1945

by Newt Gingrich

  As he spoke, Wayne moved behind the two and went up to the hangar door. The overhead casters of the door squealed loudly.

  Bachman pulled away from Jim and turned around.

  "Hey, what are you doing there?"

  Wayne stood marveling before the now-open hangar door. "Damn, you know? I learned to fly in one of those babies!" Wayne announced excitedly as he stepped into the hangar's gloom.

  "Get outta there!"

  Oblivious, Wayne kept walking. Bachman followed distractedly.

  "Yeah, back before the war. Piper Cub, what a plane."

  "I said get out of there!"

  Jim watched Bachman closely. There was a nervous tension that was almost palpable. At the other fields they had visited, the owners, ever on the lookout for a quick job, had been eagerly forthcoming, and more than ready to trade war stories with Wayne.

  Bachman pushed his way in front of Wayne.

  "Leave the hangar."

  "Ah, come on. I haven't flown since I got shot up over Bougainville. Say, where were you in the war?"

  "Right here."

  "How come? The army was desperate for pilots."

  "I flunked my physical. Now get out of here."

  "Say, you hiding some sort of military secret?" Wayne asked, as if cracking a joke. Moving past Bachman, he quickly walked down the line of Cubs, looking each of them over.

  "I'm not hiding anything," Bachman shouted after him excitedly.

  "So what's your beef? Come on, I'd like to rent one of these Cubs and take a spin. I haven't flown since the Japs shot me up. I'd love to get back up again, even if I have to have someone flying behind me."

  "I don't have the time."

  "What about arranging for that photo flight we need?' Jim interjected quickly, forcing Bachman to turn back around.

  Bachman nervously rubbed his hands on the sides of his pants.

  "I'm booked up. Dusting." "This time of year?" Jim asked with mock incredulity, still smiling.

  "Yeah. Orchards."

  "What are you using?"

  "DDT." Bachman looked back at Wayne, who was walking around one of the Cubs and leaning over to peer into the cockpit.

  "That's why I don't want you guys in here," Bachman announced. "Some people get sick from that stuff if they breathe too much."

  "No sweat, buddy. I got hosed down with it all the time out in the Pacific. Ain't nothing dangerous about a whiff of that juice." Wayne pulled the door of the Cub open and looked inside. "Say, what's this rig up here in the cockpit? Damn ... nice radio gear you got in here."

  Bachman quickly moved over and slammed the plane door so vigorously that Wayne had to lean back to avoid being hit.

  "Got it surplus. Now leave the hangar! I don't have time for you two. If you need a photo flight try Benson's down at the Knoxville Airport. He does that sort of thing."

  Bachman walked over to the hangar door and, turning, looked back at the two coldly.

  "Okay, buddy," Wayne said. "You're losing some good business with us. Too bad for you."

  The two walked back out into the sunlight and started toward their car. Bachman remained by the hangar door. Jim suddenly turned.

  "Hey, just one question."

  "Yeah, what?"

  "Just what is it that they're doing over there at Oak Ridge?"

  "What do you mean?" Bachman said, his voice barely a whisper.

  "You know, that government project over there. Nobody wants to tell us."

  "I don't know."

  "I understand it's pretty big." "I guess so."

  "Well, you must fly near it a lot, so what's it look like?"

  Bachman hesitated.

  "It's restricted airspace."

  "Yeah, that's what the guy at the airport we were at this morning told us," Wayne interjected.

  "You've been to another airport?" Bachman whispered.

  "Sure, just comparing prices," Jim replied. "Anyhow, I heard they were fooling around with atoms and stuff."

  Bachman looked at him, wide eyed.

  Wayne turned and slowly walked back toward Bachman. "Anything you want to tell us, buddy?" he asked softly.

  Bachman looked back and forth at the two.

  "I know nothing. Nothing!"

  "Relax, buddy," Wayne said softly. "We aren't giving you the third degree. I guess this is all secret type of stuff. If you knew anything the FBI would be down your throat, is that it?"

  "I know nothing."

