Code Name: Infamy (Aviator Book 4) Page 2

  “Are they not your ally?”

  “Capitalists and communists … the love affair will end with the shooting.”

  “What do you require of me?” Hans asked.

  “Be ready in two hours; we are going to Germany.”

  Apprehension returned to Hans Gerhardt’s eyes. Major Shanower had been a member of Operation Alssos which, in turn, was part of the greater Manhattan Project. Alssos had targeted the German nuclear effort, and Shanower had directed strikes against facilities and grabbed Gerhardt. But now the mission and enemy were changing.

  With Germany’s loss assured, Operation Paperclip had been initiated. Its charter was to get the German Scientists before the Soviets did. Spike had authored the plan after cutting a deal with Gerhardt. He had helped Spike target a heavy water facility, in exchange for the promise to get prominent scientists and their families out of Germany. Now it was time to go in and get them.

  CHAPTER 4

  18:12 Local, 6 May, 1945 (16:12 GMT, 6MAY)

  Heereswaffenamt Kernphysik Command Ohrdruf, Germany

  Dread crawled up the driver’s spine, and even in the cool evening air he dripped sweat. He was behind the wheel of one of two Opel Blitz S-type trucks forcing their way onto the crowded road outside the HWA Kernphysik. Like dying salmon struggling upstream, the trucks pushed against a steady stream of retreating, dispirited, Wehrmacht soldiers. A secret cargo had been loaded in each truck, two crates a piece. Even worse, each truck also held six SS Storm Troopers, and the driver wanted nothing more than to drop his load and flee south like the rest of the army. The whole country had fallen into chaos as the Third Reich disintegrated, and when the retreating soldiers recognized the uniform of the SS general sitting next to him, they averted their eyes. The driver wanted to avert his eyes, too. This Nazi unnerved him.

  Turning off the main road toward the airfield, the small convoy was finally able to shift out of first gear. Winding through the woods for a few kilometers, Generalleutnant Wolfgang Walpot von Bassenheim suddenly raised his hand.

  “Stop here.”

  “General, the airfield is still three kilometers away.” Wolf merely stared at the old sergeant who blanched under the cold blue eyes. When the truck came to a halt, Wolf pressed the nine-millimeter barrel of his Mauser P-08 Luger against the driver’s temple and pulled the trigger. He sat, calmly listening to the diesel engine idle, awaiting the report of a second shot. After hearing the muffled shot from the second truck Wolf leaned over the dead driver, unlatched the door, and pushed his body out of the cab. Sliding behind the steering wheel he rolled down the window to hide the carnage and shifted the transmission into gear. He eased out the clutch, and the truck bounced forward grinding the corpse under its rear tires.

  At the entrance to the airfield, a sentry who was holding back refugees stopped the trucks. Seeing the SS uniform, the people trying to flee backed away from the gate.

  “No one is to enter, General. The airfield is secured.”

  “Not to me, Corporal.” Wolf produced a stamped order from the General Staff, careful not to touch it to the blood on the inside of the door.

  “Jawohl Herr General, but there is only one plane …”

  “And it is mine, Corporal. Sir Field Marshall Weiskiettle has commandeered it.”

  “I see, and where is the Field Marshal?”

  “In the senior officer’s lounge, with his family, General.”

  “Very well, Corporal. Open the gate.”

  “Jawohl.” Quickly the corporal signaled his men; he had no intention of dealing with this SS general any longer than he had to. After waving the gate open he turned his MP-40 submachine gun toward the pressing crowd and fired a warning burst over their heads. Slowly they backed away.

  While Wolf screwed a silencer into the barrel of his Luger, his second in command walked to his truck. Major Volmer snapped to attention, clicking his heals.

  “Your orders, sir?”

  “Load the items; I have a meeting with Field Marshal Weiskiettle.”

  “Heil Hitler!” Major Volmer snapped off a Nazi salute, and Wolf dismissively returned it.

  “Heil Hitler, Major.”

  Wolf crunched across the gravel walkway and then up the wooden steps with detached purpose. The heels of his Jack boots metered out an ominous pace; he was met by an orderly in the hallway.

