1945 Page 10

  Richer laughed softly. "I can't wait to meet some of those arrogant Southern 'good old boys.' Disarmed, they'll be like rabbits waiting to be slaughtered." Richer being Richer, Skorzeny wondered if perhaps he hadn't had an unpleasant experience with some good old boys already. There was this girl in Nashville....

  Outwardly he simply nodded in agreement and continued. "Richer, Lenz. A fair portion of your target should already be flattened and on fire. Your job is simply to make sure no one who could possibly be a scientist, technician, engineer, or project manager survives."

  "There is such a thing as female scientists," Richer said mildly. "Young female scientists."

  Skorzeny spoke as to a child. "Yes, Richer, there are young female scientists. And you are to shoot anyone who might be a young, female, scientist. But do not linger over them, and do not prefer them to old, fat, males, who are very much more likely to be important targets."

  "Of course not, Herr Colonel," Richer replied innocently.

  "To continue. Dropping into the target area dressed as American military police will enable you to maximize the confusion. Unless there is an opportunity to herd a group together and draw out lurkers, simply shoot everyone you see. We'll have the names of some of the people we want to make sure are taken out. Try to find them and then eliminate them."

  "It seems like they'll have all the fun," Muhler interjected.

  "There'll be plenty to amuse you at the three industrial sites," Skorzeny promised. "Those facilities are running twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. The two major plants will have thousands of personnel in them when the air strike begins. Besides making sure that the plants are destroyed, eliminate any survivors you might find.

  "Muhler, I know what you consider to be fun," Skorzeny added. "Just make sure you blow the reactor. Do that right and you'll sow a thousand times more destruction than you ever dreamed of."

  "Even better than the bridges at Leningrad?"

  "Far better," Skorzeny replied, and Muhler finally smiled. He was not, unlike Richer, simply a sadistic killer who preferred young girls: it was destruction that he craved. Killing was all very nice, but nothing could compare to the joy of gazing over the smoldering ruins of a dead city, dead because of you.

  "What about the range on our planes?" Karl asked. "Even staging from Martinique this is one hell of a long strike, to say nothing of the return to base."

  "The Me-264Es have a maximum range of fifteen thousand kilometers. That will get us from Martinique to Oak Ridge and from there back to Germany. As for the bombers, they'll be carrying heavier loads, which will cut their range. Therefore the bomber stream will exit the target area heading east, then make for Bermuda, which will be in our hands by the time they arrive. Not the entire island, of course, but the airfield and its environs. The planes will touch down and refuel. If the capture of Bermuda fails, the bomber crews will bail out and be picked up by pre-positioned U-boats."

  "What does Göring say about that?" Karl asked with a laugh.

  "He wasn't happy. If Bermuda is not taken we lose nearly half of the new long-distance bomber fleet on the first day of the war. Too bad if it happens but the target is worth any number of 264s."

  "What about us?" Richer interjected. "What's the exit plan? The commandeered airfield is too short."

  "The transports will be fitted with Rocket-Assisted-Take-Off pods. Assuming we survive the take-off, we'll fly low—very low—over the mountains and then run-for the coast at treetop level. Fighter bases from Washington, D.C. to Florida will be on the alert but they'll be after the bombers if we stay lucky. Once clear of the coast we'll pop up to higher altitude and rendezvous over the Atlantic with tanker planes. If we miss them, or if they run into trouble we can make it without the in-air refueling," Skorzeny added carefully, "but we'll land on vapors."

  "Or land in the drink," Karl said quietly. "These are long odds. I would have thought we were planning something closer in—Greenland for example."

  Skorzeny laughed. "Of course the odds are long; if they weren't, they'd have given this job to someone else. Remember when I first proposed snatching Koniev out of Leningrad? They told us that was a suicide mission. As for the plan to kill Stalin, we all knew that would most likely be a one-way trip. This mission is much more important than killing Stalin would have been. Regardless of the odds, we will do it, we will succeed, and we will be greeted by the Führer as heroes when we return. If we return. If any of you think the Reich isn't worth the risk, tell me now. You have my word no one outside this room will know. You will simply be assigned out because you weren't right for the mission, which will give you a lifetime to live with your choice."

  Skorzeny looked around the room. "Come, come! Which will it be? Long life or glory?"

  No one said a word, though a discerning observer might have noticed a glint of humor beneath Karl's shamefaced demeanor.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  March 10 Washington, D.C.

  Walking across the Pentagon parking lot from his old pre-war Studebaker convertible, James Martel paused to inhale the crisp air. It was the sort of day that made spring his favorite season, a day that refreshes body and soul, and ... try as he might he could not shake a winter-long depression.

  The weeks spent under arrest still haunted him.

  The vindication, when at last it came, had been almost anti-climatic: A naval lawyer he didn't know informed him that the FBI had decided that he had not after all done whatever it was they had thought he had done, and that was that. The lawyer, however, had proved unable to tell him to which office he should apply to get his reputation back. Neither could he have his old job: "Too risky," the lawyer had said.

  "For me or for the United States?" he'd asked quietly.

  "Perhaps for both," was the studied reply.

