Blood of the Reich

14

Hankow, China

September 29, 1938

T he shadow of the Nakajima fighter flickered across the train just before the bullets did, the soldiers aboard as startled as squirrels beneath a hawk. Hood was riding atop a boxcar to escape the crowding and the heat, and watched the havoc stitch toward him as men yelled and instinctively ducked.

The carnage was transfixing. There was only time for a shout of warning at the rising snarl of the engine and then the fighter’s machine guns chewed down the length of the lumbering cars, wood flying and the wounded yelping. Newly recruited Chinese infantrymen were blown from rooftop perches like chaff. The painted twin meatballs of the rising sun were clearly visible on the wings as the fighter banked overhead, and then it was coming for them again, hundreds of excited soldiers shooting a fusillade into the sky as the train engine’s whistle screamed warning.

It felt like they were crawling.

Hood pulled out the. 45 that Duncan Hale had issued him and balanced on his knees as the plane came toward them again. The gun was slick and heavy. He wanted to hide but inside was no better protection; each strafing bullet was the size of a forefinger and could punch all the way to the roadbed. Their tormentor seemed to swell in size until it filled the whole sky. Hood’s pistol bucked as he fired, jarring his wrist and making it hard to aim. He vowed to take more practice. His rifle and shotgun were stored in his duffel below, and he suddenly incongruously worried that his belongings might take a bullet.

The tops of the freight cars ahead seemed to heave upward as the machine-gun fire struck, men jerking and tumbling, a catastrophic rupture that tore from car to car.

Hood braced himself for the explosion of his own flesh.

But then the machine guns stopped flashing, the Nakajima roared by, and the excited Chinese were left to fire their rifles at an empty sky. Hood actually felt the suck of the propeller. Then, as abruptly as it came, the plane was gone. Their train whistle kept shrilly blowing at nothing.

Maybe they wounded the pilot. Maybe the fighter ran out of bullets. Maybe it was low on fuel. But Hood knew that the only thing that saved his life during his harrowing journey to the chaotic new Chinese capital was that the plane aborted its second strafing run just moments before the stuttering spray reached him. Splinters rose in a fountain, a mesmerizing eruption, and then the fountain abruptly ceased one car ahead.

Born with a silver spoon in your mouth and dumb luck to cover your ass, Hood thought. Must have done something right in a previous life. Or you’re supposed to do something in this one to earn it.

The attack left chaos in its wake. Cars were splashed with blood, men moaned from the impact of the slugs, and whole boards had been knocked askew. But the train, its engine unmarked, didn’t slow. They chugged doggedly on, while the dead were rolled off to make more room for the shaken living.

Hood reloaded his. 45 and tucked it back in its holster. The big pistol was less accurate than hurling rocks, but if it ever hit a target, it tended to stop it. This was his first combat, and he was relieved he’d had the presence of mind to shoot back.

They reached Hankow that night, the rail yard light a combination of kerosene lamps, paper lanterns, and bonfires steaming in light rain. Soldiers, coolies, nurses, nuns, and generals milled in the chaos of the depot. Blood was still dripping from the floorboards of Hood’s troop train when he stepped down, the leakage diluted by the wet. Fog and smoke mixed with the hissing steam of locomotives. A distant rumble was not thunder, but Japanese and Chinese artillery. Their reflected flashes were like sheet lightning.

The remaining dead were stacked like cordwood. Soldiers kept beggar children away from looting the bodies, so they swarmed Hood instead until he swatted them off. Old women pressed close to sell tea and steamed buns.

He ate one to reassure himself he was still alive.

You always knew it wasn’t over with Raeder, he thought.

A rickshaw took Hood toward Chiang’s headquarters. Weaving through the crowded streets was like pushing through syrup. Everywhere were guns, munitions, heavily guarded pallets of rice, tins of fuel, and refugees. That’s what the Japanese were attacking, Hood decided: syrup. China was an endless sea of viscous honey that would ultimately swallow any invader.

In the meantime, millions would die.

