“Let’s hope that won’t be necessary,” Lord said, having heard every word over the open intercom.
Major Paige edged the throttle backward, wincing as he adjusted the trim. When the altimeter began to creep downward, he made a clucking sound and continued to seek the proper settings. Seconds turned into many minutes. The two men didn’t speak. Just as a light rain began to assault the windshield, Lord pointed to a tower at their two o’clock. “There’s a marker for you. Where does that put us?”
As Paige went to the map, the aircraft shuddered as the starboard engine wheezed and sputtered. “Oh shit,” muttered the major. “There she goes.” He scanned the map, sliding his finger to the left. “We’re about seven miles out.”
“That’s fine,” Lord replied, unconcerned. “You said we could glide the last seven.”
“Perfect world, Mister Lord. When you find a perfect world, make sure you let me know. That distance doesn’t take into account vectoring for the runway. Plus our little tailwind, once our speed drops, will work against us. And… this is the biggie…we need to pass the airport and come back, landing into the wi…shit!” He groaned as the other engine began to hitch and wheeze. Major Paige used his right hand to ease the throttles back as he began his descent. He rubbed the sweat from his chin, moving his head back and forth as he peered through the silver streaks of rain.
“The gas pickups are at the front of the tanks, by design. With any luck, a downward attitude might find us an extra half gallon in each tank.”
Lord stood, leaning all the way forward as he scanned the horizon for the airport.
Paige jerked Lord’s headphone from the jack. He held it up in front of him and yelled, “Go down to the forward gunner’s area at the bay window and talk me in!”
Preston Lord was now officially nervous. The engines had coughed to life again, but by the time he reached the gunner’s area, seated himself and found the jack, both engines had cut out once more. “Paige, can you hear me?”
Aside from the whisper of wind over the gunner’s nose canopy, silence reigned.
“Paige!”
Obviously distracted, the major’s voice cut like a surgeon’s scalpel. “I’m busy up here. You talk. Where’s the airport?”
From the snug and uncomfortable nose seat, Lord scanned the wet landscape in the distance. He guessed they had descended several thousand feet since the engines had quit, and they were low enough that he could clearly see the spots on the cattle in the fields below him. The rain had caused a light fog to emerge, making his viewing more difficult. After a minute of looking and yelling back and forth, he saw the long gray strip of asphalt slightly to his left. “Airport, at ten o’clock!”
Major Paige slowly banked the aircraft. “Tell me when I’m on heading.”
“Right there, dead ahead!” Lord yelled back. “You see it?” He held his breath as the aircraft leveled. All he could hear was the constant air rushing over the bubble window he stared through. The same air that held them aloft was also fighting against them, trying to keep them from making it.
“Do you see it?” he screamed at Major Paige.
“Yeah,” came the grunted reply. “No way I can land into the wind. We’re going straight in, and I think we’re still gonna come up short.”
“Should I stay here?” Lord asked.
Paige chuckled into the headset. “Not unless you wanna die first.”
Lord hustled back to the cockpit, standing behind the co-pilot’s seat, peering through the low-profile windshield at the runway. They were at least a mile out and very low. It didn’t seem they had a chance. If they came up too short, they would be in the trees.
“What can I do?” Lord yelled.
“Sit down and buckle in,” Paige said, his voice eerily calm. “The die is cast, now. Just hang on for the ride. We’re teetering just above stall speed.”
Lord obeyed, plugging his headset into the console and watching the coming runway. Their aircraft was only a hundred feet above the treetops and the runway still seemed an eternal distance away.
“See those big round levers?” Paige asked, manipulating the yoke as he fought against the mushy low speed.
“These?”
“Can’t look. They’re big with round wheel-like rubber things on ‘em.”
“Got them,” Lord answered, struggling to control his breathing.
“When I say ‘down,’ jerk ‘em both down. Not too early, ‘cause landin’ gear is like a boat anchor. Wait for my call because I may decide to keep her clean and belly in. Got it?”
“I’ve got it.”
“At least we won’t have to worry about a fuel fire,” Major Paige remarked.
“What’s that?”
Paige ignored him, wincing as he pulled the yoke all the way into his stomach. Lord looked ahead, seeing the trees disappear underneath them, screeching as the underbelly of the Martin scratched the top limbs of the last ones. Lord alternated his view between Major Paige and the runway they weren’t going to reach. He guessed they were seventy feet above the ground.
“Not yet. Not yet. Not yet,” the major uttered, tugging the yoke and fighting the stall. When they were nearly in the grass he yelled, “Gear down!”
Lord jammed both levers down, hearing the landing gear as it moaned in an effort to lower itself before their flight ended. He looked out the window, seeing the green earth rushing up at them.
Major Paige again pulled the yoke all the way into his midsection and yelled, “Hang on!” The three red lights by the landing gear turned green the second the Martin Bomber struck the high grass two hundred feet shy of the runway. Fortunately for them, the engineers who built the airport had added a layer of packed gravel to each runoff at the end of the runway, and it provided enough of a supported surface to cause the Martin to bounce twice before it roughly skittered to a stop at the very end of the runway.
Everything was quiet other than a grating buzzer and the huffing breaths of the two government employees.