  “Where is the field marshall?”

  “In the lounge, sir.”

  “Take me there.”

  Approaching the door, Wolf caught the orderly by his elbow. “That will be all.”

  “Sir?”

  “That will be all,” Wolf said in a steel voice laced with threat.

  Fleeing his cold glare, the young orderly retreated around a corner. Looking left and then right Wolf pulled the silenced Luger out of his tunic and held it behind his back as he entered. “Guten abend, Herr Field Marshall.”

  Field Marshall Weiskiettle visibly flinched as he looked up at the SS general. “Guten abend. Generalleutnant von Bassenheim, is it not, from Plans and Tactics?”

  “Indeed it is; however, I have been reassigned back to the SS Totenkopfverbände.”

  Behind the field marshall his wife and two little girls sat motionless; instinctively they sensed danger. The girls, five and seven years old, were in traditional German dress as if they were on their way to a festival. Both leaned closer to their mother, who was frozen in fear by the skull and crossbones on Wolf’s cap.

  “Germany is lost, Wolf—”

  “Yes, yes, it is Field Marshall Weiskiettle.” He sneered in response. “Yet some of us will fight on while others tuck tail and run like cowards.” Wolf swung the Luger from behind his back and shot the field marshall between the eyes. Quickly, before they could open their mouths to scream, he turned the weapon on the field marshall’s wife and children, executing them in the same precise manner. His task complete, Wolf calmly unscrewed the silencer and slipped it into his pocket. Holstering the Luger, he noticed a mirror and stepped in front of it. After straightening his Iron Cross, he left the room, closing the door behind him.

  Walking around the same corner as the orderly, Wolf found the young man slumped in a chair, his approach masked by the sound of the Focke-Wulf 200 C-2 Condor’s BMW/Bramo 323R-2, nine-cylinder engines rumbling to life. Glancing into the window, the orderly saw the reflection of the SS uniform behind him and jumped to his feet.

  “The field marshall has changed his mind. He will be staying in the fatherland, but he is not to be disturbed. Is that clear?”

  Gazing behind the nodding orderly, Wolf could see the fourth crate being loaded into the Condor with a fork lift. Locking the orderly’s eyes, he considered whether or not to eliminate him. He stood without saying a word until the fourth BMW 323R-2 engine spun up to idle speed on the large cargo plane. He could smell the orderly’s fear. The fear that returned his gaze convinced him he would not dare go near the lounge until the Condor had taken off. At that point it would be inconsequential. Satisfied the cargo had been loaded and was ready for takeoff, he strode past the orderly and out to the Condor. Its cabin door closed behind him as he entered the aircraft. Not breaking stride he went straight to the cockpit.

  “Take off.”

  “Where is our destination, Herr General?” Wolf turned and left the cockpit without answering, proceeding immediately to the navigator’s station. In the cockpit the pilots looked at each other and shrugged; they were used to arrogant passengers. Pushing the throttles up, the aircraft commander taxied the Fw-200 toward the runway.

  “Navigator, has this aircraft been fitted with extra fuel tanks as ordered?”

  “Jawohl, Herr General.”

  “Do you have charts for the entire world, as ordered?”

  “Jawohl, Herr General.” Wolf stood behind the Navigator looking at a UHF radio.

  “Is that radio used for navigation?”

  “Nein, Herr General—”

  Before the navigator could finish his sentence, Wolf pull
ed his Luger and emptied it into the radio. While it popped and hissed, he pushed the release button on the pistol, letting the spent magazine drop to the deck with a clatter. Ramming in a fresh clip of nine-millimeter ammunition, he chambered a round with an exaggerated motion of the action. The entire crew had watched; the message was clear.

  “Plot a course for Punta Europa Airfield, the Island of Ferdinand Pó, in the Gulf of Guinea, Equatorial Africa.”

  All four BMW/Bramo 323R-2 nine-cylinder engines pumped out their maximum rating of 1200 horsepower as they strained to get the overloaded Condor into the air. With thirty percent more fuel than normal and four heavy crates, they used the entire runway, finally lumbering into the air as the last remnants of sunset dispersed. Below, the orderly’s blood ran cold as he stared in horror at the four expanding pools of blood surrounding the field marshall and his family.

