Code Name: Infamy (Aviator Book 4) (7 page)

Ernst had been trying to retire since before the war started, but the Kriegsmarine would not let him go, and he’d spent this war at sea in the Wolf Packs. He had seen enough—more than enough—and just wanted to go back home to the family farm in the Black Forest. His captain felt the same.

Looking up to the U-boat’s conning tower, he could see the distress on his captain’s face. Skipper Fischer had not been happy when assigned the secret mission. They had cast off Penang, in Japanese-controlled Malaya, on the night of 3 March 1945. Penang was home of the 33rd Unterseebootsflottille, code-named Monsun Gruppe, the “Monsoon Group.” Gruppe Captain Gunther Kunke had issued the secret orders that had been hand delivered from the General Staff by an SS captain. U-862 had then set out on a 13,385-nautical-mile cruise to the island of Más a Tierra. It had taken them fifty-six days of constant steaming at an average of ten knots.

The 862 had been retrofitted with the Schnorchel system in September 1944, a technology Germany captured when the Netherlands fell. A simple retractable pipe, it allowed them to operate the diesels while submerged. However it limited the U-boats speed to six knots. Whenever within range of land-based aircraft, they submerged and snorkeled during the day. At night they ran at eighteen knots on the surface. It had been an arduous trip—especially during the day runs when diesel fumes filled the boat.

Now Fischer watched from the conning tower as the watertight doors were sealed on the secret cargo. He had a bad feeling about what was in the containers, and he had an even worse feeling about the strutting SS general’s omnipresence.

“Captain, the load is complete; get underway.”

Fischer stared back at the impudent Nazi.

“General, on this ship I give the orders.”

Wolf returned his glare with malice, thinking, This man will be a problem. Before he could speak, the roar of four BMW Bramo 323 R-2 radial engines stole his attention. What the …? He was incredulous to see the Condor approaching, its aircraft commander shaking his fist out the open side wind screen in victory. There was supposed to be no fuel left! His officers were supposed to have taken care of the impudent crew. In his hand, as he grew closer, Wolf could see the pilot held a large wrench.

Wolf drew his Luger without hesitation and fired on the Condor as it closed within range. His men obediently opened fire without command. Franz buzzed over the conning tower throwing the wrench to the deck of U-862 as the Condor passed overhead. It clanged down hard while the SS continued to fire. Franz wagged his wings in further defiance and then turned toward Santiago as the flight crew crowded in the cockpit laughing hysterically in a mixture of fatigue and joy.

“The bastard actually shot at us!” his co-pilot yelled over the roar of the engines and rushing air.

“How did you know?”

“They were fueling us for a one-way trip, Bubbi.”

Wolf held large binoculars to his eyes. In the distance he could see four black clad soldiers lying unconscious on the tarmac of the airfield. Dropping the binoculars he turned to see the U-boat captain smirking at him.

“Interesting reaction, even from the SS.”

“It is none of your concern, Captain.”

“Oh, but it is. Is that the fate awaiting my crew?”

“Your fate is your duty.”

“Boatswain, prepare to get underway,” Fischer yelled, never taking his eyes off Wolf.

On deck, Wolf’s second in command shouted to the conning tower. “General, what about our men at the airfield?”

“Leave them. They failed me.”

17:38 Local, 8 May, 1945 (21:38 GMT, 8MAY)

Chilean Coast

Bubbi looked out the co-pilot’s side window at the lifeless number-three engine. Behind the still propeller the sun was beginning to set over the Pacific. Cruising at 5,000 feet on only three engines had slowed them, but the Chilean Coast was finally in view.

“Can you believe they hit it?” he asked Franz.

“Better it than all of us …”

Banging loudly off of the bulk head, the cockpit door bounced back almost knocking down the radioman.

“The war is over!” the radioman yelled as he fought with the door. “We have surrendered.” The men in the cockpit looked at him. “I heard it over the HF radio.”