  The new assignment was a Umbo, not hell, but most certainly not heaven either. Striding through the main doors of the Pentagon, part of the morning crowd, Martel briefly brandished his identification card for the security guard, then made his way down a series of broad corridors, turning at last into the cramped little suite that housed a subdivision of a subdivision supporting operations in China. His area of responsibility lay in tracking down undelivered requisitions.

  Nodding politely to the civilian secretary who worked for him and four others, he picked up his mail, went into his office, and struggled yet again with the urge to slam the door hard enough to shatter the glass.

  Settling in behind his desk, he looked around at the four bare walls. The FBI had admitted they had no case but they would be damned before they would admit they were wrong. Since a renewal of his security clearances was out of the question for the present the Navy didn't know what to do with him, so they had dumped him into a job that a trained monkey armed with a rubber stamp could perform adequately.

  He knew that his best course was to follow his father's advice and do nothing—but for how long? This could go on forever. A little note tagged into his fitness report would dead-end him for as long as he chose to stay in the Navy, while six more months —six more weeks —of manning a forgotten desk in a forgotten corridor of the Pentagon would drive him insane. Quitting was looking more and more like the best option.

  Wayne Mason had come back from Berlin in January and was now on the next floor up. His job was a lot more interesting than Jim's, if you liked studying grainy photos of German aircraft and personnel, but he had talked to Jim more than once about resigning and heading back to the Pacific and starting up a charter seaplane line. Mason had fought to stay in the service after the war, but discovered that if he wasn't allowed to be a pilot—well, he'd rather be a pilot out, than a bureaucrat in.

  Jim flicked through the stack of mail, most of it complaints from the Far East about shipments that should have turned up six months ago.

  Maybe Jennifer was right, he thought wistfully. Their marriage was something he had not allowed himself to think about, but in this enforced idleness, especially with Betty seemingly lost to hi
m, it was hard to keep old memories at bay. It had been a mistake from the start, but a wonderful one for a while. It had barely survived the two and a half years he spent in the Pacific, but mostly at sea, and when he announced his posting to Berlin, wife not included, that had been the end of it. The romance of being married to a flyer had not, for her, matched up with the reality. The ironic part of it was that she wound up marrying another flyer.

  Suddenly out of nowhere Jim realized that he wasn't feeling anything as he contemplated his ex-wife's new marital adventure. The night he'd first learned of it he'd downed most of a botde of vodka in his room. As a matter of fact, it had been Betty's warm solicitude the next day for his alcohol- and self-pity-reeking self that had first made him aware that she was looking at him as more than someone whose schedule she had to keep straightened out. Jim smiled at the recollection. Only someone who truly cared could have overlooked his repulsiveness that day.

  For his part, up until then he had thought of her as a beautiful young woman whose talents were being wasted in leading him and Acres and Mason and a few others around by the hand. She should have had a high-profile job, like maybe a —

  He had sifted his way to the end of the pile, and there on the bottom was a plain cream-colored envelope with no return address.

  He looked at it closely. The stamp featured a portrait of Hans Christian Andersen, postmarked Copenhagen, February 26th, twelve days ago.

  If he had needed proof that the FBI was not paying serious attention to him anymore, the pristine condition of the envelope would have done nicely.... He looked more closely still. No sign of tampering ... he tore it open and spread the single sheet it contained flat on his desk. He instantly recognized the handwriting, which was not surprising, since Willi had been not only his cousin but his intelligence assignment.

  He read and reread the letter and then, turning to the typewriter by his desk, translated it into English.

  Just a quick note, old friend. Winter here has been dreary, the nights long and cold. The northern lights filled the sky the other night. With spring coming, maybe the lights of the old Norse Gods will be more active than ever. Let me know when you see them over where you live. I've developed an interest in such things of late and I think you will too when you see them.

  Tell your father I asked for him. Perhaps come spring you and he could come to England where my friends and I might meet you, or perhaps we might get to Manhattan like I've always dreamed.

  He tore the translation out of the typewriter and pored over it yet again.

  No doubt about it. The mysterious operation was going forward. Look for it "in the spring." But in Manhattan? A bomber raid on Manhattan? What the hell? "Don't be stupid," he whispered to himself.

  Manhattan. Why did that word keep coming up? He sifted through his memory, coming up blank. He studied the letter, reading it again and again as if it were a Zen conundrum. It had to be a war warning, but when and where?

  Jim quickly typed out two more copies of the letter, one in the original German and another in English. The copy in German went into his desk. The original and the first translation he tucked into one breast pocket, the second translation into the other. Time to go.

  "Commander Martel, don't forget your meeting with Captain Broderick this morning at ten."

  Jim smiled meaninglessly at the secretary as he closed his door. To hell with Broderick!

  Moving quickly down the hallway, he reached a broad ramp and started down. Four ramps down, two floors beneath ground level, was the main office of Army Intelligence.

  When he finally arrived there, he paused for a moment to gather his thoughts, looked at his hazy reflection on the glass door, straightened his tie and stepped in.

  A military policeman at the entryway looked up at him.

  "Can I help you, sir?"

  "I want to see General Acres."

  "Do you have an appointment, sir?"

  "No. Just tell him that Lieutenant Commander Martel wishes to see him."

