Code Name: Infamy (Aviator Book 4) (13 page)

Atsugi saw the launch officer’s signal and let the captive aircraft free with a salute. He tried to ready himself for the acceleration—an impossible task. It hit with such violence his eye balls momentarily flattened in his skull. Like the sun, the force of the catapult would not be denied.

Flung from the ship’s deck with such force, the Seiran had no choice but to fly. It hung momentarily in purified air until it recognized it was well beyond flying speed. Atsugi banked the nimble fighter as soon as it flashed through the doors before it hit the sub pens across the narrow channel. He turned out over the bay and began a climb into the crisp morning air.

19:40 Local, 14 May, 1945 (23:40 GMT, 13 MAY)

Casa Miramar, Chile

Beneath the strings of white lights, a brass band played into the night, and wine from the expansive cellar flowed like water. Color and texture leapt from each table, covered by thick woven cloth and laden with heavy pottery overflowing with delicious local cuisine. The festive scene was punctuated by the Germans, arm in arm, singing songs from the fatherland, trying to keep time with the band.

Irish and his real-estate agent had invited the entire village of Lo Abarca to the reception. It seemed most had turned out. He looked across the party to the Pacific beyond and watched the sun finish setting. Finally after a life in transit, he felt at home, his home. He knew when the war ended he would come back and stay forever.

The real-estate agent caught his eye, and Irish gave him a wink. Señor Alvarez raised his glass and nodded subtly. He had no qualms in arranging this party as a condition of sale. The property had languished on the market for years, and Señor Myers had paid him a handsome bonus as well.

“I have land not far from here, Colonel. We shall be neighbors.” Irish turned to face a smiling generalissimo.

“And friends, no doubt, General.”

“Please call me Roberto.”

Irish pulled two sparkling wines from a passing waiter’s tray and handed one to the generalissimo.

“Most people call me Irish.” He held up his glass. “Here is to our friendship.” They touched glasses and turned to face the party.

“You know, my friend, at one time this was the grandest estate and winery in all the Valle de San Antonio. It was truly a sight to see, so beautiful.”

“It shall be again, Roberto. Its beauty will shine for all to see.” Irish watched Maria as he spoke. She hovered around her family. His greatest achievement of the whole affair was finding her family, and for that he’d had to turn loose the spy. Even after Spike found them, they had not exactly been receptive to reuniting with a fallen woman. That is until he flashed his credentials and explained that Maria’s alleged indiscretions were all a cover and that she had actually been working for him. And since Chile had been on friendly terms with Germany, they could never speak of it. Ever. Not even to Maria. Of course, when he added that she had married a rich American officer and was living in a large estate, their enthusiasm for the reunion grew exponentially.

Like family, a person’s past was permanent. Irish knew that, and it was the main reason he had purchased this particular hacienda. Cartagena, a mere seven kilometers away, had the reputation of a bohemian lifestyle. Originally a resort and spa for Santiago, by the 1920s it was drawing writers, poets, artists, and educated professionals. Its eclectic atmosphere was one of tolerance and adventure, and Irish knew he and Maria would find a way to fit in comfortably as a family.

More importantly, he knew Maria would flourish here. This party was the first step.

A pleasant routine followed the reception, and for weeks it remained unchanged. Maria oversaw the rejuvenation of the estate and its grounds, and Irish spent each morning preparing the winery to return it to its former commercial success. Spike had put out an all-channels request for INTEL about the U-boat, and at midday Irish would fly him to Santiago to check in with the OSS at the embassy. Afternoons were spent going over captured U-boat documents and charting possible routes. At 17:00 Maria would declare cocktail hour, and all talk of work would stop. A formal dinner was served promptly at 18:30. After dinner, cognac and cigars were enjoyed on the veranda, followed by a board or card game on most nights. It was hard to imagine that a war still raged on the other side of the Pacific.