“I thought our favorite Nazi shot our HF radio?”

“We had another. He didn’t ask; I didn’t offer.” All three men burst out laughing and then grew awkwardly silent, their mixed emotions swirling with the pastel colors of the setting sun.

An hour later and twenty-three nautical miles west of the island of Más a Tierra at a depth of twelve feet, U-862 prepared to surface. Captain Fischer issued commands to the control room.

“Navigator?”

“One hour past sunset, all dark,” responded the navigator.

“Up periscope.” It rose rapidly from below the control room’s deck, extending until it clunked into place.

“Periscope up.” Twisting his captain’s hat backwards, the skipper snapped the handles into place. He set the magnification to maximum range and quickly walked in a tight 360-degree circle as he shouted, “Naxos?”

“Negative contacts,” came the reply.

“Down periscope,” Fischer called out, snapping the handles back up. U-862 had been fitted with a Naxos radar detector on the end of the snorkel and would warn the crew if enemy radar was sweeping the area. Captain Fischer checked his watch and then sat for a full ten minutes.

“Sonar?”

“Sonar holds no contacts, Captain.”

“Up periscope.” Fischer swept the horizon the same way he had before.

“Prepare to surface.” A bell rang throughout the U-boat as the chief’s command was passed to every compartment.

“Surface, surface, surface!”

“Five degrees up on bow plane, blow tanks 1, 5, and 9 port and starboard.”

Compressed air rushed into the odd-numbered tanks on both sides of the submarine, pushing the salt water back into the ocean.

“Blow 2 and 8, port and starboard.” Quickly changing the submarine’s buoyancy from neutral to positive, the submarine began to surface bow up. Like a shark’s fin, the conning tower cut the surface first followed by the bow, and finally the spine broached.

“We are on the surface, Captain.”

“Shift to ship’s diesels, deploy antennas, and set the watch.”

Ballast tanks two, three, four, six, and seven were full of reserve fuel, so she would ride low until it was consumed by her diesel engines. U-862 listed slightly to port.

“Flood starboard regulating tank to one third.” Fischer ordered as he furiously spun the wheel on the internal hatch. Pushing it open, salt water flooded in, drenching him as he quickly went up the ladder. With the ocean water, fresh air rushed into the dank submarine, cleansing it of the smell of humans, machines, and cooking food.

“Starboard regulating tank one third,” he heard as he reached the bridge of the conning tower. His chief followed him up the ladder. Trade winds blew across Fischer’s face, and he closed his eyes, embracing them. Tilting his head back, he opened his eyes again and stared up at the thousands—no, millions—of stars dancing overhead. He knew exactly where his ship was on the planet by reading the constellations. This is why he had gone to sea all those years ago as a young fisherman. War was as far away as the stars, as far away as his beloved family in the fatherland. He longed for them and the small fishing boat he had captained. The sea had been his mistress, and it was time to return home.

“Captain.” A soft voice hailed him. He recognized the voice as his radioman.

“Ja, Georg?”

“Captain, the war, it is over.”

“Over?”

“Ja, over. We are to head to the nearest Allied base and surrender our boat.”

A tear ran down Fischer’s face—a tear of joy and shame. Germany had lost and he cared not. How many had he killed? They would haunt him, he knew.

“Chief, I have the watch. Go below and bring us about. Set course for Santiago. I’ve had enough of this boat.”

Below, Wolf felt the ship lean as it reversed course. A dark specter rose in the hatch, and onto the conning tower bridge.

“Was ist das?”

“The war is over, General. We are going home.”

A muffled shot was heard below in the control room. Storm Troopers slammed back bolts charging their grease guns. They then yelled for all to remain frozen in place. Ernst ignored them and scampered up the ladder. In the dim light of a rising moon he saw Generalleutnant Wolfgang Walpot von Bassenheim leaning back against the railing. He held a Luger across his chest like a Pharaoh holds a scepter, and on his brow, like a crown, he wore Captain Fischer’s hat. Chief Bauer looked over the side and could just barely see a dark stain on the deck that smeared over the side. He watched as the waves gently washed it away barely hearing the Nazi speak.

