This Fog of Peace (Moon Brothers WWII Adventure Series Book 4)

by William Peter Grasso

  After that doctor had pronounced her free of injury and infection, he’d cautioned, “It’s a little too soon to know if you’re pregnant, I’m afraid.”

  She’d laughed and said, “I guess you haven’t seen my medical report. If you had, you’d know I’m incapable of bearing children.”

  Thoughtlessly, he’d replied, “Well, I suppose that’s convenient in your line of work.”

  But that sleep she craved was proving elusive, because the phone could ring any second. As soon as she’d returned to her quarters, she placed a call to 301st Fighter Squadron Operations—only to find the squadron had moved. But the operator promised he’d try to get her message to the 301st—and Captain Moon—in Bremen. “I’ll do all I can to get through to him, ma’am,” the operator assured her.

  That phone finally rang just past 1600 hours.

  Tommy’s voice was on the line. “I hear you’re looking for me, Syl. Where are you?”

  “In my quarters. Are you in Bremen?”

  “No, I’m here in Frankfurt. At Eschborn. I’m picking up a new airplane. Did you have supper yet?”

  Tommy dropped his fork when she told him. Unable to hide the distress in his voice, he blurted, “You did what, Syl?”

  The heads of nearby diners in the Officers’ Club swiveled their way.

  “Keep your voice down, Tommy!”

  “Okay,” he whispered, “you did what?”

  “You heard me. I kidnapped a Soviet political officer from Berlin. He’s in custody here in Frankfurt right now.”

  There was a look of genuine panic on his face as he asked, “How on earth did you do that, Syl?”

  In great detail, she told him. The only part she omitted was the encounter with Petrenko.

  I can never tell him that. Ever.

  He’d never understand.

  If he asks, I’ll lie...

  Because it won’t matter.

  It already means nothing.

  She asked what it was he’d been doing. He replied, “Nothing compared to what you’ve been up to, that’s for damn sure.”

  “Why do you need a new airplane?”

  He told her about the E-boat blowing up in his face.

  “You were lucky you made it back. How many airplanes does that make, Tommy?”

  “Well, counting the Belle of Canarsie and four Eclipses, this new one will be number six.”

  “Are you going to call it Eclipse of the Hun V?”

  “Nah, that reference doesn’t apply anymore. Actually, I’m thinking of naming her Isabelle Sylvie.”

  She shook her head. “No, Tommy, that’s a silly name for an airplane. I believe you should call her Moon’s Menace instead. I’m sure the Russians will appreciate that.”

  He liked the sound of it. “I think I can get used to that, Syl. Maybe I can get the squadron artist to add a little cartoon, too…like a moon with a face, and that face has a mean expression while it crushes a red star. What do you think?”

  “Perfect,” she replied.

  As they lingered over coffee, he said, “You look so tired, Syl.”

  “It’s been a very difficult few weeks, Tommy.”

  They couldn’t spend the night together in either of their quarters. Both places came with roommates. But Tommy had a solution: “There’s a little hotel right off the base. It’s not exactly the Ritz or anything…but I’ve already paid for the room.”

  “A hotel will be fine, Tommy,” she replied, her voice resigned and weary. “Just so I don’t have to clean any rooms. I’ve had quite enough of that.”

  The hotel room was little more than an oversized closet. The bed was scarcely big enough for one, let alone two.

  She fell onto it with all her clothes still on. Even her shoes.

  “Just hold me,” she whispered.

  He did what she asked. Within moments, she’d fallen asleep.

  At first, George Patton had told his aide to get rid of that reporter. Still smarting from Eisenhower’s latest rebuke, he didn’t wish to field any questions from some pesky scribe who was just fishing for a sensational scoop.

  But then he got an idea.

  Why don’t I use this son of a bitch to my advantage? Maybe some good propaganda is all I need to get back into the good graces of Ike, Washington, and the American public, too…

  Because I’m getting too old to stay in this Army much longer. And in the next election, the folks back home just might develop a taste for a straight-talking leader who kicked Uncle Joe Stalin in the teeth and made the United States the nation that rules the entire goddamn world.

