Code Name: Infamy (Aviator Book 4) (5 page)

Barbarossa had always been intended as a two-front offensive. Wolf had been very clear on that in his brief. He went so far as to predict failure if the Japanese did not succeed in splitting the Soviet Union and then driving toward Moscow. Instead of re-attacking the Soviet Union and winning an ultimate victory, the duplicitous bastards reached a secret non-aggression pact with them and prepared for an attack on Pearl Harbor. Zhukov and most of his combat-experienced troops moved east to defend Moscow. Then, against his counsel, Barbarossa was launched, even after he discovered intelligence that Japan had no intention of attacking Russia. Had the Japanese not betrayed the fatherland, the course of the war would have dramatically changed. Instead they went ahead with their Pearl Harbor operation and dragged the Americans into the conflict.

Fools! Within a few short months, after the Imperial Japanese Navy’s titanic defeat at Midway, Japan was forced into a defensive posture and the chance to open a second front against Russia disappeared in the wind like smoke. It meant that Germany, not Soviet Russia, faced a two-front war. But Wolf would have to put his animosity for the Japanese aside—for now. His plan required their support. Beside him, the captain’s stone cold demeanor had not changed. Wolf faced him.

“Herr General, you have my loyalty until the end.”

“This I know. Fuel?”

His devotee pointed to two fuel trucks rumbling across the tarmac.

“We also have provisions ready to be loaded. One hour.”

Stretching as they emerged from the aircraft, the disheveled aircrew drew looks of disdain from the two perfectly kept SS officers.

“Be ready to launch in one hour,” Wolf directed.

“But general, we have not slept since—” the pilot started. The glare of both Nazis stopped him mid sentence.

Waiting until they had walked a safe distance, the navigator joked, “I have not seen a glare like that since my wife caught me with a little fraulein.”

“If you want to see either lovely lady ever again, we must be ready to move quickly when we get these fanatics to their destination.”

17:31 Local, 7 May, 1945 (08:31 GMT, 7MAY)

Yokosuka Naval District, Japan

Admiral Hiroshi walked from his car into a large camouflaged submarine pen. He and his staff were met by an overly excited group of manufacturers and engineers. A young engineer in a white lab coat with very thick glasses spoke for the group.

“Admiral-San,’ the man bowed deeply, “it is a great development we will present to you. A revolutionary weapon of war. Please, please, come in,” he begged.

Inside the concrete cavern four gargantuan submarines floated in individual pens. They were marked sequentially on their conning towers: I-400, 401, 402, and 403. Their boat numbers were also sequential 5230–5233, and they were the first four of a class of super submarines planned for a total of eighteen. They were also the only ones complete in their construction.

Most significantly, amidships of each submarine on the top deck was a cylindrical watertight aircraft hangar. Alone the hangar was the size of an average submarine. They were twenty-five percent of the ships 400-foot length.

“So this is Yamamoto’s secret weapon to attack American cities,” Hiroshi sneered.

“They have completed sea trials and will be ready soon for deployment.”

“What about the aircraft?”

“Seiran fighters are in flight test now, Admiral-San.”

“How many?”

“We shall build—”

“No, how many aircraft does each submarine hold?”

“Each chamber or hangar can hold three aircraft,” the engineer boasted.

“Three? Three aircraft? I lost four hundred in a single battle in the Marianas. What possible impact will three have?” It was a humiliating rebuke for the team, and all bowed their heads in disgrace except one. A naval aviator, he stepped forward.

“Admiral-San, the range of these ships is quite impressive. We can select high-value targets behind enemy lines, the Panama Canal for example. Or we could bomb their capitol as they bomb ours.”

Hiroshi contemplated the strategic and psychological impact. It would force the U.S. Navy to commit forces to the rear. They naturally would assume an aircraft carrier task force had slipped by them. It would strike panic and buy him time.

“Continue, Lieutenant Commander…?”

“Atsugi, sir.”

“Very well, Atsugi, we shall give it a top priority.”

10:29 Local, 7 May, 1945 (08:29 GMT, 7MAY)

Ferdinand Po’, Gulf of Guinea, Equatorial Africa

All four BMW Bramo 323 R-2 engines were at full power, straining to get the grossly overloaded Condor airborne. “One thousand feet remaining, rotate!” the co-pilot implored Franz.

“We do not have take-off speed.”

“Five hundred feet, ROTATE!”

“Nein.”

Enticing the nose up at the threshold, the pilot immediately raised the landing gear and then let the nose drop with the volcanic terrain, chasing the downslope to the ocean below he finally built enough air speed to start a climb.

“Turn west.” Both pilots turned to see General von Bassenheim standing calmly with his hands clasped behind his back. He raised a hand pointing a perfectly manicured finger to the west and then proceeded to the navigator’s station. “Plot a course to Joao Pessoa, Brazil.”

10:37 Local, 7 May, 1945 (08:37GMT, 7MAY)

Heereswaffenamt Kernphysik Command, Ohrdruf, Germany

Oberstleutnant Schroeder wrung his hands and tried to keep his knee from bouncing up and down. His heart pounded, and sweat ran in rivulets down his back even though the room was cool. He was in Wolf’s office, sitting at Wolf’s desk, in Wolf’s chair, and the SS colonel stood over him, staring. Just staring. Finally, Spike began to interrogate him.

“Where is Generalleutnant Wolfgang von Bassenheim?” Spike demanded.

“I have not seen him since yesterday.”

“You are certain you saw him yesterday?”

“Yes, I’m certain.”

“And that he left with an SS force in two trucks?”

