by M L Maki
“That would be a vast enterprise to manage.”
“It would, but it would also have a high probability of success.”
“I’ll have my staff look at your ideas. Is there any other advice you have?”
“I know that even now, you’re contemplating the presidency. You’re not the only officer who is.”
“Nimitz?”
“No, sir. He retires to a quiet and private life in Texas. MacArthur has ambitions. None of the naval leaders enter politics, as I recall. Some may serve a stint in congress, but that’s about it.”
“I heard that I win the presidency.”
Spike smiles, “You did. You were after Truman, who replaced Roosevelt when he died. But I’ve no idea what will happen this go-around. Roosevelt did a good job as president and continuity is critical right now, but normally four terms are too long. A whole generation grows up with one guy in charge. It gives too much power to the presidency. In the fifties, they passed an amendment limiting presidents to two terms.”
“Do you have political ambitions?”
“Right now, sir, I have survival ambitions. I’m not thinking about my future in a post war world.”
“I understand Hitler is acting very differently than he did in your history.”
She smiles, “Yes. The problem with the little corporal is that he shot himself in the foot before. Now, he’s still shooting himself in the foot, but with different ammunition.”
Eisenhower laughs, “If you were in his shoes, what would you do?”
Spike is silent, thinking, “I would sue for peace and gather all I could in resources as I pulled back. I would try to incorporate as much of the gains I’d made as I could, particularly in Poland and the Balkans. Then, I would build up my people and industry and try to dominate the world peacefully through commerce. There is no way whatsoever that Germany can win now that America is in the war.”
“Even if England falls?”
“Yes, sir. The fall of England would be a disaster, but we would still win. They do not have the resources to defend all they control. In another six months to a year, the US Navy will be larger than the rest of the world’s navies combined. The Atlantic will be an American pond. The German subs are a problem, but we have subs, too, and better technology than they do. That wasn’t true in my WWII, not yet anyway.”
“You’re overconfident in the political will of America. If we stood alone, I think we would be far too tempted to cut our losses and settle for the new way of things.”
“Sir, yours is called the greatest generation. They will fight. They must fight. All our futures depend on it. When we win, we will shape a world of peace and prosperity. If we lose, the future will be shaped by Kryukov, Tojo, and Hitler. Millions will die for the egos of evil men.”
HIGH STREET, LLANDOVERY, WALES
2226, 4 October, 1942
Four German trucks stop in the center of town. Sergeant Bergen steps out of his truck and looks around. He followed the major’s instructions, but now must admit he’s lost. His men clamber out of the trucks and several go into a pub. He follows them in, looking for someone to question.
OFFICER’S CLUB, RAF KENLEY
2226, 4 October, 1942
This is the first time Sam has been to the club. It’s built in an unused WWI ammunition bunker. From the outside it looks like a hill. She and Gloria walk in through a zig-zag concrete passage and Gloria opens a large iron door. “Welcome to the Bunker.” The first thing she sees is the left vertical stabilizer of a German MiG-29. The iron cross is large on it, but there are also fifty-two vertical bars. Above each bar is a roundel, five American, thirty-two British, and fifteen Soviet red stars.
Spike asks, “Who belongs to this?”
Swede hands her a beer, “The plane belonged to a fella named Colonel Getz. They found it on the beach near South Shield. The investigators had to scramble, but they got this.”
She looks around. There are pictures on the wall of all those in the squadron they have lost, each with a piece of their aircraft, if recoverable. Under Papa’s picture is the section of his fuselage with his kill flags. Above their heads is the wing of a F-14 that has many holes in it. Swede sees her realization, “Yeah, it’s your old wing.”
“Wow, the Italian lace wing,” and takes a sip of her beer. The bar is classic British pub oak with mirrors and lots of booze oriented on the back wall. Behind the bar are the bathrooms. Most of the airmen are in quiet conversation. Her gaze is drawn to Major Boyington who’s drinking alone, his elbows and arms on the table, surrounding his drink.