  CHAPTER 5

  03:10 Local, 7 May, 1945 (01:10 GMT, 7MAY)

  Germany

  A C-47 Skytrain streaked across the night sky, its Pratt + Whitney R-1830 engines propelling the aircraft at red line speed. A grizzled lieutenant colonel sat in the right seat with an equally weathered full colonel in the left seat. Major Spike Shanower stood between and just aft of the two gray beards.

  “How much longer?” he asked like an impatient child.

  “You mean how much longer are you going to drag us into your spy crap?” LCOL James “Irish” Myers snapped in return.

  Spike just smiled back at him. He knew Irish was irritated because he was constantly sneaking up on him, especially since his sudden appearance at dinner last night caused Irish to spill his wine and nearly choke on his tenderloin. He couldn’t help himself; he loved playing up the sleuthy spy image. And screwing with Irish, in fact mostly screwing with Irish, because it so infuriated him.

  Colonel Dane “JT” Dobbs laughed from the left seat, well aware of Spike’s little game. Of course Irish was right; Spike had pulled them into his world in the past. In fact they had ex-filled him when he’d snatched Gerhardt who was, at this very moment, sitting nervously in his brand new uniform. Spike had given the German physicist back his former rank as a colonel of the Wehrmacht Army, and around him sat twenty-two very tough-looking U.S. Army rangers, also in new uniforms—theirs were SS paratroopers.

  “Would it be too much to ask the plan?” JT asked between chuckles.

  “Not at all, JT. First, we are crossing the FEBA.” He turned to Irish. “That is the Forward Edge of Battle Area—”

  “We damn well know what it means.”

  “Excellent, then you also know it is a bit fluid.”

  “Yeah, so what?”

  “Well, my Irish friend, we are going to take advantage of the chaos and capture a German airfield.”

  The revelation got both men’s attention, but JT spoke first. “You intend to hold an airfield behind enemy lines with twenty-two men?”

  “Twenty-five, counting us—”

  “Spike!” Irish began to come unhinged.

  “Okay, okay. A little bird has informed me that in a few short hours Germany will formally surrender, and—”

  “And if they don’t?” demanded Irish.

  “Then we’re screwed! Since we’re in German uniforms, we’ll all be shot as spies. Quite ironic don’t you think, Irish?”

  Irish turned all the way around in the co-pilot seat to face the smiling OSS Agent. “I never did like you, Spike. You know that, don’t you?”

  At zero four hundred, five minutes out from the Ohrdruf Airfield, Irish flipped on a red light in the cabin. At the end of the cabin the jump-master rose and shouted over the din of flight.

  “Airborne, stand up.” All twenty-two rangers got to their feet.

  “Hook up.” Each paratrooper hooked the static line of his chute to the overhead steel cable running the length of the cabin. Pulling on the hooks closed the eyelet; each man then slid a cotter pin into a hole to lock it.

  “Check equipment.” They checked the gear of the man in front of them; the last two troopers reversed, ensuring all were checked.

  “Stand in the door.” Lieutenant John Koch, a young yet battle-hardened officer, stood in the door and watched for a green light. After what seemed like a long time, the light on the aft bulkhead next to the open door switched from red to green.

  “Go, go, go!” The twenty-two men plunged silently into the night in the pike position. Static lines fed out until they ripped the cover off of the T-10 parachutes. Opening shock as always was a jolt, especially with combat gear. Koch checked his canopy more out of habit than need; it didn’t matter because they were too low for a backup chute. It either worked or failed.

  In the moonlight he could see the field coming up to him—a perfect drop. So far so good, he thought, but it will be a miracle if we survive this. Sensing the trees were taller than his altitude, he assumed the PLF position: feet and knees together, elbows in, hands in fists in front of his face. Dropping rapidly, the T-10 was designed to get a paratrooper on the ground quickly, not comfortably. Koch hit on the balls of his feet, instantly twisted his hips, and hit on his primary contact points just like he had been trained: feet, calves, thighs, and then small of the back. Rolling to his feet, he pulled the safety pin out of his harness attach point, rotated it to the release position, and then slapped it. All of the straps released together.

