the dinghy, how long before they would be picked up? “Manston,” he radioed, “I’m going to ditch in the Channel. Position unknown.”

Then out of the gloom off his right wing tip a bright light captured the sky. It was the unmistakable signature of a lighthouse, Tory Chester’s lighthouse, and for Zack, it was a beacon of hope. Again it raked the horizon and Zack knew where he was—he could find Manston. “Tory,” he shouted over the radio, “Shut it down. I’ve got it!”

The reply was a simple, triumphant, “Come on home, lad.” And again the bright light swept the sky.

1944
RAF Manston, Kent, England

Willi was sitting in the hospital ward, waiting for him when he woke up. “Well,” she said, “I was wondering about you.”

“How long have I been out?”

“Not quite twenty-four hours. You came out of surgery late yesterday afternoon and the doctors thought it would be best if you had a long sleep. You lost quite a bit of blood. The doctors say you do have a thing about hurting that right leg of yours and it’s time you gave it a rest.”

“Ruffy, how’s Ruffy?”

She didn’t look away and her eyes filled with tears. A slight shake of her head. “I’m sorry, Zack. They did everything they could.”

A deep anguish welled up and threatened to drown him in a tidal wave of despair. He had killed his best friend. The thought wouldn’t let him go. It had been his own hunger for revenge that had led him on. Even now, he could still feel the raw anger that had coursed through him on the first bomb run, when he had lined up on the guards to gun them down, and when Pickard had been clawed from the sky. He had wanted to kill the enemy, even after he had done what he had been ordered to do—breach the walls of the prison. Nor could he transfer the responsibility for Ruffy’s death to the anonymous pilot of the Focke-Wulf. He had been the one to press the engagement. Only Ruffy had saved him from killing the wounded pilot he had shot down.

Andrew Ruffum had not lost his way among the wreckage of war.

“Was he still alive when we landed?” She gave a slight nod in answer. He turned and looked out the window. The
day was cold and crisp. He wouldn’t forget the lesson Ruffy had taught him. Never again would he lose sight of the guide-posts that marked his path. “Was the raid worth it?” he finally asked. He suspected that she knew the answer.

Willi made no attempt to sidetrack the conversation. She wanted to shout at him, tell him that he couldn’t set right all that was wrong with the world. She almost told him to be satisfied with what he had accomplished and that she loved him. She did say, “At last report, over two hundred and fifty prisoners escaped out of seven hundred. Over fifty of them were Resistance workers. At least fifty of the guards were killed, and that’s not counting the thirty-some soldiers who were strafed outside the wall when they were caught in the open.” She never took her eyes off him. “It’s for you to decide.”

“It will be a long time before I know the answer,” he said.

She couldn’t contain herself. “You helped save many Frenchmen who would have been shot today and because of you, a splendid lighthouse is still there, ready for this bloody war to end. Settle for that.” Then another thought came to her. “Just how much do you expect to win from life?”

“You said the lighthouse…. Tory Chester…he’s okay?”

“Yes, he’s fine.”

“The Germans didn’t retaliate because he turned the beacon on?” he asked.

“Oh, they sent a Heinkel over to bomb him early this morning but it missed.” A hint of a smile played at her lips. “It made him more angry than anything else. He does have the most colorful vocabulary when he’s angry.”

“No E-boat shelled him?”

“They haven’t ventured across the Channel since you bombed them.”

Silence. He looked out the window again, studying the dark clouds that were starting to scud across the sky. Another weather front was moving in from the west. He turned to look at Willi. She knew what was coming next and would not run from it. “You were at Hunsdon when we launched,” he said. It was not a question.

“Yes.”

“You passed the word to the French Maquis that the raid was on.”

“Yes.”

“And you knew Chantal was in the prison.”

“Yes.”

“Did she escape?”

“We don’t know,” she answered.

He couldn’t help but think how beautiful and composed she was, sitting there, still the Ice Queen. He saw her right hand clench and slowly relax, then clench again. “Has this,” she asked, her voice not betraying what she felt, “come between us?”

What is the truth of it? he thought. He answered her truthfully. “I don’t know.”

“Well then,” she said, rising, “I must go. I do have work to do. Perhaps I’ll see you before you leave.”