  "'Course not." Wayne grinned a conspiratorial grin. "I heard they lock people up around here if they find out anything about what's going on over there, even if they don't do it on purpose. I also heard they can get pretty rough on people they suspect of being a little too curious. You know what I mean?"

  Bachman said nothing as he again wiped his hands on his trousers.

  "Yeah, like the cops who pulled us over. They were looking for those cop killers," Wayne continued. "Said if they ever get the bastards who did it, they'll shoot them first and worry about the trial later. Hah! You shoulda heard where they're gonna shoot 'em. Buncha comedians, these Southern cops."

  "Get out of here," Bachman shouted. "You're wasting my time."

  "Sure thing," Wayne replied. "Didn't mean to get you riled." He stepped back and looked around.

  "Yeah, you sure do look busy."

  Wayne slowly walked back toward Jim.

  "Come on. I guess the man doesn't want our business." They walked back to the car. When they had crossed the bridge and started down the dirt road, Wayne finally broke the pregnant silence.

  "They're here."

  "Yep. Sure as shit."

  Jim pulled out onto the gravel road and drove for a while, then pulled the car over and turned the engine off. "What'd you see in the hangar?"

  "Like I said, nice radio. I got the frequency number it was set to: a military channel. And that guy was seriously ratded, scared to death. Skorzeny's there and little fat boy's petrified. He was most likely running a nice cushy operation more for the money than anything else. Do an occasional fly-by, get a few photos, and send them out. No one suspects, no risk, and plenty of pay getting socked away, and then old Otto shows up and starts kicking up dust. So in comes the FBI sniffing around, and now he's ready to crack."

  Jim nodded. At all the other fields they'd checked, a recent visit from the FBI had been a feature of the conversation, and most of them had already heard through the grapevine enough to know all about the illegal flight. The one common refrain was that nobody who could fly like that was idiot enough to get where that plane had been by accident.

  That certainly jibed with the earlier conversation they'd had with the P-51 pilots. They had been in no doubt whatsoever that the man they had been chasing was a professional. A student pilot would have killed himself trying a split-S with a pullout at fifty feet and then going into the fog. As for going under a country bridge with less than six feet of clearance, that was a barnstormers trick. "Frankly," one of them had said, "I was too filled with admiration to be properly humiliated."

  "Time to talk to Harriman," Jim finally said.

  "Then what?"

  "Have the FBI come down and rip this place apart."

  "And suppose they won't?"

  Martel knew that wasn't as ridiculous as it sounded. Damn the not-invented-here syndrome, anyway! Jim pointed south toward a ridge looking down on the runway. "I think, old friend, that up there would be a good spot for you to hang out and keep an eye on things."

  "Me? Why not you?"

  "Like you were moaning about before, you lived out in the boonies during the war; you're used to it. I, on the other hand, am of effete naval-pilot aristocratic lineage. Also, Major Mason, I am the boss on our little expedition," Jim added with just enough of a smile to show that he didn't want to have to really pull rank.

  By now they had crested the ridge. Jim pulled the car over as Mason cursed under his breath. While Jim pulled a backpack and portable radio out of the trunk, Mason reached under his seat, pulle
d out a forty-five semiautomatic and slipped it into his pocket.

  "If it rains I'll sort of have to shoot you when this is over, pal."

  The weather's beautiful. Find a good vantage point, set up and keep in touch. I'm Black Knight, you're White." Martel opened up the back door of the car and pulled back the blanket concealing the portable transceiver that they had wired into the car's antenna.

  "If anything jumps, holler. Otherwise check in every two hours during the night. I'll wait here till you get set up and we make sure the radios check out."

  "Great, just great. I'll freeze my tail off out here when I could have been back in a warm bed with Sarah."

  "You could not love her half so much," Jim quoted with what pretended to be a mock-serious look.

  "What if the FBI won't play?"

  "Then we'll get Donovan to loan us some people and do it ourselves. I'd love to be in on nailing Skorzeny. He's starting to get under my skin."

  Wayne lit a cigarette and slowly exhaled. "I'd wager that we're starting to get under his, too."