Sir Arthur Readings had given him a letter of introduction to Madame Chiang Kai-shek, the Shanghai-born, American-raised Wellesley College graduate who had become the fluent link between China and the United States. Because of her interest in aviation, she was also secretary-general of the Chinese Commission on Aeronautical Affairs. In other words, the generalissimo’s wife ran the Chinese air force. Hood would need her permission to borrow Beth Calloway.

Madame Chiang was a petite Chinese woman with a large head who was not especially pretty anymore-power had hardened her-but who carried the commanding presence that comes from the blessing of a strong-boned face and incandescent eyes. She had a disconcerting southern accent from Georgia where she was raised, and a smile and animation that beamed with the energy of a lighthouse. China was fighting for survival, and this dynamo who bridged two worlds would do anything it took to save it.

“Tibet!” she exclaimed after examining the documents of introduction he’d been given by the Americans and British. “Even for us Chinese, that’s the edge of the world, a place of mystery and misunderstanding. And you say Himmler is sending an expedition there?”

“So I’ve been told. The mission’s leader, Kurt Raeder, is a man who accompanied one of my expeditions several years ago. Moody, but highly competent. And a Nazi. So I’ve been asked to learn what he’s up to, but he has a long head start. Which is why I need to borrow an airplane. Sir Arthur suggested an aviatrix named Beth Calloway.”

“Sir Arthur would. As would any man, I suppose.” She looked at him slyly. “She’s one of our best pilots, you know.”

“That’s what I need to fly to the highest country on earth.”

“I’m actually interested that you prove the feasibility of such flights, Mr. Hood. Aviation is China’s future. It’s the one technology that can stitch a very big, very crowded, very complex nation together. My husband agrees. And because we have no aircraft industry of our own, we must cobble together Soviet, German, American, and British planes to fight the Japanese. In doing so, the invaders are learning we’re not just a nation of ignorant coolies.”

“The whole world admires your courage.”

“The whole world knows we’re in retreat. Which is why we can’t risk leaving our backs unguarded. Were the Germans to somehow gain influence in Tibet and turn it against us for their new allies the Japanese, we’d have enemies on two sides. This can’t be tolerated. So yes, I’m going to order Ms. Calloway to fly you to Lhasa. We need to know what Herr Raeder is up to, don’t we? Have you flown in a biplane before?”

“I was hoping for something more modern.”

“Anything more modern is fighting the Japanese. Have you met Beth Calloway?”

“No. Sir Arthur described her in flamboyant terms.”

“Flamboyant is an interesting choice of word. You’re in for an experience there, as well. I’ll write an order giving you transport in one of our Corsairs. It can just barely clear the Tibetan passes, but it’s durable, repairable, and old enough to be expendable.”

“You’re so reassuring.”

“Miss Calloway has ingenuity, I assure you. She’ll get you as close as she can as fast as she can. Dress warmly, and take a gun.”

“I have several, and fired one at a Japanese fighter.”

“Splendid. Did you hit him?”

“I don’t know. At least he went away.”

She smiled. “I wish I could say the same for the entire Japanese army.”

“Thank you for your help and advice, Madame Air Secretary.”

“Thank you for your service, Dr. Hood. I understand you’re a wealthy man and a respected curator. I know you don’t have to do this.”

“Actually, I’ve thought about it and I do.” He turned to go.

When he got to the door she called after him. “Oh, and, Dr. Hood?”

“Yes?”

“You might want to return through British India. We’re doing our best, but Hankow may have fallen to the Japanese by the time you want to go home. If you’ve survived.”

B eth Calloway didn’t have a Bowie knife, but she did have cowboy boots, Western jeans, a denim work shirt dirty from engine grease, and a Brooklyn Dodgers baseball cap with its bill turned backward. A. 38 was holstered on one undeniably fetching hip, and her blond hair was cut in a practical bob. She was twisting a wrench with masculine determination on the engine of a mustard-colored two-seater biplane scout. A thatched roof served as a hangar, flies buzzing on black pieces of machinery as if they were carrion. A Santa Claus calendar from 1937 advertised Coca-Cola.

The plane’s patched wings, nicked propeller, and two bullet holes through its thin metal fuselage didn’t inspire confidence. To Hood, the Corsair looked barely capable of clearing the runway, let alone the Tibetan plateau.