“Perhaps,” he said as she walked away. He didn’t see her tears.

THE PRESENT
Fort Bragg, North Carolina

Sergeant First Class Dolores Villaneuva knocked on the door of Mackay’s office. Mackay glanced up from the pile of papers, reports, and notes he was assembling into an after-action report and acknowledged the statuesque secretary. “Captain Woodward is here, sir,” she told him.

Mackay’s face was impassive and did not reveal what he felt. “Please show him in.” Villaneuva nodded. Woodward entered the office and for a brief moment, she hesitated, hoping that Mackay would ask her to stay and take notes. She could feel the tension crackle between the two men and sensed that the real lessons of Operation Jericho were about to be learned. “That will be all, Sergeant,” Mackay said. A rare disappointment registered on her face when she closed the door on the two men.

“Please sit down,” Mackay said. His voice was hard and edged.

“Thank you for the time, Colonel. I didn’t think you’d want to talk to me.”

“Your written report was sufficient.”

“It was a highly successful operation,” Woodward continued, ignoring the hostility he could feel.

“Was it?” Mackay replied, steel in his voice. “It turned into a shambles at the end. All because of you and Kamigami; the two most capable and experienced men on the operation skylarking and putting the mission at risk. You of all people know how these missions are conducted. You don’t go improvising. We were lucky we didn’t take more casualties.”

Woodward stared at the colonel. “One killed and one missing in action with two wounded on this type of mission is a gift. And we accomplished our objectives.”

“Did we?” Mackay said. He pulled a file with medical reports out of the stack in front of him. He extracted a laboratory report. “We ran an autopsy on Chiang…here’s the report…. It seems Chiang’s blood tested positive for the HIV virus…AIDS.” He let it sink in. “Miss Courtland was his mistress.”

The British captain’s lips compressed into a narrow line. “Has she tested positive?”

“No. Not yet. But she’s living with a time bomb.”

A hard silence filled the room.

“One thing your report does not make clear,” Mackay continued. “Why did you choose to deviate from the plan and continue the search for Chiang when the order to withdraw had been given? And more importantly, why did the sergeant major go along with you?”

An unbidden smile cracked the grim lines of Woodward’s face. “Colonel Mackay, you do ask the right questions.” There was respect in his voice. He knew the American would listen to the answer and, more importantly, would understand it. Maybe not today, but later. He began. “It’s a risky business we engage in. We minimize that risk by careful planning and running our operations on a strict time schedule. But there are times for taking chances—when the opportunity is there. You did when we were delayed thirty minutes in starting the attack.” He let that sink in. “I was worried at first, fearing that the delay would mean Chiang’s men would be able to react more smartly than we had planned. But that didn’t happen. We were virtually unopposed in the attack and Bigboot had
not yet reported movement in the compound. We had some time to search. Didn’t have time for lengthy discussions, though. In short, we had an opening and I exploited it.”

“And the sergeant major?” Mackay asked.

“He understood the situation.”

Mackay was like a bulldog and would not let it go. “How could you both be so sure?”

“Instinct, Colonel. Comes with experience.”

That wasn’t the answer Mackay wanted to hear. He rocked back in his chair thinking about Kamigami. The sergeant major had been pure warrior, that rare breed of man who was totally focused on the profession of arms. Woodward was also of that breed. But was he? He certainly lacked the instinctive feel for a situation that had been so much a part of Kamigami’s strength as a leader. In the final analysis, it was what Woodward was all about. And he had seen it in Captain Gillespie. Mackay accepted the truth that he did not have that instinct.

“Thank you, Captain Woodward, for coming in,” Mackay finally said. “Have a safe journey home.”

“Thank you,” Woodward replied. He stood up and did something highly unusual for the British. He saluted without his hat. “I hope we can work together again, sir.”

Mackay returned his salute and watched him disappear out the door. Then it came to him—he might not have the instincts of a Kamigami or Woodward, but he could do the job.

