The Assassination Option

[ONE]

The olive-drab Stinson L-5, which had large “Circle C” Constabulary insignia painted on the engine nacelle, came in very low and very slow and touched down no more than fifty feet from the end of the runway. The pilot then quickly got the tail wheel on the ground and braked hard. The airplane stopped.

The pilot, Captain James D. Cronley Jr., looked over his shoulder at his instructor pilot, Lieutenant Colonel William W. Wilson, and inquired, “Again?”

“If you went around again, could you improve on that landing?”

“I don’t think I could.”

“Neither do I. Actually, that wasn’t too bad for someone who isn’t even an Army aviator.”

Cronley didn’t reply.

“How many tries is that?” Williams said.

“I’ve lost count.”

“Well, whatever the number, I think I have put my life at enormous risk sufficiently for one day. Call the tower and get taxi instructions to Hangar Three.”

Cronley did so.

When he had finished talking to the tower, and they were approaching Hangar Three, Lieutenant Colonel Wilson said, “I didn’t hear the proper response, which would have been, ‘Yes, sir,’ when I told you to call the tower.”

“Sorry.”

“And the proper response to my last observation should have been, ‘Sorry, sir. No excuse, sir.’”

“With all possible respect, go fuck yourself, Colonel, sir.”

Wilson laughed delightedly.

“I wondered how long it would take before you said something like that,” he said. “Your patience with your IP during this phase of your training has been both commendable and unexpected.”

Cronley, smiling, shook his head and said, “Jesus Christ!”

Wilson asked innocently, “Yes, my son?”

A sergeant wanded them to a parking space on the tarmac between another L-5 and a Piper L-4.

They got out of the Stinson. Wilson watched as Cronley put wheel chocks in place and tied it down.

“Now comes the hard part,” Wilson said. “Making decisions. Deciding what to do is always harder than actually doing it.”

He waved Cronley toward a small door in the left of Hanger Three’s large sliding doors.

Inside, as Cronley expected them to be, were both of what he thought of as “his Storchs.” They had been flown from Kloster Grünau, with a stop in Munich, to Sonthofen that morning by Kurt Schröder and Max Ostrowski.

They were being painted. Perhaps more accurately, “unpainted.” Wilson had told him what was planned for the aircraft: Since it might be decided — Wilson had emphasized “might”—to use the Storchs to pick up Likharev’s family in East Germany, the planes would have to go in “black,” which meant all markings that could connect the planes with the U.S. government would have to be removed.

That would have to be done now. There would not be time for the process if they waited for a decision about which airplanes would be used.

This meant the XXIIIrd CIC identification Cronley had painted on the vertical stabilizer after he’d gotten the planes from Wilson had to be removed — not painted over. Similarly, so did the Constabulary insignia Wilson had painted over when he gave the planes to Cronley. And the Star and Bar insignia of a U.S. military aircraft painted on the fuselage had to go, too. Removed, not over-painted. And when that was done, both would have to be painted non-glossy black.

When Cronley stepped into the hangar through the small door, Schröder and Ostrowski were sitting, Ostrowski backwards, on folding metal chairs watching soldier mechanics spray-painting the vertical stabilizer on one of the Storchs.

When Cronley started for them, Wilson touched his arm and pointed toward the hangar office.

“Our little chat first. You can chat with them later.”

Cronley was surprised when he entered Wilson’s office to see Major Harold Wallace and former Oberst Ludwig Mannberg. Wallace was standing next to a corkboard to which an aerial chart, a standard Corps of Engineers map, and a great many aerial photos were pinned. Mannberg was sitting at Wilson’s desk.

Wilson was apparently as surprised to see them as Cronley was.

“To what do I owe this unexpected pleasure?” Wilson asked.

Wallace gestured at the corkboard.

“I decided the best place to do this was here.”

“How’d you get here?”

“You see that C-45 parked on the tarmac?”

“Yes, I saw it.”

“I wouldn’t want this to get around, but I have friends in the Air Corps,” Wallace said. “I borrowed that.”

