Code Name: Infamy (Aviator Book 4) (9 page)

“Bottom line: you, me, and Rough are going to be landing on this tub in the dark. You are now the second in command, and whether you agree or not, your duty is to support naval policy.”

A chill ran down David’s spine. Land on a postage stamp at night? It was crazy. He would never see his wife or son again. In fact he was quite sure he wouldn’t see his own twenty-first birthday just over a month away. The promotion was great, but he’d seen enough of this war. After Okinawa, his thirst for revenging his father and brother was gone. Now, all he wanted was to go home, but that obviously wasn’t going to happen.

“Aye aye, Skipper.”

The group walked up, and Petty Officer Jenkins reported to the CO of VF-40.

“Thanks for the brief, Jenks. I hope you can teach some old dogs a new trick.”

“No problem, sir.” Jenks went right into instructor mode. He signaled, and the aviators followed him, circling the new aircraft, stopping at the radar pod on the right wing.

“Gentlemen, let’s start with the basics. The AN/APS-6 is capable of determining the direction and range of a target and of presenting this information visually to the pilot. To accomplish this, a pulse generating modulator will pulse an X-band magnetron at repetition rates of 500, 1000, and 2000 cycles per second. The short pulses of microwave energy will radiate from a rapidly rotating paraboloidal antenna. The beam from the antenna describes a spiral pattern with a maximum conical angle of 120 degrees …”

To a man, the naval aviators stared blankly at him. Stifling a laugh, he turned to the CO.

“Sir, how soon do you need to be operational?”

“Sunset.”

“This sunset, as in the one coming in eight hours?”

“That would be the one.”

“Wow. Okay, we’d better skip the tech stuff then.” They all nodded in agreement. “Anyone know how a bat finds a bug?”

“Something to do with echoes,” someone said.

“Correct. It uses its voice to bounce off targets and can then tell where the target is by how fast and from what direction the echo bounces back. This system does the same thing.” Jenks then concentrated on the cockpit boxes and scope. He went into detail on how he would direct their fighters via the long-range ship’s radar close enough for them to take over by themselves. In the initial intercept they were to position the radar in beacon mode to allow Jenks to be sure it was them. Once he got them within sixty-five miles, they were to switch to radar mode, but he would continue to update via radio. He then passed out manuals and asked if there were any questions. Every single hand went up, and this time he couldn’t suppress a laugh.

22:45 Local, 9 May, 1945 (03:45 GMT, 10MAY)

Diego De Almagro, Santiago de Chile

Irish Myers awoke to a soft knock at his door. Instinctively he reached for his .45 pistol.
Shit, I don’t have it anymore!
Slipping silently out of bed he made his way to the wall next to the door of his suite. Quietly he slid to the floor and rested the right side of his head on the marble floor. Closing his left eye he looked under the door. He saw two small feet instead of the German boots he expected. Straining to look as far left and right as possible, he then rose and opened the door. Standing in front of him, in traditional dress, was the señorita from the bar. Irish stood in shock for a few seconds then spoke.

“You don’t have to—”

“I don’t have to do anything I do not want anymore. I am here because you make me feel safe,” she whispered.

He took her hand and led her into the dark room. Fumbling around he finally found the switch to a lamp and turned it on.

“Such luxury, I’ve never …” her timid voice trailed off.

“Are you hungry?” A stupid question, he realized, and picked up the telephone.

“Lieutenant Colonel Myers here, is room service still available? Excellent.” He cupped the phone and asked her, “What would you like, my dear?” She just shook her head and looked down. Irish smiled, “I’ll order.” He uncovered the phone and said, “My good man, I’m quite hungry. Is the full menu available? Outstanding. We’ll start with caviar and a magnum of champagne. For the main course, I would like two lobsters and the Chateaubriand. Yes, with the Béarnaise sauce. We will stick with the champagne for the lobster and have a nice Valle de Cachapoal red with the Chateaubriand. Yes, yes. What kind do you have? One of each … yes, of each, and a sweet Liebfraumilch, in honor of our German friends, with desert … forty-five minutes … could you bring the caviar and champagne first? Buenos notches, señor.” Irish hung up the phone.

