Code Name: Infamy (Aviator Book 4) (3 page)

“Take off.”

“Where is our destination, Herr General?” Wolf turned and left the cockpit without answering, proceeding immediately to the navigator’s station. In the cockpit the pilots looked at each other and shrugged; they were used to arrogant passengers. Pushing the throttles up, the aircraft commander taxied the Fw-200 toward the runway.

“Navigator, has this aircraft been fitted with extra fuel tanks as ordered?”

“Jawohl, Herr General.”

“Do you have charts for the entire world, as ordered?”

“Jawohl, Herr General.” Wolf stood behind the Navigator looking at a UHF radio.

“Is that radio used for navigation?”

“Nein, Herr General—”

Before the navigator could finish his sentence, Wolf pulled his Luger and emptied it into the radio. While it popped and hissed, he pushed the release button on the pistol, letting the spent magazine drop to the deck with a clatter. Ramming in a fresh clip of nine-millimeter ammunition, he chambered a round with an exaggerated motion of the action. The entire crew had watched; the message was clear.

“Plot a course for Punta Europa Airfield, the Island of Ferdinand Pó, in the Gulf of Guinea, Equatorial Africa.”

All four BMW/Bramo 323R-2 nine-cylinder engines pumped out their maximum rating of 1200 horsepower as they strained to get the overloaded Condor into the air. With thirty percent more fuel than normal and four heavy crates, they used the entire runway, finally lumbering into the air as the last remnants of sunset dispersed. Below, the orderly’s blood ran cold as he stared in horror at the four expanding pools of blood surrounding the field marshall and his family.

CHAPTER 5

03:10 Local, 7 May, 1945 (01:10 GMT, 7MAY)

Germany

A C-47 Skytrain streaked across the night sky, its Pratt + Whitney R-1830 engines propelling the aircraft at red line speed. A grizzled lieutenant colonel sat in the right seat with an equally weathered full colonel in the left seat. Major Spike Shanower stood between and just aft of the two gray beards.

“How much longer?” he asked like an impatient child.

“You mean how much longer are you going to drag us into your spy crap?” LCOL James “Irish” Myers snapped in return.

Spike just smiled back at him. He knew Irish was irritated because he was constantly sneaking up on him, especially since his sudden appearance at dinner last night caused Irish to spill his wine and nearly choke on his tenderloin. He couldn’t help himself; he loved playing up the sleuthy spy image. And screwing with Irish, in fact mostly screwing with Irish, because it so infuriated him.

Colonel Dane “JT” Dobbs laughed from the left seat, well aware of Spike’s little game. Of course Irish was right; Spike had pulled them into his world in the past. In fact they had ex-filled him when he’d snatched Gerhardt who was, at this very moment, sitting nervously in his brand new uniform. Spike had given the German physicist back his former rank as a colonel of the Wehrmacht Army, and around him sat twenty-two very tough-looking U.S. Army rangers, also in new uniforms—theirs were SS paratroopers.

“Would it be too much to ask the plan?” JT asked between chuckles.

“Not at all, JT. First, we are crossing the FEBA.” He turned to Irish. “That is the Forward Edge of Battle Area—”

“We damn well know what it means.”

“Excellent, then you also know it is a bit fluid.”

“Yeah, so what?”

“Well, my Irish friend, we are going to take advantage of the chaos and capture a German airfield.”

The revelation got both men’s attention, but JT spoke first. “You intend to hold an airfield behind enemy lines with twenty-two men?”

“Twenty-five, counting us—”

“Spike!” Irish began to come unhinged.

“Okay, okay. A little bird has informed me that in a few short hours Germany will formally surrender, and—”

“And if they don’t?” demanded Irish.

“Then we’re screwed! Since we’re in German uniforms, we’ll all be shot as spies. Quite ironic don’t you think, Irish?”

Irish turned all the way around in the co-pilot seat to face the smiling OSS Agent. “I never did like you, Spike. You know that, don’t you?”

At zero four hundred, five minutes out from the Ohrdruf Airfield, Irish flipped on a red light in the cabin. At the end of the cabin the jump-master rose and shouted over the din of flight.

“Airborne, stand up.” All twenty-two rangers got to their feet.

“Hook up.” Each paratrooper hooked the static line of his chute to the overhead steel cable running the length of the cabin. Pulling on the hooks closed the eyelet; each man then slid a cotter pin into a hole to lock it.

“Check equipment.” They checked the gear of the man in front of them; the last two troopers reversed, ensuring all were checked.

“Stand in the door.” Lieutenant John Koch, a young yet battle-hardened officer, stood in the door and watched for a green light. After what seemed like a long time, the light on the aft bulkhead next to the open door switched from red to green.

“Go, go, go!” The twenty-two men plunged silently into the night in the pike position. Static lines fed out until they ripped the cover off of the T-10 parachutes. Opening shock as always was a jolt, especially with combat gear. Koch checked his canopy more out of habit than need; it didn’t matter because they were too low for a backup chute. It either worked or failed.

In the moonlight he could see the field coming up to him—a perfect drop. So far so good, he thought, but it will be a miracle if we survive this. Sensing the trees were taller than his altitude, he assumed the PLF position: feet and knees together, elbows in, hands in fists in front of his face. Dropping rapidly, the T-10 was designed to get a paratrooper on the ground quickly, not comfortably. Koch hit on the balls of his feet, instantly twisted his hips, and hit on his primary contact points just like he had been trained: feet, calves, thighs, and then small of the back. Rolling to his feet, he pulled the safety pin out of his harness attach point, rotated it to the release position, and then slapped it. All of the straps released together.

He dropped to one knee while pulling the MP-40 submachine gun out of its carry case. Waiting for movement or noise, Koch remained motionless. Satisfied it had been a stealthy drop, he gathered his chute and harness, stuffing them in a canvas bag and tossing it over his back. Now mobile, Koch moved quickly to his objective, the terminal building.