“The Air Corps loaned you a C-45?”

“I thought we might need one.”

“Which means two Air Corps pilots get to know a lot more than I’m comfortable with?” Wilson said. “Or at the very least will ask questions we can’t have them asking.”

“Oddly enough, Colonel,” Wallace said, “those thoughts occurred to me, too. So as soon as we landed here…”

He sounds like a colonel dealing with a lieutenant colonel who has annoyed him.

“… I loaded the C-45 pilots into two of your puddle jumpers and had them flown back to Fürstenfeldbruck. You can fly C-45s, right?”

Wilson nodded.

“So can I,” Cronley blurted.

Wallace looked at him.

“I find that very interesting. If true, it may solve one of our problems. But first things first. How did he do in flight school?”

“He’s almost as good a pilot as he thinks he is.”

“In other words, in your professional judgment, he could safely land an L-5—or an L-4 or one of those newly painted airplanes out there in the hangar — on some remote field or back road in Thuringia, load someone who probably won’t want to go flying aboard, and take off again?”

“Yes, he could,” Wilson said.

“I’m really sorry to hear that,” Wallace said. “It would have been better if I could have told him, ‘Sorry, you flunked flight school. I can’t let you risk getting either Mrs. Likharev or the kiddies killed.’”

“If I didn’t think I could do it, I wouldn’t insist on flying one of the Storchs,” Cronley said.

“You wouldn’t insist, Captain Cronley?” Wallace asked sarcastically.

I am being put in my place.

In a normal situation, he would be right, and I would be wrong.

But whatever this situation is, it’s not normal.

In this Through-the-Looking-Glass world, allowing myself to be put in my place — just do what you’re told, Cronley — would be dereliction of duty.

“Yes, sir. Sir, while I really appreciate the assistance and expert advice you and Colonel Wilson are giving me, the last I heard, I was still chief, DCI-Europe, and the decisions to do, or not do, something are mine to make.”

“You’ve considered, I’m sure, that you could be relieved as chief, DCI-Europe?” Wallace asked icily.

“I think of that all the time, sir. As I’m sure you do. But, until that happens…”

“I realize you don’t have much time in the Army, Captain, but certainly somewhere along the way the term ‘insubordinate’ must have come to your attention.”

“Yes, sir. I know what it means. Willful disobedience of a superior officer. My immediate superior officer is the director of the Directorate of Central Intelligence, Admiral Souers. Isn’t that your understanding of my situation?”

Wallace glowered at him for a long fifteen seconds.

“We are now going to change the subject,” he said finally. “Which is not, as I am sure both you and Colonel Wilson understand, the same thing as dropping the subject. We will return to it in due course.”

Wallace looked at him expectantly.

He’s waiting for me to say, “Yes, sir.”

But since I have just challenged his authority to give me orders, I can’t do that.

So what do I do?

His mouth went on automatic.

“Sure. Why not?” he said.

Cronley saw Wallace’s face tighten, but he didn’t respond directly.

But he will eventually.

“Why are you so determined to use the Storchs?” Wallace asked.

“Why don’t you think it’s a good idea?”

“Okay. Worst-case scenario. Assuming you are flying an L-4 or an L-5. You land but can’t, for any one of a dozen reasons that pop into my mind, take off. There you are with a dozen Mongolians aiming their PPShs at you. Getting the picture?”

“What’s a — what you said?”

“A Russian submachine gun. The Pistolet Pulyemet Shpagin. It comes with a seventy-five-round drum magazine.”

“Okay. What was the question?”

“They are probably going to ask what you are doing on that back road. My theory is that it would be best to be naïve and innocent. I suggest you would look far more naïve and innocent if you were wearing ODs, with second lieutenant’s gold bars on your epaulets and flying a Piper or a Stinson than you would wearing anything and flying a Storch with no markings.

“You could say you were a liaison pilot with the Fourteenth Constabulary Regiment in Fritzlar, flying from there to, say, Wetzlar, and got lost and then had engine trouble and had to land.”

