Code Name: Infamy (Aviator Book 4) (12 page)

This wardroom was boisterous, except for one member. Kid was unusually quiet. He forked his square fish but didn’t eat much. Across the room his buddy from Officer Candidate School, Ensign Paul “Cue-Ball” Bement, watched him. He walked over and looked into the old eyes of his young friend.

“Can I have it?”

Kid looked up at Cue-Ball. The rest of VF-27 had left the table, and Kid had not even noticed.

“Have what?”

“Your record player. You know, if things don’t go well.”

Kid laughed heartily. “Sure, Cue, you can have it.”

“Records, too?”

“Yes, records, too.”

Cue-Ball set down a small plate and slid it in front of Kid. On it was a slice of chocolate cake, with chocolate ice cream, covered with chocolate syrup. “Here you go. This will keep you awake out there. I call it the trifecta.”

Kid looked down at the tasty treat. “I can’t eat this; it would be bad for me.”

Cue-Ball threw back his head and laughed out loud. “What? Are you shittin’ me?”

Later that night, unable to sleep, Kid was re-reading the letter from home in the ready room when Stutz entered and saw him in the back row.

“How did it go tonight?” Stutz knew exactly how it had gone; he had watched from the tower.

“Better, Skipper, much better. On in two, and I still had gas.”

“Outstanding!”

“Any bogeys out tonight?”

“Negative, sir; all quiet.”

“Let’s go up and watch Rough recover; could be a show.”

“Roger that.”

They made their way aft, down the long port side passageway. Every twenty paces they would step through a portal. After five they would have to open and go through a hatch, closing and latching it after passing through. They were not for watertight integrity; the passageway was well above the water line. They were for smoke and fire. A constant reminder the ship was at war.

Near the end of the p-way, they went out a hatch leading to the port side catwalk. Beneath them the dark Pacific rushed, visible through the catwalk grating. After going up a short ladder, they were on the LSO platform. Hoffer sat on an office chair smoking. The scene was out of place and made Kid laugh.

“How’s it going, Skipper … XO. Come to see the other side?”

“How’d you know it was us?”

“Who the hell else would be out here in the dark?”

“I see your point.”

“Nice night,” Kid added, looking forward.

“Not for him.” Kid followed Hoffer’s pointed cigarette. In the distance, an aircraft plummeted from the sky, engulfed in silent flames. Without a word, they watched it fall, each man in quiet reverie, the swoosh of the ocean slipping by the only sound in the whole world. Even the breeze was a muted observer as the Suwannee ran downwind with it. Man and machine were soon swallowed by the sea, and the fiery blaze winked out. Kid looked up at the celestial panorama. He felt small; even the war felt small and insignificant in its magnificence. He just wanted to go home.

A Pratt and Whitney R-2800-10W Dual Wasp engine coughing to life broke the silence as the Suwannee turned into the wind. On the bow, Robbie ran the engine of his Hellcat up to 1500 RPM to warm the oil. The Suwannee continued to heel in a turn to port. As the ship steadied up in the wind, Robbie’s Hellcat howled at take-off power and rolled down the deck and into the dark night. Hoffer watched the white tail light fade into the night and then flicked his cigarette overboard. He stood up stretching and looked aft.

“Won’t be long now.”

Less than a half hour later a single set of red and green lights quietly approached the back of the Suwannee. The phone rang, answered by Hoffer’s backup. It announced the obvious. When Hoffer could hear the engine, he had his backup light up the suit and took position. The lights spread further apart and brighter in intensity as the Hellcat closed on the landing area. Kid could sense it was low. Hoffer signaled the same by showing Rough low paddles.

Inside the cockpit, adrenalin coursed through LTJG Rough Ryder’s veins, and in response he added too much power. His height was fixed but now he was five knots fast. Fixated on Hoffer and the landing area lights, he didn’t notice, and Hoffer could not see his Hellcat’s slight nose down attitude in the dark.

Flashing a paddle across his throat, Hoffer gave Rough the cut sign, and he responded, pulling the throttle of the PW-R-2800-10W to idle. Five measly extra knots caused the Hellcat to float over the arresting wires. Stutz screamed over the idling engine as it went by.