14:40 Local, 15 June, 1945 (18:40 GMT, 13 MAY)

Casa Miramar, Chile

A young man wearing a Western Union hat handed Spike a telegram as he exited the C-47 in front of the hacienda. Spike read it as Irish and Jimmy shut down the aircraft. When Irish exited, Spike handed him the telegram.

“We need to go back to the embassy.”

Irish looked up, and then began to read the telegram.

WESTER UNION TELEGRAM

15 June, 1945

To: Spike

Casa Miramar, Abarca Chile

Son vacation itinerary and pictures in- STOP

On way to mother via PAC- STOP

I’m surprised by itinerary- STOP

From: Dad

Irish shook his head irritated and handed back the telegram. “What the hell does that mean?”

“Dad is OSS HQ, mother the embassy, and PAC is Pan Am Clipper. It is due in at 16:00. Let’s go get the mail. Apparently they have pictures, and the boat’s not where we expected.” Jimmy started out the aircraft door.

“Billy, crank ’em up. We’re going back.”

Jimmy didn’t even bother to correct Irish anymore; in fact, everyone was calling him Billy now. Later that evening Spike gathered the entire group, including the Germans. They crowded around the billiards table, paging through black and white photos stamped Top Secret. They had been taken by a reconnaissance aircraft thirty-eight hours prior.

“You are sure that’s the sub, Franz? It has Jap markings,” Spike said in German.

“Ja, ja. Look at modification. Is definitely a U-boat.”

Irish picked up the image taken by a reconnaissance F6F-5P Hellcat four days prior. He held a magnifying glass over it. The mod was very apparent. There was no doubt.

“What the hell are they doing in Wake?” he asked everyone and no one. “Why not Truk or any other Imperial Japanese Naval Base for that matter? There’s not even a dock or fueling facilities there. They could have loaded them onto a Cruiser and steamed at flank speed to anywhere to prepare for an attack. I don’t get it …”

Jeff Morton spoke up after charting the route. “Most direct course to Tokyo.” Everyone turned to him.

“That is a damn long way at six knots, Jeff.”

“The lieutenant is correct,” Gerhardt ended the debate. “Wolf would not trust anyone but himself to deliver the weapons, and he needs an agreement with the Japanese. Those weapons are his leverage.” Silence fell over the room.

“We guessed wrong, gents,” Spike said. “We assumed he wanted to get the weapons deployed immediately by going to the closest Japanese stronghold. Now they’re heading for Tokyo.”

“We can’t afford to guess anymore, Spike—”

Spike gave Irish a subtle shake of the head and nodded outside. Spike led the way, and once on the porch whispered in Irish’s ear.

“We broke the Japanese code years ago. The Nazi sent a message. We know it’s him and that he’s going to Yokosuka Naval District in Tokyo Bay.” Irish gave a half nod, preferring not to know such tightly held information. “I wanted to test our Germans, see if we can really trust them. They passed.”

They both watched from the veranda as Maria entered the room demanding the talk of war cease.

“Come on Irish, let’s get a drink.”

Later that night, Irish was packing his bag with the few things he had with him: toiletries, underwear, and a couple uniforms were about it. Maria stood behind him; he turned and she handed him a small-framed picture of the two of them from their wedding day. She struggled for words as tears streamed down her face. Irish brushed them away, his fingers lingering on her cheeks.

“Soon the war will be over, and when it ends, I will leave the Army and American Airlines. My life is here now, with you.”

The fear had not left her eyes. “You must return,” she pleaded.

“I will, I promise.”

“No, swear to me!” she cried.

“Okay, Maria. I swear I will return. Safe and sound.”

CHAPTER 17

07:00 Local, 20 June, 1945 (08:00 GMT, 20JUN)

Gestapo Head Quarters, Berlin

The marvel of modern air travel had torn Irish from the bosom of happiness and tranquility and thrust him into the depths of hell within thirty-six hours. Germany had been bombed and literally burned into submission. Berlin lay in ruins. Unable to stop the waves of bombs that fell around the clock, its destruction was total. Death filled the air; its unmistakable stench lingered weeks after the ceasefire. It permeated the city. Gaunt, shell-shocked survivors peered from dark corners in fear. The Soviet Army had taken revenge. Civilian atrocities had been common. Above him the building on Prinz Albrecht Strabe, like the city, lay in ruin.