Shadows configured in the same way moved with him. He checked on a second group moving toward a large hangar that was being led by his platoon sergeant. A third group was checking the perimeter; he didn’t bother to try to see them in the dark. Creeping close to the terminal, Koch shed the weight of his USA parachute bag and peered through a window. He counted three German soldiers. Checking his watch he waited until the phosphorous hands showed ten elapsed minutes. On the second, he slung his weapon and kicked open the door. Four of his men followed; he heard the front doors of the terminal kick open as he yelled.

“Achtung!”

Seeing the SS Storm Trooper uniforms, the orderly fainted, and the other two jumped to attention. Koch’s men quickly secured the building while he stared down the German soldiers.

“Herr Leutnant, kommen sie.”

Koch looked up at his corporal. Even after two years of combat with him, he had never seen anything like the expression on his face now. Two sleepy mechanics were pushed in the side door by his platoon sergeant. Koch made eye contact and nodded toward the lounge door, outside of which the corporal stood in shock.

Koch walked up next to him with the platoon sergeant and looked into the room.

“What is this shit?” the sergeant said.

“Deutch,” the lieutenant whispered.

Seamlessly, the paratrooper slipped back into perfect German. “They do this to their own children, and a general?”

“Secure this room and bring me the soldier who fainted.”

Terrified by their very presence, the orderly’s bladder involuntarily voided as he was led into the lounge. Koch grabbed him and pushed him next to the carnage.

“Was ist das?”

“I do not know, Herr Leutnant.”

“Nein! Quite obviously you do!” he snapped in German, causing the orderly to jump in fear. Weeping he looked away.

Koch grabbed his face and forced him to look. “Who knows of this? Your commanding officer?”

“No one,” he sobbed. “I was the field marshall’s orderly. I was too afraid to show anyone else.”

“Sit.” He pushed the orderly into a chair and turned to his men, continuing to issue orders in German. “No one in or out.” Koch went back into the main terminal where the other two Germans were. He looked hard at them, and while it was clear they did not know about the murdered family, they were just as terrified of the SS.

“This is now an SS airfield, classified secret. Report your names, and then get out of my sight. Know that once you leave here, if anything you’ve seen tonight is revealed, you will be tortured and summarily executed. Understood?”

They each barked out their names and then scurried out of the building without even picking up their hats. Koch’s other corporal had converged at the gate with the perimeter group. He gave the troops there the same speech adding loud enough for all of the refugees to hear that anyone still in sight after twenty minutes would be shot. No one was in sight after ten.

After watching them leave, Koch went back into the terminal and into the operations office. Again checking his watch he flipped on the runway lights. JT had already configured the C-47 for landing and was in a position to land quickly. Koch flipped the lights back off as the aircraft slowed to taxi speed. He then turned on the hangar lights, and as the C-47 got close, he extinguished them again to prevent the American aircraft from being illuminated. Inside the hangar, two lit wands directed the Skytrain to a stop while the doors closed behind. Koch met Spike at the aircraft door.

“We have a complication.”

Spike stood silently at the door of the senior officer’s lounge. Koch nodded to the sobbing orderly huddled in the corner.

“Shiest.” Spike drew in a breath and waved Koch to a corner of the main terminal. “The orderly is the only one who saw this Herr Leutnant?”

“Jawohl.” Spike leaned close and whispered in English. “Are you sure?”

“Yeah, he’s scared shitless.” Koch waited as Spike stood in deep thought, analyzing risk versus gain. Finally, Spike looked Koch in the eyes.

“We go as planned.”

CHAPTER 6

04:42 Local, 7 May, 1945 (02:42 GMT, 7MAY)

French West Africa

So many stars filled the observation canopy that the navigator could pick and choose his favorites. After plotting their position on his chart, he glanced up to see the general checking his work.

“Herr General, will we have a second destination?”

Wolf ignored him, instead asking, “Will we be clear of the Allied fighter threat by daylight?”

“Jawohl, Herr General.” Satisfied, Wolf turned and walked away without another word.

05:13 Local, 7 May, 1945 (03:13 GMT, 7MAY)

Ohrdruf Airfield, Germany

Spike, Koch, and Colonel Gerhardt stood in a corner talking quietly. Spike nodded toward the secured lounge and then asked Gerhardt, “Any idea, Colonel?”

Gerhardt glanced back over his shoulder and shuddered. “I suspect the SS caught him fleeing and executed him.”

“And the children?” Not wanting to answer, Gerhardt finally did without making eye contact. “They probably made him watch …”

“Nice,” hissed Koch.

“That would explain why the orderly is terrified of our uniforms, but why did no one else hear it?”

Koch reached in his pocket and pulled out a one-inch-by-four-inch cylinder. “Silencer.”

Spike was quiet. It still didn’t add up. He glanced at his watch; time was now dictating terms, not him. He stood silently for a few more seconds and then spoke softly. “Obviously things have deteriorated worse than we anticipated. Regardless, we must get back on our time line. Do we have transportation?”

“Two trucks and the field marshal’s staff car. Keys were in the trucks, and I found the staff car keys when I searched the orderly.”

“Roger that. Muster the action element. Put three men on the gate, two standing guard in front of the terminal and one at the hangar. We need to make it look like this is an SS base; that will keep stragglers away.”

“The orderly?” asked Koch.

“Tie his ass up; he’s not a threat.”

JT was trying to sleep on one of the wooden troop benches in the back of the C-47. Irish was growing restless and finally asked, “So what are we supposed to do?”

“I suspect since neither of us speak German, we are to stay out of sight and shut the hell up.”

Irish continued to gruff as they heard the vehicles drive away.