Gloria shakes her head, “Hey, guys, do you really think ‘Deuce’ Everling would want this place to be a morgue?”
Every eye turns to her and Pappy says, “What do you know of it?”
Sam steps between them, “Enough.”
Boyington abruptly stands, his chair toppling over, “What do you know of it, Commodore? Do you even feel pain? Do you know hurt, Ice Queen?”
Sam says, “Major, go sleep it off. We still have work to do.”
Boyington swings a haymaker at her jaw. She easily sidesteps the punch. He swings two more times without connecting and then bull rushes her. Sam grabs his wrist, stepping aside and swings his hand down. Boyington flips forward, landing hard on his back.
Sam, “Enough!” But, Boyington is now enraged, and puts his head down, rushing her again. Once again, he finds himself on his back. He staggers back to his feet, this time moving in slowly, trying to pin her against the bar. She reaches for his hand, locks his wrist, and spinning, plants his chest against the bar. She starts to speak, but Swede waves a hand, and throws a pitcher of water in the major’s face.
After a moment, Swede lowers his face right to Greg’s, “Are you done yet? She could kick my ass with one hand, Major. You don’t stand a chance. Now go to bed.”
Pappy mumbles, “Why?”
“Do you think you’re the only one hurting, dumb ass? Go to bed. That’s an order.”
“If I don’t?”
“I’ll knock you the fuck out, and carry you to bed. And Major, you’ll never fly again.”
Pappy deflates, “Yes, sir.”
THE KING’S HEAD INN, LLANDOVERY, WALES
2240, October, 1942
Sixteen men of the underground wait as their commander discusses what to do about the Germans in town. Lisa Anderson walks in with the lookout, who says, “She’s cleared.”
Captain Daniel Evans asks, “Who are you?”
She hands him ID, “I’m military intelligence.”
One of the guys laughs, “Isn’t military intelligence a contradiction in terms?” Several of the men guffaw. She turns, stone-faced, and looks at him. The mouthy guy says, “I’m sorry, ma’am.”
“Yes,” and turns to Captain Evans, “What are you planning?”
“We passed more beer in the back. We’re letting them get drunk first. We’re sorting out how to handle the sentries.”
“I’ve an idea for that.”
WAR OFFICE, WASHINGTON, DC
1800, 4 October, 1942 (2300 GMT)
LT General Ridgeway walks into General Marshal’s office. Marshal looks up, “Good morning, General, how may I help you?”
“Sir, these orders from the Navy? Does Commodore Hunt know ‘airborne’ is an infantry designation and not aviation?”
“I just left a meeting with King and Lee about this. It seems your unit survives the cutbacks after the war and becomes quite famous. I’m told Commodore Hunt knows exactly what your unit is and exactly how to use it. Your orders are to report to RAF Kenley with everything you need to do a division strength drop.”
“Where, sir?”
“I don’t know. They’re rightly keeping that close. Assume it will be in the British Isles somewhere. Also assume this mission is critical to the overall defense of England. If she wanted security guards, she would have asked for them.”
“Yes, sir. What is she like, sir?”
“Never met her, but I kn
ow she has nearly one hundred kills. Lee thinks the world of her. She’s a southerner for what that is worth.”
“Why would a woman do what she does?”
“Why do you, General?”
“It’s my duty, sir. Also, I really enjoy it, building a group of men into a fighting force.”
“I would assume her motivations are much the same. After all, women belong to the same species as men.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Should you get any insight on her, please share it with me. Her success is reshaping warfare.”
“Yes, sir.”
RED DRAGON PUB, LLANDOVERY, WALES
2313, 4 October, 1 942
The beer has flowed freely, and Private Munster stands on watch, missing out. A pretty red-haired woman walks up to him with two mugs of beer. He smiles and sets his rifle down, taking the proffered mug. She salutes him with her mug and a flirtatious smile. Then he feels a gun barrel pressing against his back. Lisa Anderson, in perfect German, “Finish your beer. It will be your last for some time.”