Navarre Sound, near Hurlburt Field, Florida

Captain S. Gerald Gillespie sat at the bar of the Pagoda and took in the sunset. A pair of F-15s from Eglin Air Force Base shrieked by and entered the landing pattern. Gillespie studied the turn and decided that he wanted none of it—he was happy flying the MH-53. Oh my God, he thought, I
am
a rotorhead. He liked the idea and sipped his beer. Loud shouting drew his attention to the two volleyball teams hammering away at each other. It was a good match and Donna’s Dynamos were holding their own against Allison’s Amazons. Finally, the beautiful Allison spiked the ball down onto Donna for the winning point, almost falling out of her skimpy halter top. Allison
gave a provocative laugh as she tugged her large and firm breasts back into place.

“She is somethin’ else,” Mike the bartender said. “I hear you and her have a thing going. ’Nother beer?”

“No way,” Gillespie said. “There’s nothing there. No thanks on the beer.” He was watching Donna walk away. “Oh, well,” he said and slipped off the bar stool. “Gotta do what I gotta do.”

“Gil,” Allison smiled at him. “Care for a beer?”

“No thanks,” he said and trotted after the retreating Donna. She had always been there, waiting for him, while he chased the flashy Allison. He had finally come to his senses on the return flight from Thailand when he had thought only of Donna and the way a pixie danced below her serious, and at times, very aggressive personality. And he liked the way she looked at him, seeing him for what he really was.

“Donna,” he called, “Wait up for a second.” She turned and waited for him. “Say, I was wondering…a good friend is getting married a week from Saturday…and would you like to go with me?” She said nothing and he started to stammer. “We call him E-Squared…her name is Leanne Vokel…. I think you’d like them.”

Relief flooded over Donna. “I may have totally misjudged you.” Then she decided to let him off the hook. “I would love to go,” she said, smiling.

Bethesda Naval Hospital, Maryland

The hushed night sounds of the hospital whispered around Pontowski and the reading lamp next to the comfortable arm chair was turned low. His eyes were closed but he wasn’t asleep. As usual, he was working over the day’s events and sifting through the flood of information he was inundated with. Still no trace of Mazie’s father, he thought. A true missing in action. I wonder what happened to him? But a successful operation—at least the press thinks so. And we are going to get Courtland, if the Senate comes through. But will the Senate Ethics Committee disregard Tina Stanley’s testimony about how they had bribed a CIA staff member and then leaked the information to the press? But there’s more to it
than that. Did Bobby Burke have anything to do with all this—those two deaths on Chesapeake Bay and the discovery of Stanley and Mado on that yacht? Is Burke overstepping his bounds as director of central intelligence? Will I have to solve that problem? And what do I do about Heather Courtland murdering Chiang?

Questions.

He glanced over at his sleeping wife. How much longer, Tosh? Then he closed his eyes again. He heard the door to the room open and cracked an eyelid. It was Edith Washington, the head nurse. He watched as she entered the room and checked on Tosh. Then she moved over to him and covered him with a blanket.

“Edith, I could have sworn I asked not to be disturbed,” he said.

“Shush, Mr. President. This is my floor and I’m in charge here. Your wife is still resting comfortably.”

“How much longer, Edith?”

A gentle look lit the nurse’s dark face and she shook her head, not knowing the answer. “Lord, she is a fighter.” She moved to the door. “We have a bed next door, Mr. President.”

“Thank you, but I’ll stay here.” The nurse nodded and closed the door behind her.

A whispered “Zack” came from the bed and at first he wasn’t sure he had heard it.

“I’m here, love,” he said, coming to her side and gently taking her hand in his.

“Talk to me,” she whispered. It was the old Tosh and he started to speak, talking about the things she loved: their family, the turn of world events, the common things that made life predictable, and personalities that moved on their stage, all the rich and mundane matters that played out in the White House.

“Courtland?” she asked. The single word was so weak he barely heard it. But he knew her mind was there, the vibrancy that had enchanted him so long ago. Now it was coming to an end.

“We got them out.” He felt her hand move. She was still with him. “but it was another Mosquito run. We won—and lost.”

Her fingers contracted, softly squeezing and then relaxing.

Slowly, she slipped into unconsciousness and her breath slowed. Pontowski felt the tears course down his cheeks and he clasped her still hand with both of his. And then she rallied one last time and the words came, her English accent weak but clear. “Zack,” she whispered, “we won so much.”