Cronley didn’t reply.

After a moment, Wallace said, “Please feel free to comment on my worst-case scenario.”

“You mean I can ask why it didn’t mention Mrs. Likharev and the boys? I thought they were the sole reason for this exercise. Where are they in your scenario when the Russians are aiming their PP-whatevers at me?”

“You insolent sonofabitch, you!” Wallace flared, and immediately added: “Sorry. You pushed me over the edge.”

Cronley didn’t reply.

“Okay, smart-ass. Let’s hear your scenario. Your best-case scenario,” Wallace said.

“Okay. We — Ostrowski, Schröder, me, both Storchs, and a couple of ASA radio guys — are in a hangar in Fritzlar. If they don’t have a hangar, we’ll build one like the one we built at Kloster Grünau, out of tents. We’re hiding the Storchs is the idea.

“We hear from Seven-K, who tells us at which of the possible pickup points she and the Likharevs will be and when. We tell her, ‘Okay.’

“Ostrowski and I get in one Storch, Schröder in the other. We fly across the border, pick up Mrs. Likharev and the boys and bring them back to Fritzlar. I haven’t quite figured out how to get them from Fritzlar to Rhine-Main yet. Maybe in that C-45 you borrowed from the Air Force.”

“And where in your best-case scenario are the Russians with the PPShs in my worst-case scenario?” Wallace asked, softly but sarcastically.

“We are going to be in and out so fast that unless they’re following Seven-K down those remote roads, the Russians probably won’t even know we were there.”

“Isn’t that wishful thinking?” Wallace asked.

“What was it Patton said, ‘Do not take counsel of your fears’?”

“He also said,” Oberst Mannberg interjected, “‘In war, nothing is impossible provided you use audacity.’”

“Now that we understand the military philosophy behind this operation,” Wallace snapped, “let’s talk specifics. Starting with why the Storchs?”

“It’s a much better airplane than either the L-4 or the L-5.”

“And you feel qualified to fly one of them onto what’s almost sure to be a snow-covered and/or icy back road? Or onto a snow-covered field?”

“Well, Schröder has a lot of experience doing just that. I think Colonel Mannberg will vouch for that. And I have a little experience doing that myself.”

“The snow-covered pastures around Midland, Texas?” Wallace challenged.

“I never flew a Storch in the States,” Cronley said. “But I did fly one off of and onto the ice around the mouth of the Magellan Strait in Patagonia. Trust me, there is more snow and ice there than there is anywhere in Texas or Germany.”

“You flew a Storch down to the mouth of the Strait of Magellan?” Wallace asked dubiously.

“No. Actually I flew a Lockheed Lodestar down there. I flew Cletus’s Storch while I was down there. I also flew a Piper Cub when I was down there.” He paused and looked at Wallace. “Look, Colonel Wilson told you I’m competent to fly this mission. Isn’t that enough?”

“I’ll decide what’s—”

“Jim,” Mannberg interrupted, “you said, I think, that you and Ostrowski would fly in one Storch?”

It was a bona fide question, but everyone understood it served to prevent another angry exchange between Cronley and Wallace.

Cronley looked at Wallace.

“Answer the man,” Wallace said.

“We land. Me first,” Cronley said. “Ostrowski gets out and goes to Seven-K, or whoever is with Mrs. Likharev and the boys. He says, ‘Mrs. Likharev, we’ll have you over the border—’”

“Ostrowski speaks Russian?” Wallace challenged.

“He does, and better than Schröder,” Cronley said. “Let me finish. Ostrowski says, ‘Mrs. Likharev, we’ll have you and the boys over the border in just a few minutes. And the way we’re going to do that is put you and him’—he points to the smaller boy—‘in that airplane’—pointing to the Storch Schröder has by now landed—‘and I will take this one in that airplane’—he points to the Storch I’m flying.