All thirty-six Germans are rolled up and taken to a POW camp without incident.
FIELD MARSHAL KRYUKOV’S OFFICE, KREMLIN, RUSSIA
0600, 5 October, 1942 (0300 GMT)
General Davydov, his intelligence officer, is escorted in by an aid bearing a tea tray. When the aid leaves Davydov opens his briefcase and removes some blood-stained papers. “These, Field Marshal, were found between our lines and that of the Germans. A soldier left his compound to shit and stumbled on a German junior officer and took him under fire. The latch of a case must have opened. And, what he was doing so close to our lines, I don’t understand. Regardless, these were recovered. I recommend the soldier for the star.”
Kryukov studies translations of the papers. They are mission orders to front line troops for recommencing hostilities. Each is prefaced with the information that England is teetering and will soon fall, freeing the Luftwaffe for the eastern front. “These are authentic?”
“I saw the scene myself. Blood everywhere.”
“But, no body.”
“No body, Field Marshal. There was a trail of blood drops leaving the scene toward the German lines. The boot prints were German and of high quality. A lost junior officer, I think.”
“The American jets and training are up to specifications. We have three more squadrons being trained as we speak. It isn’t my wish to strike now, but this leaves me little choice.” He pushes a button on his desk, “Irina, please gather the general staff.” He looks to Davydov, “Thank you, General. I will see you in the meeting in a few minutes. There you can share this with the staff.”
BLACK KNIGHT READY ROOM, RAF KENLEY, UK
0600, 5 October, 1942
Major Boyington walks in with Ensign Alcott. Major Mossberg stands and walks straight up to Boyington, “A word, Major.” Mossberg leads him outside.
“What do you want, Major? I’ve no issue with blacks.”
When they’re out of site and alone, Mossberg grabs Boyington by both lapels and lifts him off the ground, gives him a shake, and pushes him away. “Fucking listen to me. You’re a good pilot, but you have a chip on your shoulder that you had best resolve right fucking now.”
“What?”
“If you ever lay so much as a finger on her again, I will personally kill you and dump your body in a hole.”
“She kicked my ass.”
“She shouldn’t have had to. I had a talk with your ground crew. They were grumbling about fucking with your plane. We fucking love her.”
“I’m sorry. It was the drink.”
“Then you best not touch another drop. I know who you are. I know you better than you know you. Change your ways, or I will end you. Do we have an understanding?”
“Yes, sir.”
CHAPTER 25
WOLF’S LAIR, AUSTRIA
0707, 5 October, 1942 (0607 GMT)
Hitler pounds the table, “Why has London not fallen? Why?”
His generals and admirals sit silently around the table, then Field Marshal Keitel says, “We have central England, Mein Fuhrer. Rommel races to London now. Our fighters fly from English soil. The issue now, as ever, is air superiority.”
Hitler, calming, “Yes. Goering, how many American planes have we bought with our scores of fighters lost?”
“Six, Mein Fuhrer.”
“And how many did they have at the onset?”
“Four, Mein Fuhrer.”
“How many do they now have?”
“We estimate twelve, Mein Fuhrer.”
“So, General Weber has lost and that bitch has won?”
“Mein Fuhrer, General Weber has used superb tactics to suppress and destroy the enemy. We set his primary mission as support of our armor. He does this. Many of their tank destroying aircraft have been lost. And more each day. When London falls, they are lost.”
“I want that bitch. I want her dead or captured. They rally to her. She is the symbol of their resistance. Destroy her and they will fail. Make that clear to Weber.”
“I have, Mein Fuhrer. He has a bold strategy to make it so.”
“And just what is this strategy?”
“We firestorm London with our V-1s, combined with a concentrated air attack at night. The airfield will burn. With no airfield, there are no Americans.”
“Why not attack the field directly?”
“Our V-1s are not so accurate. Fire will destroy everything.”
“Very well, everything south of the Thames. Save Buckingham Palace for my summer home.”