“So the Wright brothers had a garage sale.”

She glanced up, squinting across a dust of freckles. Her eyes were sky blue. “Afraid of flying, Mr…?”

“Hood.” He strummed a strut. “Afraid of falling. Dr. Hood, actually. Ph. D.”

She straightened. “You must be the egghead the Chinese warned was coming.”

“Museum curator.”

“And expert on aviation.” Calloway let her arm fall with the heavy wrench and Hood stood for inspection. He was taut and tanned in that country club way, with the confidence that comes of breeding, money, and schools with crests on their jackets. He carried a duffel bag on a sling that was nearly as long as he was, and had taken care to be washed, combed, and cocky.

Beth’s knuckles were scraped, her nails short, and her lips bare and pursed with skepticism. Pretty enough in a wary way, but not as impressed with him as he was used to. In fact, she looked as if she were surprised he’d made it this far.

“I’m just cautious of machines with holes in them,” he said.

“This Vought Corsair is only ten years old. Easy to fly and it can be fixed with chewing gum, if you have to. ”

“Perhaps I should buy stock in Wrigley.” He rapped on the plane and, when she didn’t respond to his wit, decided to be less sarcastic. “Beats walking.”

“So charmed to meet you.” Her tone made it clear she wasn’t.

“And you, Beth Calloway. So Madame Chiang did send orders to introduce us? You’ll take me to Tibet?”

“Dear me. In this? With a woman? Are you sure you want to?”

“Unfortunately Madame Chiang says this crate, and you, are all that can be spared. Expendable is the word they all keep using.” He looked in one of the cockpits. “Is it any bigger than it looks?”

“Much smaller, after the first ten hours. Don’t like to fly, Dr. Hood?”

“Call me Ben. I flew to Hong Kong on the Clipper. We dined with silver cutlery and had a choice of wines.”

“I dine with a tip cup and boil water before I drink it.” She put down the wrench and ran a wrist on her forehead. Even a grease smudge looked good on her, he decided, but she didn’t flirt. Maybe she didn’t like boys.

“I guess this will have to do.” He gave her his best smile.

“Christ. You look like you were sent by Pepsodent.”

He reddened. “I do brush my teeth.”

“Iron the ascot, wax the limousine, starch the collar. Yes, I’ll take you to Tibet, Great White Hunter.”

“You flatter me. I only collect scientific specimens.”

“Madame Chiang is the one who flatters you, Professor.” She finally held out a greasy hand, palm up. He wasn’t sure if it was a greeting, demand for payment, or a gesture of warning. “She reports you’re a fine shot of rare and defenseless animals, which you stuff and cart back to the States.”

“And you have a reputation as the best American woman pilot in China. Also, the only American woman pilot in China.” He took her hand and squeezed it. Their fingers slid, not unpleasantly, from the oil. He thought she hesitated just a moment before pulling away, but it was one of those signals best to receive two or three times to confirm. “A pleasure to meet you, Miss Calloway. It’s not lucky for a passenger to disparage his aircraft, is it?”

“Not lucky to do what?”

“Dis… to criticize.”

“My, my. They did send our best, didn’t they? A real college boy.”

“I’m a zoologist with the American Museum of Natural History in New York. And I’ve walked to Tibet before. I’m simply in more of a hurry this time.”

“I wouldn’t care, except that Madame Chiang does.”

“I need to confer with authorities in Lhasa.”

“No one gets to confer with the authorities in Lhasa. It’s forbidden.”

“I have to un-forbid it.”

“For your museum?”

“My present employers require discretion.”

“Your what requires what?”

“My new bosses told me to keep my mouth shut.”

“Well.” She regarded him a long minute, gazing up and down. “How much do you weigh, zoo-owl-o-gist?”

Without meaning to, he drew himself up. “About one eighty-five.” Maybe one ninety, after those Clipper meals. “Why?”

“Big words, vague mission, fussy flier. I got a feeling that whatever extra fuel I can squeeze aboard is going to be a lot more useful than you.”

This one was going to require some charm, he thought.

Or taming.