  Wayne was more right than he knew. Lurking in the stairway leading down to the secret basement, Skorzeny had recognized both of them while they were giving Bachman the pseudo-friendly third degree.

  April 20, Midnight Somewhere in Germany (April 19,6:00 P.M. in Oak Ridge)

  Shifting his shoulders under his backpack, Karl Radl walked slowly down the line of men, making one final check. Earlier he had watched the enlisted men carefully for signs of dismay as they were finally briefed as to where the target was, and the reason behind the strike. No need to have worried: the months of training, the months of speculation, were finally over for them, and they were eager to begin.

  The forty men of his platoon were bent forward under the weight of their gear—parachute and backup, first-aid kit, gas mask, machine pistol, two hundred rounds of ammunition, two hundred rounds for their squad's heavy MG-42 machine gun, six fragmentation and three thermite grenades, two signal flares, knife, pistol and twenty-four rounds, two mortar rounds or one antitank round, four kilograms of plastic explosive already prepacked into steel rods for insertion into the reactor, flashlight, target maps, compass, two canteens and three days of rations. In addition, some of the men were carrying radio equipment and backups. In some cases the gear very nearly outweighed the men carrying it.

  Underneath each of the stretched long-distance Me-264Es were three drop-containers that would be jettisoned at the same time the first man went out the door.

  The containers held additional ammunition, two hundred kilograms of plastic explosives, a mortar, three heavy machine guns, and a specially designed 47-mm antitank gun which could be assembled in under five minutes. It could be pulled by two men, or simply hooked onto the bumper of nearly any commandeered automobile.

  In the glare of the brightly lit airfield Radl saw a Kübelwagen coming down the taxiway. He turned to his men and barked, "Attention!"

  They did their best to comply.

  The Kübelwagen pulled up and Radl snapped off a salute as Herman Göring climbed out of the vehicle. Grinning broadly, the Reichsmarschal returned the salute with his baton, and then came up to slap Radl on the shoulder.

  "All set, are we?"

  "Yes, Herr Reichsmarschal."

  "Good, good. The Führer sends his personal greetings to all of you. His eyes and mine will be upon you and your men. The Reich is counting on you for its salvation. If you are victorious, our nation will survive. But if you fail, Radl, the Americans will rain down atomic destruction on our cities. Germany will be destroyed."

  "My men understand that, sir. We've trained more than half a year for this moment. We will not fail." Privately Radl thought that Otto had expressed the same thoughts much more effectively. The knowledge that both men were merely passing on the words of Adolf Hitler would have left him speechless.

  Göring grinned again, and again slapped Radl on the back. Turning, he went down the line of men, patting some on the shoulder, shaking hands, and wishing them well. Down at the end of the taxiway, the engines of the first of the 264s in line started to cough, a sound soon joined by the whine of its two jets. One after another, the others joined the chorus.

  After an inquiring glance at Göring, Radl nodded to the platoon commander at the head of the line. The man started up the steps into the aircraft, the rest of the section laboriously following. Ground crews waited at the door to help hoist the overloaded soldiers in. Once aboard the plane they would not leave it for the next twenty-eight hours.

  Göring stood by Radl's side as the line filed aboard. As they did so, Göring nodded to an aide, who came forward and handed Radl a sealed manila envelope.

  "The final briefings, weather reports, and intelligence from Skorzeny," Göring explained.

  Radl looked down at the envelope curiously. "Is everything all right?"

  "They had a bit of a scare from the FBI late yesterday but it doesn't look serious. Weather is projected to be good over the target tomorrow night."

  "And the rest of the plan?" Radl asked, unable to contain his curiosity.

  Göring smiled. "Let me worry about the big picture. Now get aboard, Radl, and good luck. There's a Knight's Cross waiting for you when you get back."

  Radl stepped back and snapped off the Nazi salute. Göring answered with his baton, then warmly shook his hand, and Radl turned and started for the plane. Reaching the ladder, he gladly accepted the help of two ground crew, one pulling him up, while the other pushed from behind. Going through the door, he took a deep breath. No more drills. This was finally it. The men inside the cavernous transport broke into cheers at the sight of him. He waved good-naturedly.