  He called his aide back into the office and said, “Stanley, tell that reporter fellow…what’s his name, again?”

  “Pearson, sir. Jim Pearson, with Mutual News.”

  “Very fine. Tell this Pearson fellow to come back tomorrow morning. Have him make sure his pencils are good and sharp, too. He’s going to get the story of his young life.”

  To Jim Pearson’s great surprise, he found himself sitting at George Patton’s breakfast table that next morning. Aside from the orderlies who briefly appeared to serve the meal or bus the table, he was alone with the general. He’d expected Patton to be gruff, profane, and bombastic. To the contrary; he seemed mellow, thoughtful, and well spoken. Even the word statesmanlike crossed his mind, a term rarely synonymous with the name Patton.

  Pearson asked his first question. “General, it’s been reported that in the aftermath of a high-ranking Soviet officer’s defection, Allied commanders have beefed up their personal security to prevent the Soviets from capturing one of you for your exchange value. Care to comment on that?”

  “I can’t answer for the other commanders,” Patton replied, “but as far as the security at my command goes, I have no concerns. The same precautions I’ve always taken will remain in effect, with no changes necessary. Of course, though, you do understand when I tell you not to print any of that, right?”

  “Of course, General,” Pearson replied.

  “Outstanding. What’s your next question?”

  “It’s widely rumored that General Eisenhower has countermanded an order by you to rearm the German troops you have in custody. Was it your intention to use the Germans as combat troops alongside your American units?”

  “I find your use of the word combat a bit out of place, Mister Pearson. In case you haven’t noticed, we’re not at war at the moment.”

  “But General,” Pearson said, “haven’t you gone on the record before as saying we should go to war against the Russians?”

  “I said we should remain vigilant,” Patton replied. “Not trusting the Russians as far as you can throw them is quite a bit different than provoking a war with them.”

  “So then why would you want to rearm the defeated German soldiers?”

  “The Germans are extraordinary warriors who would make wonderful allies. But the Russians…well, they still claim to have quite a bone to pick with them, although I can’t say I blame the Germans for treating those Russian savages so harshly when they had the chance. If only they’d had adequate winter provisions, they would have crushed the Russians back in Forty-Three. My intention in rearming the Germans was so they could provide for their own protection, sparing me the significant amount of manpower I have to expend to do it for them.”

  “So you had no intention of using them as assault troops against the Russians?”

  “I have no intention of assaulting anyone unless ordered to, Mister Pearson. So my answer must be no.”

  “May I print that, General?”

  “Yes, you may.”

  Checking his notes, Pearson asked a follow-up question: “General, you just stated that the Germans are—and I quote—extraordinary warriors who would make wonderful allies. How does that square with the fact that many of them were, in fact, murderous Nazis bent on world domination and extermination of peoples they considered undesirable? Do you believe the American people would ever be comfortable with former Nazis as allies?”

 
; Patton took a moment to compose his answer. Then a knowing smile came over his face as he replied, “Of course they would, Mister Pearson. Americans are a realistic and forgiving people.”

  “You sound like you’re running for office, General.”

  “Running an army is not much different than politics, Mister Pearson. But first things first. Getting back to your question about the American public, they understand, as I do, that being a member of the Nazi Party in Germany was no different than Americans being Republicans or Democrats. Who you align with is just a question of who speaks best to your fears.”

  Astonished, Pearson said, “You’re equating the politics of the Nazi Party with the politics of Republicans and Democrats?”

  “You heard me correctly, Mister Pearson.”

  “May I print that?”

  “You may, Mister Pearson.”

  Tommy was gone from the hotel before dawn, needing to take off for Bremen as soon as the sun rose. Sylvie allowed herself the luxury of sleeping in—to 0700! A treat!—before reporting to the mission debrief later that morning at USFET.