“Wave him off!”

“It’s too late!”

Rough’s Hellcat caught the steel cable barricade with the main landing gear, flipping the aircraft onto its back as it impacted two parked SBD Dauntless Dive Bombers. Blinded by the flash and stunned by the intense heat, they stood helpless as the high-octane aviation fuel burned furiously.

Sailors in silver suits rushed toward the conflagration, pulling hoses charged with foam. They fought bravely against the inferno; their movements animated by the flicking light made it look like a scene from a silent movie. Sound was suddenly added as the 1-MC blared out through its speakers.

“General Quarters! General Quarters! Fire on deck! Fire on deck!”

Men flooded onto the flight deck from hatches all along its perimeter. Each went to an assigned station and stretched hoses toward the fire. Once the hoses were charged, the fire was quickly extinguished, and so, too, was a life.

CHAPTER 16

08:00 Local, 11 May, 1945 (12:00 GMT, 11 MAY)

Los Cerillos Airport, Santiago de Chile

Maria stood with arms crossed in defiance. She was having none of it. Behind her Spike, Jeff, and Jimmy snickered as Irish begged her to get onboard the C-47.

“Maria, you are now the wife of an aviator. You cannot refuse to fly.”

She shook her head. Irish switched tactics. “So, then, you don’t trust me?”

Maria looked up sheepishly.

“Your own husband, you do not trust?”

Reluctantly she moved toward the aircraft and then tentatively stepped inside, followed by the men who were all hiding their amusement with hands over their smiles.

“What the hell are you doing in here?” Irish asked the Germans, who were already strapped in. Even though he had replaced Maria’s dowry, they still needed a ride home.

“You are not leaving without us.”

“I’m just taking my wife for a little ride—”

“Then we will go with you.”

“Suit yourself, Fritz …”

“It’s Franz.”

“Yeah, yeah, what’s the difference?” Irish gruffed as he made his way to the cockpit. He parked Maria in the co-pilot seat and had Jimmy read the checklist from the jump seat. Jeff entered the cockpit with a large chart, folding it down to a manageable size as he spoke. “I converted the location from land grid to LAT LONG. It’s damn close, Irish, only twenty-four nautical miles from here.”

“Set it here.” Irish patted Maria’s thigh. Jeff reached over Maria and placed the chart as ordered. He then pointed out a basic route, nervously trying not to touch the map and what lay beneath.

“If we fly west between Ruta 68 to the north and 78 to the south, that will funnel us to the ocean. Location is just outside this little town here, called Lo Abarca. Keep the bay off of Cartagena on the nose, and we will fly right over it.”

Irish began to taxi the aircraft. “Any place to land on location?”

“Yes. It is on top of the tallest hill in the region. The lead-in road is at least 4,000 feet long.” Jeff pointed to a hill on the chart, as Maria followed his gesture.

“What is there?”

“Your wedding present, Mrs. Myers.”

“Qué?”

“How is that road oriented?” Irish asked.

“East-west; it appears to be positioned for a Pacific view. The land grid shows a pretty good incline, three degrees at least.”

Maria hit Irish’s thigh. “What is it?”

“Okay, Jeff, good info. We will land uphill and take off down.”

Maria tugged on Irish’s pant leg, begging to know more, as he pushed the throttles up for takeoff. Thrust pushed her back in her seat, and her eyes went wide as they eased off the runway, her curiosity about the location vanishing into the air that was rushing past the plane.

Irish flew over Av La Playa beach and then turned around as Jeff directed him to the mouth of a river south of Cartagena. “You see that dry river bed?”

“I got it.”

“Follow that to the east. See that ridge line?”

“Yeah, I see it … hang on!” Irish dropped the landing gear and flaps as he pushed over for the narrow road. Maria leaned forward, trying to see what was going on. Jeff eased out of the cockpit and strapped into the navigator seat, pulling the belt tight. Bouncing roughly, the C-47 came to a stop right in front of a large gate. Irish waved his hand toward it.

“Su casa, Señora.”