“Normally, I know the name of a young lady I’m about to dine with.”

She smiled. “Maria.”

“Buenos notches, Señorita Maria. Mi nombre es Jim.” He clapped his hands and said, “Now, let me give you the tour.”

He showed Maria around the large presidential suite. She stood in the doorway and stared at the incredible bathroom. She had heard luxury like this existed but didn’t believe it. Irish nudged her forward, and she walked to the white tub, trailing her fingers over the smooth marble, making Irish laugh out loud.

“Take a bath,” he said.

“Oh, no, I—” The day had restored her innocence; her virtue, even if only to her, had always remained intact. If anyone could understand, it was Irish Myers. He had been orphaned during the troubles of Northern Ireland and raised by Catholic nuns until he left to serve in WWI. He volunteered to be a pilot and survived, and now he had nearly survived all of WWII. It was not without cost; his guilt ran deep. So many friends, men he thought better than he, had died in front of his eyes. And yet, he was still here. Still living. Reaching over the tub he turned on the water and poured in some French bubble bath. He adjusted the water until the temperature was perfect, and they stood side by side watching the bubbles grow. Satisfied, he left, closing the door behind him.

Maria swirled her fingers through the bubbles. She had never in her life felt anything like it. She never dared dream such extravagance existed. She stripped and dipped a toe into the water. It was divine. She stepped in and lowered herself until the silky water caressed her entire body, its warmth enveloping her, wrapping her in an aura of luxury and a sense of security she had never experienced. Never imagined she would ever feel. A champagne cork popped in the suite, and a moment later came a soft knock at the door.

“Come in.” Maria slipped low in the bubbles until they flocked around her neck. Irish entered balancing a silver tray on which sat a bowl of caviar and two flutes of effervescing champagne. He set the tray on a small glass table next to the bath and then disappeared back into the suite. When he returned, he held a delicate candelabrum, and, turning off the electric lights as he entered, sat on a pink velvet stool next to her. Candles flickered apprehensively in her eyes, and he smiled at her trepidation. Handing her a flute of champagne, he then spooned some caviar on a cracker. She peered over the side of the tub.

“It looks like fish eggs,” she whispered.

“It is,” he answered cheerfully. Without lifting her head, she glanced up at him through damp locks as if he were teasing her. Again he laughed out loud.

“Do you trust me?” She nodded slowly. “Open your mouth.” Her eyes held his as she submitted. He gently placed a spoonful on her tongue. “Close your mouth and feel the caviar. Now sip some champagne.” The salty caviar comingled with the fizzing liquid until each minute orb erupted in her mouth, tiny explosions of taste. She closed her eyes and leaned back, shuddering slightly as she swallowed.

“Mmmm, may I have more?”

Forty minutes later Maria came out of the bathroom wearing a thick white robe. She watched Irish set the table, as a mixture of delicious aromas filled the air. He looked up, and his breath hitched in his throat. He was captivated. Her dark skin against the plain white robe, no makeup, no flash, and yet her beauty was primordial, raw, overwhelming.

Maria’s dark eyes revealed a depth that threatened to drown him; she was the essence of woman. Her presence sliced his soul wide open, and he was startled by the intensity of feeling. Pulling out her chair, Irish presented the seat with an exaggerated wave of his hand. She sat self-consciously, her back straight, almost rigid as he laid a napkin across her lap.

“Colonel Myers, I …”

“My dear, it is Jim or Irish. This is not difficult. I will show you.” She looked at him, smiling as he sat down.

“I shall call you James.”

“James!” He laughed. “Only the nuns called me James.”

“Then it is ordained.” She looked nervously at the place setting. Irish read her mind and spoke softly but with the authority of a flight instructor.