  Unclasping his parachute harness, he lowered it down on the floor and then sat down and unsnapped the quick-release for his combat pack. Sighing with relief, he stood back up, placed his Schmeisser into the gun rack lining the bulkhead, and then shoved his pack and parachute into their holding bin and strapped them in tight.

  Standing up, he went forward, checking to make sure his men were settled into their bucket seats up forward. The distribution of the men and gear was crucial since the transport was at maximum weight. In fact, the men would have to remain in their seats not just for take-off but for several hours while fuel burned off.

  After confirming that all was as it should be, Radl went through the forward door and climbed up into the cockpit, where the crew was intently running through final checkout. When he became aware of Radl's entrance the chief engineer looked back and smiled a welcome. "It's going to be one hell of a take-off, sir."

  Radl nodded mock-ruefully and climbed into a pop-down seat behind the copilot and strapped himself in. He plugged in a headset to listen to the control tower as it directed the fleet of transports. Five planes were already out of their stands taxiing down to the end of the runway. One after another, the remaining transports took position until finally their plane, with all six engines howling, pivoted out onto the taxiway and turned east.

  The engineer tapped Radl on the shoulder and pointed up.

  Discernable from their running lights, a stream of bombers was passing overhead at five thousand feet, going into a broad banking turn. The bombers had been taking off for the last half hour from airfields to the south. Soon they all would rendezvous and begin the main leg of their journey.

  The tower cleared the first transport down at the end of the runway. It turned out, lined up, and started lumbering slowly, painfully down the runway. Fifteen seconds later the next plane came into position and started forward; fifteen seconds later the third.... One after the other the line of transports moved slowly forward. The fourth, fifth and sixth planes toned out. They were next____

  Radl saw a brief glimpse of Göring, standing in his Kübelwagen, waving excitedly. The pilot snapped off a quick salute. The tower gave their plane final clearance. The pilot and copilot leaned into the throttles and the mixed howl and growl of the jet and prop engines became a unitary roar. They quickly scanned
their instruments one last time even as they swung out onto the runway. The plane started to labor forward. This was Radl's first take-off in a 264E under full combat load. The plane moved forward as if its wheels were mired in mud to the axles.

  Looking over the copilot's shoulder, he saw the airspeed indicator slowly click up to twenty and then thirty kilometers per hour. Far down at the end of the runway he saw planes lifting off. The needle on the airspeed indicator slowly continued its climb to sixty then seventy then eighty kilometers per hour. The plane ahead started to tilt back. Its wheels lifted off slightly, touched down, came back up. Airspeed was now over a hundred and twenty kilometers ... a hundred and forty. The end of the runway was less than two hundred meters away. Radl watched its approach, mesmerized.

  Then the view tilted back, and suddenly the bouncing stopped. They were airborne. The copilot quickly reached up to the toggle switches overhead to raise the landing gear. Airspeed went past one hundred and eighty kilometers and the pilot reached down to click the flaps in to ten degrees and then finally to neutral. The man looked back over his shoulder with a shaky smile; Radl suddenly realized that the take-off had been every bit as tricky and potentially catastrophic an operation as it had seemed to his amateur's eye.

  Well, in the event, they had all made it. The stream of transports ahead started to wheel into a wide and shallow turn, while those further back in the line banked in steeper to cut across and thus come up alongside to form up into two flights of five. Overhead, the bombers and gunships made one final orbit as well, waiting for the transports to climb into formation. Radl listened as the group leaders reported in. Only one bomber had aborted so far, because of an overheating engine, and all the transports and gunships were still in the formation.

  They were on their way. Strange that he didn't feel better about that. Of course much could yet go wrong. The weather could turn against them, forcing them to jump into the middle of a storm, too many planes could fall out for mechanical problems, or the Americans might figure out what was going on. But that wasn't it... nor was it the feeling of impending doom that bothered him. That feeling was an old friend by now, with him at the start of every mission. Perversely, he would be made fearful by its absence.