  The sergeant seemed to hesitate. Martel knew the man had no idea who he was, but he felt a twinge of paranoia nevertheless.

  "Listen, Sergeant, just do it, and tell him it's urgent."

  The sergeant picked up a phone, spoke softly, finally nodded and put the receiver down.

  "Someone will be with you in a minute, sir," and the sergeant motioned for him to be seated.

  Sitting, however, was not something Martel found congenial just then. He paced back and forth in the small area between the sergeant's desk and the door trying not to appear nervous.

  "Commander Martel?"

  Jim turned and saw a young second lieutenant standing at the doorway to the back offices.

  Jim nodded.

  "May I see your ID please?"

  Jim fished out his ID card and passed it over. Everyone who walked Pentagon hallways on a daily basis carried one just like it. The lieutenant studied his face and the card intently before handing it back.

  "Come with me please."

  Jim followed the young man down a long corridor lined with doors all closed on whatever secrets they concealed, several of them with heavy padlocks. The lieutenant stopped at the final door at the end of the corridor and knocked. After a moment the lieutenant pushed it open and stepped aside, motioning for Jim to enter.

  As he came into the room, Martel felt a certain coolness from Acres that he had never known before. In Berlin they had been friends, with an element of mentor-protege to their relationship. None of that now: Acres was standing behind his desk, and though he offered his hand, there was no warmth in it.

  After a perfunctory greeting he said without further niceties, "If you're here to give me crap about your situation, there's nothing I can do."

  Jim reached into his pocket, pulled out von Metz's letter and tossed it on the desk.

  Acres's eyebrows rose. "What's this? Your resignation? A denouncement?"

  "Just read it, sir."

  Acres picked up the envelope, opened it up, and slowly studied the note. Finally, he looked up.

  "You know, Martel, when somebody has shit thrown on him, even after it washes off, the aroma lingers for a while. I just want you to know that, before we go any further."

  "I know that, sir. That's one reason I haven't looked you up before now."

  "Some of that stink clings to me too. I didn't exacdy volunteer to return stateside."

  "Are you blaming me for that, sir?" Jim asked coldly.

  A pause. "No. Now, tell me about this note."

  "It's from von Metz and it came in this morning's mail. Wilhelm and I worked out a private code and he reminded me of it just before I was pulled. He said that if he ever mentioned my father in a letter that would be the signal that the balloon was about to go up."

  Acres blew out noisily and leaned back in his chair.

  "Coffee?"

  "Sure. Thank you, sir."

  The general came out from behind his desk, opened his door and barked out a command. Less than a minute later, the young lieutenant came in bearing two steaming mugs and quickly withdrew. Acres opened his desk, pulled out a bottle of brandy and poured a small amount into his mug, then offered a shot to Jim, who refused.

  While sipping his caffeinated booze, Acres studied the letter and Jim's translation.

  "Explain what's in here."

  "I lived with von Metz for nearly a year, and I can tell you he doesn't give a damn about astronomy. He lives for baroque music, the way his older brother did, and skiing. Then it hit me. In Norse mythology the Northern Lights appeared when a warrior had died and the Valkyries came down from the Hall of the Gods to gather up the slain. They're going to be busy this spring."

  Jim picked up the English version of the letter from Acres's desk and read slowly, "'With spring coming, maybe the lights of the old Norse Gods will be more active than ever.'"

  "War in the spring. That's very soon," Acres said quietly.

  Jim nodded and then continued to read. '"Let me know when
you see them over where you live,' that means it's coming straight at us."

  "What about the rest?"

  "Tell your father I asked for him.' That's the tip off code. 'Perhaps, come spring, you and he could come to England or even here for a family reunion, or perhaps I might get to Manhattan like I've always dreamed.'"

  Jim put the letter back down.

  "He says 'spring' a second time just to reinforce the point. As for our going to England, he knows Dad can't travel since the heart attack. England is involved in this, whatever-it-is as well."

  "And Manhattan?" Acres asked softly.

  "I don't know. Maybe they're going to strike at something in New York. The 'E' variant of their Me-264 bomber is code named Manhattan, though I don't think Willi knows I know that." "Not much of military value there other than the docks and Brooklyn Navy Yard. Psywar strike perhaps? Hit us hard on our own soil to throw us off balance?"

  "Not likely sir, especially for a first blow. Their whole military doctrine is toward focus, hitting the point of attack with overwhelming strength. The Brits might go screwing around with psychological attacks, but not the Germans— especially at the beginning of something. Besides, they know enough from the way we went after Japan to realize that the psychological effect would not be a desirable one from their point of view—it would be the same as after Pearl-

  Jim hesitated . . . Manhattan. Of course! The code screw-up that had had Grierson so exited. But he had a strong feeling he ought not mention that, not even to Acres. "A code name then?"

  Acres looked at him closely, saying nothing.

  "Anyhow, sir, this is a clear undeniable warning from the best source we've got." He paused for a moment "If I might be so bold, sir, may I ask what you're going to do about this?"

  "Kick it up the ladder."

  "Kick it up the ladder," Jim repeated softly. "Given it started with me, you know what will happen."