“It’s easy, a few tricks.” He served the first course, expertly breaking off the lobster tail and setting it on her plate with the claws. Maria looked at the creature and her nose involuntarily wrinkled in distress, causing Irish to laugh out loud again. “Here is secret number one: start with the outside utensil and move in.” Irish held up the lobster fork and showed her how to separate the meat from the shell by splitting it with a knife. She wielded her utensils with the determination of a new surgeon, and enjoyed every course as Irish told her about the wines and why each was served with a specific food. Then he pushed back from the table and lit a cigarette. He swirled his red wine and then sipped at it contentedly.

“See, it’s easy to be rich,” Irish retorted, and Maria laughed.

“Then why do they think they are so much better than everyone else?”

Irish didn’t hesitate with his response. “Inferiority complex.”

Maria just stared at him.

“Many wealthy, most in fact, have inherited what they have. They have accomplished nothing themselves. Usually, some ancestor made the money, and that man would have been more like you and me.”

“They should be happy, no?”

“People given everything, whether a lot or a little, rarely are. They have no stake in life. They are observers, freeloaders. Ultimately things won’t make you happy. You and your choices must do that.”

Maria looked down, suddenly ashamed. Irish looked at her, saddened that something he said had hurt her. He reached across the table, gently lifting her chin.

“Survival is never a bad choice. I have killed many men, Maria. I am not proud of it. They come to me now that I’m older; they will haunt me the rest of my days—and nights. Sometimes our only choice is to survive or not. I choose to survive. I choose life.”

She contemplated his words, swirling the red wine as he had taught her. “Do you save me because of them?”

It was his turn to fall silent. He stared at her, memorizing her face. Finally he spoke. His voice was thick with emotion as he reached out and squeezed her hand.

“I saw you in the light and thought you were an angel. You chose survival. You chose life. I merely set you free.”

CHAPTER 13

23:45 Local, 9 May, 1945 (14:45 GMT, 10MAY)

USS Suwannee, off the coast of Okinawa

A Hellcat prowled the darkness, midnight, all lights off. Inside Kid Brennan watched the crescent moon rise, and it reminded him of a book his father had read to him and his older brother years ago. They were both gone now, shot down by the Japanese early in the war. His mood darkened like the skies overhead, but he had already slaked his vengeance, and he set those thoughts aside, concentrating on his current predicament.

If his godfather, Irish Myers, hadn’t given him an instrument rating he’d be safely tucked in his rack. He’d been taught by the best and had survived so far, despite getting shot down, ditching in the ocean, and spending a hellish night waiting for rescue. He knew he’d have to use all his experience and training to survive this night.

“Vampire one; Jenks holds a bogey bearing one, two, zero. Snap vector one, zero, zero.”

Jenks was setting up an intercept course for Kid to the bogey just as they had briefed. Kid pushed the power up on the Pratt & Whitney R-2800-10W engine, pulling his Hellcat faster toward the enemy.

“Bogey dope?” Kid asked, needing more information on the unknown aircraft.

“Single; one, two, zero for fifty miles, angels twenty.”

“Declare.”

An authoritative voice came over the radio. “Vampire, this is Red Crown, declare hostile. Weapons red and free.”

Okay, Kid thought. Concentrate. I’ve got a single aircraft bearing 120 at 20,000 feet. Red Crown declared it hostile, so it’s now a bandit. Kid armed and charged his guns. Automatically, without thinking, he jettisoned his auxiliary fuel tank.

“Damn it,” he swore to himself. “I forgot to transfer the gas out of it!”

He gently pushed the nose over to descend to 20,000 from his perch of 25,000, knowing he had just put himself in a jam. He would now be tight on fuel.

“Snap; zero, nine, zero. Bandit 40.”

Kid’s Hellcat built speed as he ran down the enemy aircraft. He trimmed the aircraft so that he could fly it with his fingertips, and slid his left hand to the APS-6 control unit and toggled from beacon to radar. He selected 65 on the rotary switch. In front of him the indicator unit glowed a ghostly green, showing the bandit as two dots. On the left it depicted azimuth, or alignment, to Kid’s aircraft. The right dot showed altitude. Kid passed the code word to Jenks to let him know he had the target on radar and needed no further radio calls.