Schroeder nodded. Gerhardt stepped forward. “Schroeder, what was in the assembly laboratory?”

“His project, as you no doubt remember. He was very secretive.”

“Who helped him in the assembly process?”

“He had three machinists, his own.”

“Where are they now? Send for them immediately.”

Schroeder called in a private and ordered him to retrieve the machinists. Spike waved over Koch and whispered into his ear.

“Go with him.”

“Major we have got to get out of here—” Koch responded.

“I have to understand what was here, what was taken. Go.”

While waiting for Wolf’s men, Schroeder finally summoned the courage to speak, to ask his old colleague the question everyone wanted to know.

“Hans, where have you been? There were rumors, but—”

“He has been working with us, that is all you need to know,” Spike snapped in response.

The private re-entered the room and reported the machinists were not in their rooms and their beds had not been slept in. Spike looked to Koch, who subtly nodded in agreement.

“Schroeder, did they leave with von Bassenheim?”

Knowing the answer, Gerhardt walked back to the elevator as Schroeder replied, “No.” Spike, Koch, and Schroeder followed Gerhardt down into the assembly laboratory and straight back to the break room. Flipping on the overhead light, he saw what he expected. All three machinists lay on the floor with a single shot to the head.

“He’s very efficient, your General Wolf.”

“You have no idea,” Gerhardt mumbled.

“What does that mean?”

“He could have had a workable weapon years ago, but would not lower his standards.”

“Explain.”

“He wanted a more efficient yield.”

“Why?”

“The Luftwaffe, as you know, has no long-range bombers. His goal was to fit the weapon into a V-1 rocket. An efficient yield means a smaller weapon.”

“The Luftwaffe has aircraft capable of reaching London—”

“But not America.”

“America, why?”

“He thought you—I mean them—impure. I told you, he is a true believer.”

Schroeder continued to stare at the grotesque bloodbath splattered across the floor. Spike called across the room.

“Schroeder, SCHROEDER!”

Startled, he looked up in fear.

“Where are the fatherland’s weapons, Oberstleutnant?”

He just shook his head in disbelief and confusion. Gerhardt watched him and suddenly looked up, snapping his fingers. “Kommen sie.”

They went up the elevator and out into courtyard, and then followed Gerhardt to the motor pool. He opened a log book and went down the page until he saw von Bassenheim’s name and tore out the page. Quickly he walked over to the trucks they had driven there and checked the serial numbers. They matched. He showed Spike the entries.

“Well that almost explains the family on the floor.”

“And the driver’s brains on the truck window,” Koch added.

Spike turned to Koch and issued orders to make sure the rest of the scientists and their families were loaded for immediate departure.

“I must find my family,” Gerhardt said quietly. Spike had been waiting for this; when they left he knew it would be the hardest part of the mission. Without replying, he turned to Schroeder and asked a question he already knew the answer to.

“Where is the colonel’s family?”

CHAPTER 9

11:29 Local, 7 May, 1945 (09:29 GMT, 7MAY)

Ohrdruf Airfield, Germany

Coagulated blood matted the blonde curls and stuck them to the floor. He could not stop looking at the horror. What have we become? echoed repeatedly in his mind. His thoughts raced out of control; he was coming apart. The smell of panicked sweat emanating from his own body mixed with those of the slaughter. No matter, soon I will join the field marshal’s family. They will not allow me to tell this tale.

Spike barged back into the room, still in the uniform of an SS colonel. The orderly looked up, fear painted across his face.

“Who did this?” Spike demanded.

“Ha!” the orderly let out in a shrill voice.

“As if you do not know!”

Gerhardt had not spoken since Schroeder informed him that his family had been taken by the Gestapo after he disappeared. Suddenly he lunged at the young man, yanked him off of the floor, and then slammed him against the wall.

“We are out of time and patience!”

Spike stepped in. “Colonel, I’ll handle this.”

“Go ahead and shoot me now! I no longer care. No doubt your SS general has realized his mistake by letting me live.”

“Was it von Bassenheim?”

“God Almighty, I didn’t ask his name!”

“Describe him.” Gerhardt demanded. The orderly looked between Gerhardt and Spike, and then spat out the words: “The perfect Nazi.”

That was enough for Gerhardt. He let go and the orderly slipped back down the wall. Spike continued.

“Age, hair, and eye color?”

“Young, blonde, with cold, steel blue eyes.”

“Did he wear the Knights Cross?” Hans asked, slumping into a chair and visibly deflating.

“Yes, he wore an Iron Cross.”

Outside, the scientists and their families began to crowd into the hall. There were fifty-eight including the children. Spike turned to his men and spoke in English. “We’ll need this space.”

The orderly’s eyes opened wide involuntarily.

“Sprechen sie Englisch korperliche?” Spike asked.

“Yes, little.”

Spike walked to where he sat on the floor and leaned down to him pulling out his U.S. dog tag. “Can you read this?” The orderly didn’t answer, turning away from the tag. “Show him, boys.”

All of the rangers pulled U.S. dog tags from under their Storm Trooper tunics. Realization flushed over the orderly’s face as he looked from one to the other. His gaze fell on Colonel Gerhardt, who sat oblivious to his surroundings. Spike spoke again.

“He is German and a little out of sorts since learning the Gestapo took his family.”

“Am I your prisoner then?”

“What is your name, corporal?”

“Johan.”

“Johan, Germany is surrendering today. Do you understand?” He nodded in response.

“What happened here?”

He tried to respond in English and then reverted to German. “Field Marshal Weiskiettle commandeered the general’s aircraft, and the general, he took it back.”

“Luftwaffe?”