Maria bolted from the airplane as the engines sputtered to a stop. Irish watched, smiling and shaking his head as she ran into a small stucco house just inside the gate. He let Jimmy shut down the aircraft and went to find her. Inside she was running from empty room to empty room. She talked so excitedly, he could not understand her. Finally he grabbed her as she ran by.

“Maria—”

“This is all ours?” she blurted out.

“Well, yes, but—”

She hugged him around the neck so tightly it almost hurt. Laughing, he pulled her arms from around him and looked down at her.

“You own this, but it is not your house.”

“Qué?”

Irish nodded out a window. “That is.”

Maria slowly walked to the window and looked across an unkempt yard that never-the-less showed its former grandeur. A large fountain surrounded by an overgrown rose garden was situated in the middle, dry but still beautiful. Her gaze continued to climb the hill until it rested on a majestic Spanish hacienda.

“Welcome to Casa Miramar. It’s all yours.”

“It can’t be,” she whispered.

“Well it is. Needs some work, but it’s bought and paid for. They tell me the vineyards have been kept up.”

“Vineyards?”

“Yes, the ones in the valley we flew over. They are all yours as well.”

“Ours,” she said, her voice barely audible. She stared at the Hacienda from the window of the servant’s quarters, unable to move. She dare not approach it, sure she would awake from her dream if she did.

08:00 Local, 14 May, 1945 (23:00 GMT, 13 MAY)

Yokosuka Naval District, Japan

Lieutenant Commander Atsugi continued to prepare for the final inspection of Sen Toku I-403. I-400 and I-401 were on line, I-404 was nearly complete, and I-405 was still under construction. The last six boats had been canceled in 1943. He was enraged to find out I-402 would be converted to an underwater tanker to run fuel from the Dutch East Indies. Fools! It would provide no more than a drop in the bucket to Japan’s daily fuel needs. Worse, it was a waste of a technological asset that could have a significant strategic impact in the Pacific Theater.

His immediate concern however was I-403; he was worried its construction had been rushed. He was assured by the shipyard engineers that 403 was seaworthy and ready for trials, but he would be the judge of that. As an aviator, he did not relish slipping below the surface of the ocean, let alone in a new design. Atsugi also had no illusion that his force of super submarines could do anything but delay the inevitable. Delay at this point, it was the best they could hope for. With five Sen Tokus, he could wreak havoc on the West Coast of the United States. Each submarine carried three Aichi M6A1 Seiran fighters in the on-deck hangar and parts for a fourth that could be assembled while the first three launched.

By attacking American strategic points like the Panama Canal, in a formation of twenty aircraft, the U.S. Command would be convinced a Japanese carrier was in their backyard. Some of their fast attack carrier Task Forces would have to be pulled back to hunt it down. Atsugi had already convinced Admiral Hiroshi of that. He would slip under the ocean, rendezvous his force off another target, and attack again. His cat and mouse game could last for months, delaying the invasion of mainland Japan. The war was lost, but maybe his force could be instrumental in forcing better terms. That was his hope, at least.

A young ensign walked up behind him and patiently waited to be noticed. Finally, unnoticed, he spoke.

“Sir, the Seiran Fighter is ready for its final operational test.”

“And the catapult system?”

“Also ready, sir; but the ship’s captain fears the bay is too dangerous for daylight.”

“Very well, open the sub pen doors. I will launch from here.” Bowing deeply, the ensign backed away, not prepared or equipped to question Atsugi’s decision to make a kamikaze launch.

A line of brilliant light creased the void and continued to flood into the sub pen, overpowering the darkness. Atsugi turned his cockpit thunderstorm lights to full bright in an attempt to balance the spectrum. At his feet, the AE1P Atsuta 30 engine idled obediently. As the doors opened wider, only the box of sunlight that represented the outside world and his internal world, the cockpit, were discernible. Eyes adjusted, allowing the deck crew to uncover them and lower their hands. Atsugi pushed up the throttle, demanding all of the engine’s power. The crew’s senses already violated by light were now assaulted by deafening noise. His Seiran fighter fought to break free, but the hold-back fitting held it firmly in place. Its 1410 horsepower had to settle for thrashing the aircraft instead of propelling it forward.