COMMODORE’S OFFICE, RAF KENLEY
0630, 5 October, 1942
Spike finishes her enormous breakfast, sets the tray aside, and starts reviewing reports. An aid comes in and removes the tray. Cooper knocks and pops his head in, “Lieutenant Cochran to see you.”
“Send her in.”
Cooper, “Tea?”
“No, after. Thanks, Radar.”
LT Jackie Cochran walks in and comes to attention. Spike, “Yes?”
“I would like to discuss the loss of my plane, ma’am. You haven’t spoken to me at all. May I ask why?”
“Lieutenant, you work for Commander Swedenborg. It’s not my habit to step on my unit commanders.”
“I’m sorry about the aircraft.”
Spike’s voice is calm and flat, “You’re sorry? Have you apologized to your RIO for nearly killing him yesterday? Did you apologize to Lieutenant Hoolihan for disobeying her order? Lieutenant, your ego is writing checks your ass can’t cash. If you pull another stunt like that. If you disobey your flight lead. If you exercise poor judgement again, you will go back to ferrying aircraft and never see combat again. I don’t give a shit about your legacy or your legend. Were it not for dumb luck, I would be writing your parents right now. Dismissed.”
Cochran starts to speak, shuts her mouth, performs a crisp about face and walks out.
Cooper comes in with tea and pours for both of them. “Boss, I’ve never heard you cuss someone out before. Remind me to stay on your good side.”
“Cooper, you haven’t killed anyone, have you?”
“Not that I know of. Why? She’s an icon. Is she going to make it in this war?”
“The problem is that she knows she’s an icon, and I’m stealing the fame she wants for herself. She’s a talented flyer. If she can just get her head straight, she’ll do fine.”
“If she can’t?”
“She’ll go back to ferrying planes. Radar, I don’t bluff.”
“Roger, that.”
THAMES RIVER NEAR RATCLIFF
0652, 5 October, 1942
USS Mississippi BB-41 leads the USS New York and USS Texas into the Royal Docks. Small boats await to tie them to the quays. The buildings and infrastructure around the docks have all been destroyed. The caissons holding out the tide have only recently been repaired. The pilot says, “This dock will keep you afloat at low tide. Otherwise, your keel would be in the mud.”
Captain
David Smith, “So, this is as far up the river as we can go?”
“Afraid so, sir. On a good tide, I could get you to Tower Bridge, but when it turned, you’d be in the mud.”
The heaving lines are thrown out and the boatswain announces, “Moored, shift colors.”
Captain Smith sighs, “Thank you, sir.” They shake hands and the pilot departs.
A messenger enters the bridge, “A message from Commodore Hunt, sir. She’s sending a helicopter for you and the other captains and the commodore.”
Smith says to the OOD, “Have the XO meet me on the fan tail.”
“Yes, sir.”
Smith goes to his stateroom, packs an overnight bag, and walks to the fantail. He arrives just as a helicopter arrives. His XO salutes. “Commander, keep the boys at gunnery stations and keep everyone aboard. You can secure half the boilers in each plant. We won’t be maneuvering.”
“Yes, sir.”
Commodore James joins him and the two men get on the helicopter. The chopper rotates, lands on the other two ships in turn, picking up their captains, then climbs for altitude for the short flight to Kenley. The four men look out the window. James says, “Wow. I can see battle damage, but London isn’t as bad as I thought it would be.”
A few minutes later, they touch down at Kenley. Spike is waiting for them in her flight suit. They climb out and salute. She returns the salute, “If you would join me in my car.”
The five get into her armored car and James asks, “An armored car, ma’am?”
“We had a sniper incident the other day, and now my guys insist.”
Smith asks, “How long is this drive?”
“About ten minutes, why?”
“I would like to know, you being an aviator, if you understand the precarious position you have placed our ships in?”
She schools her face, “Go on.”
Smith looks nervously at Commodore James, “Our ships are effectively trapped in a wash basin. We cannot maneuver if attacked.”