Irish now found himself at the very epicenter of hell, in the basement of Gestapo Headquarters, sitting across from the embodiment of evil, an interrogator from the Gestapo.

Slight, with almost feminine features, his well-oiled hair was combed straight back on his pointed head. A thin, meticulously trimmed mustache betrayed a smirk of arrogant defiance. Irish had read his file. He had been a particularly nasty interrogator. His specialty was torture, and the Germans had kept tidy records of it all. Colonel Gerhardt’s family’s record ended with him. The Nazi knew he would be executed. He had no remorse, no conscience, and absolutely no intention of helping the Americans find the treasonous colonel’s family. He smugly refused to respond to any of Spike’s questions.

Irish had had enough. He struck in a fluid motion, flinging the table aside, planting a boot squarely in the Nazi’s narrow chest, kicking him backwards. Drawing his .45 he fired off a single round right next to the interrogator’s ear. Chips of concrete floor cut into the Nazi’s cheek as he lay stunned, still handcuffed to the chair. Then, slowly, the interrogator’s smirk returned.

“Americans don’t torture,” he said in perfect English.

Spike grabbed Irish’s arm. “He’s right, Lieutenant Colonel Myers. Please leave.”

Irish eased the hammer down on his pistol. Cordite stung his nose as he glared at the Nazi. Without saying a word, he holstered his weapon and left the room. Spike righted the snickering interrogator.

“You are correct, Herr Major; we don’t torture.” Spike smiled at the Nazi and then patted his knee. The man’s smirk disappeared as he watched Spike walk to the door and tap it twice. Spike walked back in front of him as the door opened.

“I’d like to introduce you to Colonel Gerhardt. Hans, do come in.”

A wheeled cart with the tools of the interrogator’s trade came through the door first, then the colonel. He was not smiling.

“Gutenmorgen, Herr Nazi.”

Spike walked out of the room as the interrogator began to scream. “You can’t leave me with him … Wait! … Dachau … I sent them to Dachau!”

17:00 Local, 20 June, 1945 (08:00 GMT, 20JUN)

USS Suwannee, Philippine Sea

Blackness, total blackness. Is this the color of a watery grave? Kid moved his head slightly. It throbbed with fury, shooting pain across his cerebellum. Fumbling with the light over his rack he finally found the switch and toggled it on. Flooding the space with light, it revealed an unfamiliar stateroom—Rough’s.

Kid looked at the two sea lockers on the deck and remembered. The lockers were the only things that would go home to his family. Lieutenant Junior Grade Scott “Rough” Ryder was in a canvass sarcophagus, weighted by five-inch shells, on the bottom of the Philippine Sea. Kid swung his legs out of the rack accidentally kicking Robbie awake on the deck.

“Ow! My head.”

“I didn’t kick you in the head unless it is still up and locked.”

“Stop yelling, Kid.”

Kid laughed and then stopped suddenly as grief seized him again. It was coming back to him now. Stutz had walked in the night before while they were sanitizing and packing Rough’s personal effects. He set a bottle of rum on the desk and left. It, along with a six-pack of Coca Cola bottles, was now empty.

“Man, what time is it?”

Kid looked at his watch. “It’s either 0500 or 1700. I have no idea which.”

Robbie struggled to his feet and staggered the short distance to the door. He looked into the passage way and then closed it.

“White lights, 1700. Glad it’s a no-fly day.” He walked over to the small sink and threw up.

20:58 Local, 20 June, 1945 (11:58 GMT, 20JUN)

Kriegsmarine, Unterseeboot 862

Vomit mixed with salt water sloshed from side to side as the U-boat heaved in the heavy sea. Frightened eyes were on the chief of the boat as he descended from the sail bridge. More salt water followed him before the hatch was closed above him. Wolf watched with lifeless eyes.