  Walking to the IG Farben Building, she felt nothing but relief. She’d survived; the mission had succeeded. Tommy was alive and well. That covered everything that mattered in her world.

  The debrief was less than uplifting. The OSS—like all American institutions, she thought—was incredibly short-sighted. Now that they had Yanov, they had no idea what to do next. The fact that he wasn’t terrified to be in custody and didn’t immediately divulge every secret of the Soviet Union had left the American spymasters dumbfounded.

  Yanov, in fact, had said absolutely nothing except a conviction repeated at every interrogation session of how the Soviet Union would, very shortly, secure his release. Sylvie wouldn’t be surprised in the least if that happened:

  The Americans are terrible chess players. They can’t seem to think more than one move ahead. If only they’d treat Yanov like a guest rather than a prisoner, they’d crack him open like a coconut in no time.

  Her suggestion to do just that had been abruptly rejected. He’s very susceptible to a woman’s wiles, she’d argued. Just find another female operative to cozy up to him—one he hadn’t already seen in Berlin—and he’d be singing like a bird.

  But her OSS bosses wouldn’t hear of it. Her mission was over, she was told; Yanov was in the hands of the intelligence professionals now. They’d take it from here.

  Maybe if they weren’t so busy jockeying for positions in this new CIA we’re all about to become a part of, they’d pay more attention to the task at hand, she thought.

  Major Donleavy and his board members had little interest in the details of the kidnapping. They went collectively glassy-eyed when she discussed submitting to the sexual assault.

  “You’re sure that was a necessary thing to do?” she was asked.

  “Quite sure,” she replied. “Positive, in fact.”

  Only one man on the panel, who sounded every bit the lawyer he’d been in civilian life, attempted to examine the issue further. He asked the panel, “What is the agency’s liability should Mademoiselle Bergerac become pregnant as a result of this encounter? The potential medical issues and expenses alone are—”

  Donleavy shot the man a look meant to silence. Then he replied, “First off, gentlemen, it’s Madame Bergerac. Second, we’ve got that issue well covered. In fact, in this case, it’s not an issue at all. Am I right, Madame?”

  “Yes, Major. Quite right.”

  Donleavy and company seemed far more interested in Mirka’s impromptu mission to eliminate the traitor Kimball. Surprisingly, they were willing to entertain the possibility the man was not even dead. They didn’t consider the blood-spattered wallet and identification papers she’d presented as air-tight proof.

  “I would’ve taken a photograph of his bloody corpse,” Mirka explained, “but having to carry a camera large enough to capture all the details was an unnecessary encumbrance and would have raised suspicions. Any photos I might have taken wouldn’t prove he was actually dead any more than his papers already do. But mark my words: I wanted him dead far more than any of you gentlemen. I wouldn’t have left him alive.”

  When neither Donleavy nor any of the board members had a reply, Mirka added, “And in all honesty, gentlemen, considering the rushed, haphazard, and clumsy nature of the assignment you gave me—”

  “That couldn’t be helped, Miss Dubinski,” Donleavy replied. “The information of Kimball’s possible whereabouts popped up after you were already in Berlin. You are one of the few operatives who could even recognize him. It only made sense to divert you, especially since you vouched for Madame Bergerac having the Yanov affair well under control.”

  “But I still had to abandon Sylvie and leave her in the dark, Major. She had good reasons to be suspicious of me. That’s just not the way to do business. People die over cockups like that.”

  Donleavy only had to take one glance at Sylvie to know that she agreed completely.

  “All right, point taken,” Donleavy said. “There’s one more thing we need to discuss. Madame Bergerac, the French government—your government—is making noise that they intend to take credit publicly for the so-called defection of Colonel Yanov, since it was you, a French national, who made it all possible. You understand we cannot let this happen in any way, shape, or form, don’t you?”