“He leads Mrs. Likharev to Schröder’s Storch…”

“What if she doesn’t want to go? What if she’s hysterical? What if Seven-K has already tranquilized her?” Wallace challenged.

“… where Schröder says, in Russian, with a big smile, ‘Hi! Let’s go flying.’ They get in Schröder’s plane and he takes off. Ostrowski and the older boy get in my airplane, and I take off,” Cronley finished.

“What if she doesn’t want to go? What if she’s hysterical? What if Seven-K has already tranquilized her?” Wallace repeated.

“I thought you wanted my best-case scenario?” Cronley replied, and then went on before Wallace could reply. “But, okay. Let’s say she’s been tranquilized — let’s say they’ve all been tranquilized — then no problem getting them into the planes. If she’s hysterical, then Ostrowski tranquilizes her, and the boys, too, if necessary.”

“And how are you going to get all of them into the planes?”

“The boys are small.”

“How do you know that?”

“Because when Tiny and I were working on Likharev, he told us his son was too young to get in the Young Pioneers. That makes him less than twelve.”

“There are two boys…”

“If one of them was old enough to be a Young Pioneer, he would have said so. That makes both of the boys less than twelve.” He paused, then added: “Feel free to shoot holes in my scenario.”

Wallace looked as if he was about to reply, but before he could, Mannberg said, “Not a hole, but an observation: When we were doing this sort of thing in the East, whenever possible, we tried to arrange some sort of diversion.”

Wallace looked at him for a moment, considered that, but did not respond. Instead he said, “Tell me about you being able to fly a C-45.”

“My father has one,” Cronley said. “I’ve never been in a C-45, but I’m told it’s a Beech D-18. What they call a ‘Twin Beech.’”

“And Daddy let you fly his airplane?”

“Daddy did.”

“How often?”

“The last I looked, often enough to give me about three hundred hours in one.”

“You are licensed to fly this type aircraft?” Wallace asked dubiously.

Cronley felt anger well up within him, but controlled it.

“I’ve got a commercial ticket which allows me to fly Beech D-18 aircraft under instrument flight rules,” Cronley said calmly.

“So why is it you’re not an Army aviator?”

Cronley’s anger flared, and his mouth went on automatic.

“I wanted to be an Army aviator, but my parents are married and that disqualified me.”

As soon as the words were out of his mouth, he regretted them.

But the response he got from Army aviator Wilson was not what he expected.

Wilson smiled and shook his head, and said, “Harry, if his flying that C-45 is important, I can give him a quick check ride. To satisfy you. I’m willing to take his word. Actually, he has more time in the Twin Beech than I do.”

“You’re telling me, Cronley,” Wallace said, “that if I told you to get in that C-45 and fly it to Fritzlar, you could do that?”

“I could, but I’d rather have the check ride Colonel Wilson offered first.”

“Bill, how long would that take?”

“Thirty, forty minutes. No more than an hour.”

“Do it,” Wallace ordered. “I’ve got some phone calls to make.”

“Now?”

“Now,” Wallace said. “To coin a phrase, time is of the essence.”

[TWO]

“Fritzlar Army Airfield, Air Force Three Niner Niner, a C-45, at five thousand above Homberg, estimate ten miles south. Approach and landing, please,” Cronley said into his microphone.

After a moment, there was a response.

“Air Force Three Niner Niner, this is Fritzlar U.S. Air Force Base. By any chance, are you calling me?”

“Shit,” Cronley said, and then pressed the TALK button. “Fritzlar, Niner Niner, affirmative. Approach and landing, please.”

When he had received and acknowledged approach and landing instructions, Cronley replaced the microphone in the clip holder on the yoke.

Captain C. L. Dunwiddie, who was sitting in the copilot’s seat, asked, “Why do I suspect your best-laid plans have gone agley?”

“I thought this was going to be a Constabulary landing strip. It’s an Air Force base, and I think the Air Force is going to wonder what two cavalry officers are doing with one of their airplanes.”

“Fritzlar, Three Niner Niner on the ground at fifteen past the hour. Close me out, please.”