“I am now in command.”

CHAPTER 11

01:55 local, 9 May, 1945 (03:55 GMT, 9MAY)

South Atlantic Ocean

Cumulonimbus clouds rose into the equatorial Atlantic sky to heights the young co-pilot didn’t think possible. They hung in a line north to south that seemed to stretch the length of the South American continent. Already the ride was deteriorating, even though the storm front was still at least a hundred miles away. Lightning leapt like sparks between giant anvils, each bolt illuminating the cockpit. Irish’s loud snoring was a weird punctuation to the scene.

“Lieutenant Colonel Myers, wake up, sir.”

“Just hold the damn course, Billy. They taught you that much, didn’t they?” he snapped and then rolled toward the side windscreen.

“But sir, the storm front!”

“The lightning will let you see the cells so you can go between them. Now leave me alone, Billy.”

“It’s actually Jimmy, sir.”

No response, except a loud snore. Spike smiled from behind them and then went back into the cabin and sat down across from Colonel Gerhardt. Hans was going through the documents they had retrieved from Wolf’s office when he came across one that made his eyes open wide. A large leather-bound folder had a red ribbon tied around it in a bow. He pulled a loose end of the ribbon and it fell away. Spike watched as Hans opened it with trembling hands. He looked up at Spike and then turned it so Spike could read it in the soft red light. There was a handwritten note on the cover page.

Hallo Hans, ich hoffe mine kleines spielzeug dir gefällt.

“I can’t read it in this light, what does it say?”

“It says, ‘Hello Hans, I hope you like my little toy.’” Hans looked up at Spike.

“How did he know?”

“You said he’s smart. Not hard to figure out we’d bring you with us.”

Gerhardt nodded almost imperceptibly as he began to study the document. Spike chain-smoked, lighting one cigarette off of the other as he watched the German’s facial expressions. After Hans unfolded a diagram, his eyebrows rode high on his forehead in shock. Spike dropped his cigarette with the other ten or more on the deck and crushed it with the toe of his boot.

“Okay, what do we have?”

Gerhardt shook his question off and continued to read, eyes skimming back and forth, brow still furrowed. After another hour he slowly closed it, rubbed his eyes, and then set the paper on his lap.

“And?” demanded Spike.

“It is worse than I thought … he has done it.”

“Done what, exactly?”

“Achieved what we could not in Alamogordo.”

“Hans, you have my attention, but you’re starting to piss me off.”

Gerhardt stood and began to pace, raising his voice above the engine’s drone so Spike could hear every word. It woke the rangers, who were as transfixed as Spike was.

“Remember I told you we could have achieved a rudimentary bomb, much like Big Boy?” Spike nodded. “There are two ways to achieve a nuclear explosion: fission and fusion. Fission, or the gun-type bomb, simply smashes together two shapes of U-235 to achieve a nuclear yield and explosion. Fusion is much more complex and requires plutonium. A sphere of plutonium is compressed at the core until it implodes, producing yield. There was a theory that both could be designed to achieve a thermonuclear yield by triggering the implosion device with a gun barrel device—”

“You’re losing me,” Spike interrupted. “Besides, I thought we took out their heavy water facility.”

“We did. Apparently there were two. Neither facility knew of the other’s existence, nor could they.”

“Shit. Where’s the other one?”

“Japanese occupied Korea, the Chosin Reservoir in the north.”

“Okay, we will deal with that later. Why would he waste time? Why not field a weapon sooner?”

“Remember, he needed to put it on a rocket. A thermonuclear device allows a bigger yield than either of our nuclear bombs at a much smaller size. And we did delay their production of plutonium.”

“Okay, so now we know where he’s going. I’ll get a B-29 strike on Chosin as soon as we land—”