  Sylvie smiled. “Of course I understand, Major. By all means, tell them to go fuck themselves.”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  The weather briefing officer seemed to be putting a rosy glow on an uncertain forecast. Tommy and the pilots of the 301st Fighter Squadron had seen the weather rapidly deteriorate along the Baltic coast before. Only then, no one was ordering them to go fly in it.

  Tommy asked, “This cold front…it looks like it’s going to push right into our area of operations.”

  “We believe the main effect of the front will stay well to the north,” the briefer replied.

  “Yeah? Based on what, Lieutenant? We didn’t just start flying around here yesterday, you know. Weather patterns have never moved the way you’re describing. It’s going to sock in right across Schleswig-Holstein and probably all the way down to Bremen. We’ll end up having to abort—maybe land in Denmark or Sweden—because we’re never going to find our way home in that soup.”

  “As I’ve already said, Captain Moon, we believe the low ceilings, reduced visibility, and precipitation will remain far to the north. Besides, we’re all aware that lower minimums remain in effect for all Kiel Canal protection missions.”

  Before Tommy could repeat his displeasure, he caught the look Colonel Pruitt was giving him. He knew what it meant: All right, Half. You made your point. Now knock it the hell off.

  “We’re going to need drop tanks, sir,” Tommy said to Pruitt, “and a nav ship, too…especially if we’re looking at the possibility of diverting.”

  “It’s a no-go on the nav ship,” Pruitt replied. “There are none available right now. No pilots, I’m told. But you’re right about the drop tanks. We’ll delay the take-off time by forty-five minutes to get them fitted and filled. The Royal Navy will have to manage without air cover for a little while.”

  I’m sure they’ll manage just fine, Tommy thought. Nothing’s happened in the Baltic since those E-boats tried to run the blockade. It looks like the Russians would have to field an armada to break through, and from what I’ve heard, they don’t have one. The Brits have them outgunned every which way.

  But like anything on the water, the Royal Navy’s still vulnerable to aircraft. That’s why we’re still flying cover for them. On a day like this, though, when the clouds are going to be low and thick, we won’t even be able to see them…

  And neither will any Russian aircraft that might be poking around.

  So why the hell are we even going up?

  An hour later, the squadron was airborne, fourteen aircraft in four flights heading northeast, staggered along a line over ten miles
long. By the time they’d flown fifty miles, the ground was fading from view, their vital navigation waypoints barely discernible behind a veil of white. They knew it wouldn’t take long for that veil to become an opaque blanket, one they’d have to blindly climb through to get on top and regain visual contact with each other.

  The weather’s going to stay north, my ass, Tommy fumed. If I see even a hint of a thunderstorm building, we’re aborting this stupid mission. That’s all we need: get killed by the weather.

  Below Moon’s Menace, Tommy could just make out the Baltic coast as the clouds thickened around him. “Spread it wide, guys,” he told his flight. “We’re going to lose each other for a minute or two.”

  Then it closed around them as if each ship was in its own box of cotton. It would take steady hands and an unshakable belief in their instruments to get them into the clear above the cloud deck. As long as they kept climbing at a steady rate while maintaining speed and heading, they’d come out of it without colliding with each other.

  Why does it always seem like it’s taking much longer than you figured to get out of the blind?

  But Tommy could soon tell that salvation was nearly at hand; the murkiness above was getting brighter.

  Within seconds, his ship was in the clear at 7,000 feet, skimming across the fluffy tops of white clouds brilliantly illuminated by the sun. The clear sky above was a radiant blue. Somewhere below were ships of the Royal Navy…

  But I’ll bet dollars to donuts we never get to see them.

  Tommy checked behind his ship; no one else was visible at first, and then Parrish popped out wide to his left. Jansen should be doing the same on the right at any moment.

  He was about to call Jansen and make a bad joke, asking if he’d run into Russians in the clouds. But something ahead grabbed his attention. Another aircraft—a P-47 just like theirs—had just popped out of the cloud deck about half a mile ahead and on the same heading.