“Niner Niner, you are closed out. Take Taxiway Three Left and hold in position. You will be met.”

“Niner Niner, Roger,” Cronley said, and then turned to Tiny and pointed out the window. “Not only an Air Force base, but a big one.”

There were three very large hangars, a control tower atop a base operations building, and other buildings. Too many to count, but at least twenty P-47 “Thunderbolt” fighters were on the tarmac or in one of the hangars.

“And one that seems to have avoided the war,” Dunwiddie said. “I don’t see any signs of damage — bomb or any other kind — at all.”

“Here comes the welcoming committee,” Cronley said, pointing at a jeep headed toward them down the taxiway.

The jeep drove right up to the nose of the C-45.

An Air Force major, who was wearing pilot’s wings and had an AOD brassard on his arm, stood up in the jeep, pointed to the left engine, and then made a slashing motion across his throat, telling Cronley to shut down that engine. He then made gestures mimicking the opening of a door.

Cronley gave him a thumbs-up and started to shut down the left engine.

The jeep turned and drove around the left wing, obviously headed for the C-45’s fuselage door.

“I don’t suppose you know how to open the door?” Cronley asked Dunwiddie.

Dunwiddie got out of his seat and headed toward the door.

“Welcome to Fritzlar, Captain,” the Air Force major said, as he stepped into the cockpit.

Well, if he’s seen the railroad tracks, he’s seen the cavalry sabers. And the blank spot on my tunic where pilot’s wings are supposed to go.

Now what?

“Thank you,” Cronley said.

“The word we got is to get you out of sight. And the way we’re going to do that is have you taxi to the center one of those hangars”—he pointed to the row of three large hangars—“where we will push you inside, and where your people are waiting for you.”

“Your people”? Who does he mean?

“Fine,” Cronley said. “Actually, we don’t care who sees the C-45. But very early tomorrow morning there will be two Storchs we really don’t want anybody to see.”

“We’ll be ready for them,” the Air Force major said.

Cronley advanced the throttle and began to taxi.

“I’m not supposed to ask questions…” the major said.

“But?”

“You just said ‘Storchs,’ didn’t you?”

Cronley nodded.

“That funny-looking German light airplane?”

“There are those of us who love that funny-looking German light airplane.”

“I’ve never actually seen one.”

“Well, you’ll have your chance in the morning. And I’ll bet you could play I’ll-show-you-mine-if-you-show-me-yours with the pilot of one of them. He used to fly Spitfires for the Free Polish Air Force, and I know he’d like a good look at one of those P-47s.”

“Great!” the major said.

“Just don’t talk about them being here to anybody, okay?”

“The word I got was ‘Just give them what they ask for and don’t ask questions.’”

“Major, I didn’t hear you ask any questions.”

“That’s right. And I really wondered about the guys in the back.”

“They’re Special Service soldiers. We’re going to put on a soldier show for the Constabulary troopers.”

“The hell you are!”

“They sing gospel songs. You know, like ‘What a Friend We Have in Jesus,’ ‘When the Roll Is Called Up Yonder,’ songs like that.”

“That’s why they need those Thompson submachine guns, right? ‘Repent, or else?’”

“No. They’re for use on Air Force officers who can’t resist the temptation to go in the O Club and say, ‘Guys, you won’t believe what just flew in here.’”

“My lips are sealed,” the major said, and then added, “Really.”

“Good,” Cronley said.

A dozen or so Air Force mechanics in coveralls were waiting in front of the hangar. One of them, a tough-looking master sergeant, signaled for Cronley to cut his engine.

Cronley did so, and as soon as the propellers stopped turning, the men started to push the C-45 tailfirst into the hangar.

“I’ll need this thing fueled,” Cronley said to the Air Force major.

“Consider it done. When are you leaving?”

“I’m usually the last person they tell things like that. But I was a Boy Scout and like to be prepared.”