They made it.
Major Clayton Paige still held the yoke to his abdomen, as if there was more flying to be done. After a moment, he released it and flipped a switch, silencing the buzzer.
“All those thousands of miles and we came up a pitching niblick short of our goal,” Paige laughed.
Lord lowered his head to the yoke, amazed he was still alive.
The major rubbed his hand down the control panel, patting it eventually, like he would a trusted pet. “I sure tore the shit outta your gear, darling. But you’ll fly again.” He turned to Lord. “Hope you can get me a letter explaining that.” He then whispered “holy shit” at least thirty times as what they’d just done settled in.
Lord unbuckled his seat belt and stood, stretching before clapping the major on his shoulder. “You should get a medal for this, major. Thank you. Truly fine work. You’re a helluva pilot.”
“Luck always helps.”
Lord ducked down, peering through the windshield at the black automobile racing down the center of the runway, straight at the Martin. He stepped backward.
“That your contact?” Paige asked, unbuckling his seatbelt.
No answer.
“Is that your guy?” Paige persisted. He turned to Lord when he didn’t get an answer. The major’s eyes widened upon seeing the Beretta again.
This time, the handgun was inches from his face.
Preston Lord shot Major Clayton Paige at point blank range, the bullet going in through the tip of his nose and terminating in his cerebellum. The major slumped between the seats. Lord put a cushion under his face to catch the blood before it fouled the controls.
“Thanks for the lift,” Lord said quietly, patting the pilot on his upper arm. He stepped to the center of the aircraft and worked the lever to open the door. When he did, there was a youngish man in a gray overcoat, pointing a revolver at him. The man slumped and put the revolver away upon recognizing Lord.
“Is the airport secure?” Lord asked.
“It’s completely deserted, sir. Has been for two years.”
“Good. Call Harrison to get the body of the pilot out. Make this airplane spotless and repair it if need be. Have it flown to a busy military airfield after dark, one near London.” Lord managed to light a cigarette in the mist and wind. “When I say spotless, I mean it. Then wait a full day and dump the pilot’s body in an alley behind some rough pub row in the East End of London. Do it in such a way that the authorities won’t be able to tell he’d been moved. Maybe drop him in a few feet of water.” He offered a wry grin as he pondered the investigation. “Typical pilot. Cocky little bastard must have said the wrong thing to the wrong bloke.”
“Yes, sir,” the man replied. He stepped to the car, spending several minutes dictating instructions into a radio while Lord smoked and urinated in the grass.
“Done, sir,” the man called out.
“Good,” Lord answered, walking to the car and climbing into the back seat. He broke the seal on the waiting bottle of scotch and took a slug from the bottle. Then he melted into the plush seat and spoke with closed eyes. “Take me to the finest hotel in Mayfair. I need a day’s worth of sleep before I get started.”
You just pushed a man and aircraft to their limits in your hurry to get here, and now you’re going to laze around in a hotel room for a full day?
As Lord chuckled indulgently, the Jaguar raced away from the sealed-off airport, turning east on the motorway.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
It was the first TIME Neil drank coffee since his accident. Gabi and her mother were working in the barn. Peter was in school. While Neil’s pain had begun to subside, Frau Heinz had made it abundantly clear that he was to keep his “ass in the house” no matter what. So, after sleeping longer than he would have liked, Neil arose to find an empty house, and that’s when he decided to brew a pot of coffee. The first cup was bitter and smelled akin to horse piss. But the second cup, especially after the caffeine went to work on him, brought back the potent liquid he’d started his days with for the past twenty years.
He sat at the small kitchen table, staring out over the sun-drenched lower fields as a sheepherder from the nearby community tended to his flock. Frau Heinz allowed the herder to use certain fields, depending on where each field was in the growing rotation.
There were only 18 days remaining before the deadline, before hundreds of children had a rendezvous with a ship in the Adriatic Sea. While his healing seemed to be progressing nicely, he was beginning to concern himself with the task ahead, and right now his mind fretted over how he might arrange for transport of the children out of Austria. Neil’s line of thinking kept coming back to a train—a method of transport perfect for hundreds of people. The biggest challenge would be making sure the train could cross the Yugoslavian border unmolested. Certainly his contacts in Innsbruck would have some helpful ideas. After all, Jakey had done this many times before. Neil was hopeful he’d be ready to leave for Innsbruck next week. This would allow him a number of days to get the children to their destination.
Trying to distract his worried mind, he read some of the previous week’s paper, Der Stürmer. Every single article lauded the National Socialist Party and their efforts. The newspaper was also hyper-critical of Jews and communists, while being heavily slanted against most other countries. Based on the unified tone, it was almost as if some propaganda minister had instructed the reporters on exactly what to write, and then scrutinized every word before going to print. In Neil’s opinion, the slanted drivel made for utterly mind-numbing reading. He tossed the paper aside and straightened as Frau Heinz entered the house.
“You’re sleeping better,” she said, washing her hands.
“I want you to start waking me at dawn.”
“Why? You should sleep so you can heal enough to get the hell out of my house.”
He chuckled. “Wake me anyway.”