  He dropped to one knee while pulling the MP-40 submachine gun out of its carry case. Waiting for movement or noise, Koch remained motionless. Satisfied it had been a stealthy drop, he gathered his chute and harness, stuffing them in a canvas bag and tossing it over his back. Now mobile, Koch moved quickly to his objective, the terminal building.

  Shadows configured in the same way moved with him. He checked on a second group moving toward a large hangar that was being led by his platoon sergeant. A third group was checking the perimeter; he didn’t bother to try to see them in the dark. Creeping close to the terminal, Koch shed the weight of his USA parachute bag and peered through a window. He counted three German soldiers. Checking his watch he waited until the phosphorous hands showed ten elapsed minutes. On the second, he slung his weapon and kicked open the door. Four of his men followed; he heard the front doors of the terminal kick open as he yelled.

  “Achtung!”

  Seeing the SS Storm Trooper uniforms, the orderly fainted, and the other two jumped to attention. Koch’s men quickly secured the building while he stared down the German soldiers.

  “Herr Leutnant, kommen sie.”

  Koch looked up at his corporal. Even after two years of combat with him, he had never seen anything like the expression on his face now. Two sleepy mechanics were pushed in the side door by his platoon sergeant. Koch made eye contact and nodded toward the lounge door, outside of which the corporal stood in shock.

  Koch walked up next to him with the platoon sergeant and looked into the room.

  “What is this shit?” the sergeant said.

  “Deutch,” the lieutenant whispered.

  Seamlessly, the paratrooper slipped back into perfect German. “They do this to their own children, and a general?”

  “Secure this room and bring me the soldier who fainted.”

  Terrified by their very presence, the orderly’s bladder involuntarily voided as he was led into the lounge. Koch grabbed him and pushed him next to the carnage.

  “Was ist das?”

  “I do not know, Herr Leutnant.”

  “Nein! Quite obviously you do!” he snapped in German, causing the orderly to jump in fear. Weeping he looked away.

  Koch grabbed his face and forced him to look. “Who knows of this? Your commanding officer?”

  “No one,” he sobbed. “I was the field marshall’s orderly. I was too afraid to show anyone else.”

  “Sit.” He pushed the orderly into a chair and turned to his men, continuing to issue orders in German. “No one in or out.” Koch went back into the main terminal where the other two Germans were. He looked hard at them,
and while it was clear they did not know about the murdered family, they were just as terrified of the SS.

  “This is now an SS airfield, classified secret. Report your names, and then get out of my sight. Know that once you leave here, if anything you’ve seen tonight is revealed, you will be tortured and summarily executed. Understood?”

  They each barked out their names and then scurried out of the building without even picking up their hats. Koch’s other corporal had converged at the gate with the perimeter group. He gave the troops there the same speech adding loud enough for all of the refugees to hear that anyone still in sight after twenty minutes would be shot. No one was in sight after ten.

  After watching them leave, Koch went back into the terminal and into the operations office. Again checking his watch he flipped on the runway lights. JT had already configured the C-47 for landing and was in a position to land quickly. Koch flipped the lights back off as the aircraft slowed to taxi speed. He then turned on the hangar lights, and as the C-47 got close, he extinguished them again to prevent the American aircraft from being illuminated. Inside the hangar, two lit wands directed the Skytrain to a stop while the doors closed behind. Koch met Spike at the aircraft door.

  “We have a complication.”

  Spike stood silently at the door of the senior officer’s lounge. Koch nodded to the sobbing orderly huddled in the corner.

  “Shiest.” Spike drew in a breath and waved Koch to a corner of the main terminal. “The orderly is the only one who saw this Herr Leutnant?”

  “Jawohl.” Spike leaned close and whispered in English. “Are you sure?”

  “Yeah, he’s scared shitless.” Koch waited as Spike stood in deep thought, analyzing risk versus gain. Finally, Spike looked Koch in the eyes.

  “We go as planned.”

  CHAPTER 6