Neil watched her as she stared out the window while toweling her hands. Afterward, without moving, she closed her eyes, taking several regulated breaths—a private moment. Neil had been a guest in the Heinz household for long enough to know when something was bothering her. He pushed the adjacent chair out with his leg. “Have a seat.”
“No time. Need to fix a bite for everyone and get back to it.”
“C’mon and have a seat,” he said, using a tone he’d hardly used since the accident.
She turned to him, giving a resigned nod. Neil poured her a cup of coffee, twisting his chair to face her. “What’s wrong, Hildie?”
She stared into the coffee and shook her head. “Nothing’s wrong, just life.”
“What about it?”
“Owning a farm, doing the job of two parents, having a grown daughter with a sharp tongue…things you wouldn’t know about.”
Neil sipped his coffee. “Educate me.”
Her brown eyes were damp. “Some days I can take the weight. Things like my note at the bank, and the coming sale of wheat at the auction, and helping Peter with his schoolwork and those damned Hitler Youth obligations. Some days I can handle Gabi’s incessant bitching, challenging me, and questioning of how I do things. I can do things like unclogging the water drain, and I can handle knowing I haven’t had a partner in years and I’m all alone with my thoughts and feelings—some days I can take all of it.” Her mouth twisted as the tears began to flow. “But other days, like today, it all just seems so black, and I wonder what the damned point is.” Frau Heinz lost it, her body shuddering as she began to cry in earnest.
Unsure of what to do, Neil leaned over, wrapping an arm around her. Frau Heinz’s cries went on and on. She sobbed into Neil’s flannel shirt, years of frustration pouring out with each wail.
She pulled back after a few minutes, wiping her face and eyes with a kitchen towel. “Look at me. This isn’t who I am, blubbering on like a schoolgirl.” She smiled weakly, uncharacteristic embarrassment on her face.
“So what is it?”
“What’s what?”
“Something set you off.”
Another tremor passed through her. “No matter how tough a woman can be, and no matter the amount of tasks she can fulfill, there are certain tasks that only a husband…a father…can accomplish.”
“I could imagine,” Neil said, thinking of his own shortcomings since Emilee’s murder. Despite how adept he was at certain things, there were many things only a woman could do well. He studied Frau Heinz. She was still troubled, as if by something in particular.
“What exactly are you referring to?”
“Peter didn’t tell you?”
“Tell me what?”
Frau Heinz shook her head. “I figured he’d talked to you about it because he’s dreading it so. And I don’t trust that crooked little brigade commander, or whatever title they bestowed on him.”
“Hildie, what exactly are you talking about?”
She stood, dumping the remainder of her coffee into the porcelain sink. “The Hitler Youth programs Peter has to attend…”
“Yeah?”
She walked to the table by the door. On it were two baskets with her personal correspondence, invoices, letters. Neil had never gone through any of it. She came back with a letter, removed it from the slit-top envelope and tossed it on the table. Emblazoned on the header were a bold swastika and assorted stamps and seals. Neil pinched the letter in both hands:
To Master Peter Heinz:
Congratulations, future leader! You are one of select Hitler Youth who have been chosen to attend the Grand Rally, 5.9.38, at the Imperial Party Congress Grounds in Nürnberg. The fact that you’ve been chosen to attend should be considered the highest of honors. Unless you possess a valid, verifiable excuse or infirmity, your attendance is required.
Your Brigade Commander will have additional details. We look forward to rallying with you in Nürnberg.
Blood and honor!
Most Sincerely,
Baldur von Schirach
Reichsjugendführer
; Neil had read about the weeklong rally in the newspaper. Actually, other than the slanted stories about Czechoslovakia and its Sudetenland, the rally was the story that had dominated the headlines. He handed the letter back. “I take it you don’t want him to go?”
She stared at the letter as if it were doused with poison. “Of course not. Don’t you realize what goes on there?”
“Propaganda? Brainwashing of impressionable adolescents? Drinking? Smoking? Cursing?”
“Well, at least you’re wise to the ways of the world.” Frau Heinz massaged her temples and rested her head in her hands. “That maniac, our so-called blessed Führer, is promoting, and even rewarding, all young Aryan women who produce pure-blooded babies. He thinks we’ll someday run out of bodies, which can only indicate he means to go to war.”
“I agree.” Neil thought back to his own research on the man. His mind changed gears. “Are you worried about Gabi becoming…you know?”
She lifted her head, frowning. “No. Not Gabi. Not at all. Gabi can take care of herself. It’s Peter I’m worried about. That brigade commander of his is a twenty-year old snot from Hausham. His daddy is probably the richest man in the entire district.” Frau Heinz grabbed Neil’s sleeve. “There’s talk that the party is bringing in tens of thousands of young women. That these boys are going to be used to try and impregnate every single one of them like...like…” She couldn’t find the words to finish.
Neil arched his eyebrows. A Roman orgy was most likely the phrase she was searching for, and perhaps even the Romans would have blanched at something as sordid as this—if it were indeed true. A giant, state-funded orgy to impregnate the adolescent masses and create more Lebensborn.
Final Mission: Zion - A World War 2 Thriller Page 31