Once they were inside the hangar, it seemed even larger than it did from the tarmac. Cronley saw three jeeps and two three-quarter-ton trucks lined up, all bearing Constabulary insignia. He asked the two questions on his mind:

“How come this place is intact? What did the Germans use it for?”

“The story I heard is that the Krauts used it to train night fighters, and to convert airplanes to night fighters. They ran out of material to convert airplanes, and then they ran out of fuel for the night fighter trainer planes they had. How it avoided being bombed — or even strafed — I don’t know. Maybe, when our guys flew over it, there were no planes on the ground, so they looked elsewhere for something to shoot up. That’s what I would have done. What’s the point in shooting up a hangar when you can shoot up planes on the ground? Or locomotives? When you shoot up a locomotive, that’s something. You get a great big cloud of escaping steam.”

“Sounds like fun.”

“It was, except when they were shooting back. And sometimes they did.”

“The Constabulary is here on the airfield?”

“Yeah. The airbase and the kaserne are one and the same thing.”

They were now inside the hangar. The left of the double doors closed, and the closing right door stopped, leaving a ten-foot opening.

So those Constabulary vehicles can get out, obviously.

The C-45 stopped moving.

The Air Force major rose from the copilot’s seat and stood in the opening to the passenger section. Cronley remained seated until he saw the major stepping into the passenger section, and then he stood up.

When he looked down the aisle, he saw that Tiny and Tiny’s Troopers and one of the two ASA sergeants had already gotten off the airplane. As soon as the second ASA sergeant had gone through the door, the Air Force major went through it.

Cronley looked out the door and saw there were maybe twenty Constabulary troopers in formation facing the aircraft. They wore glistening helmet liners, white parkas, and highly polished leather Sam Browne belts, and were carrying Thompson submachine guns slung over their shoulders.

He turned and went down the stair doors backwards.

Someone bellowed, “Ah-ten-hut!”

Oh, shit, some senior officer, maybe the Eleventh regimental commander, is here. That explains all the troopers lined up.

We’re not the only people in this hangar.

Cronley turned from the stair doors for a look.

A massive Constabulary officer — almost as large as Tiny — marched up to Cronley, came to attention, and raised his hand crisply in salute. Cronley saw a second lieutenant’s bar glistening on the front of his helmet liner.

“Sir,” the second lieutenant barked, “welcome to the Eleventh Constabulary Regiment!”

Mutual recognition came simultaneously.

“Jimmy?” the second lieutenant inquired incredulously.

I’ll be goddamned, Cronley thought, but did not say aloud, that’s Bonehead Moriarty!

Second Lieutenant Bruce T. Moriarty and Captain James D. Cronley Jr. were not only close friends, but alumni and 1945 classmates of the Agricultural and Mechanical College of Texas, more popularly known as Texas A&M.

At College Station, Moriarty had experienced difficulty in his first month having his hair cut to the satisfaction of upperclassmen. He had solved the problem by shaving his skull, hence the sobriquet “Bonehead.”

Captain C. L. Dunwiddie, who would have been Norwich ’45 had he not dropped out so as not to miss actively participating in World War II, and who was standing in front of the line of eight of his troopers, saw the interchange between the Constab Second John and Cronley and had a perhaps Pavlovian response.

“Lieutenant!” he boomed.

He caught Lieutenant Moriarty’s attention. When he saw that the command had come from Captain Dunwiddie and that the captain was beckoning to him with his index finger, he performed a right turn movement and marched over to him, wondering as he did, Who the hell is he? I’m six-three-and-a-half and 255, and he’s a lot bigger than me.

Bonehead came to attention before Tiny, saluted, and inquired, “Yes, sir?”

“Listen to me carefully, Lieutenant,” Captain Dunwiddie said to Second Lieutenant Moriarty. “You do not know Captain Cronley. You have never seen him ever before in your life. Any questions?”

“No, sir.”

“Carry on, Lieutenant.”

“Yes, sir.”

Lieutenant Moriarty saluted. Captain Dunwiddie returned it. Lieutenant Moriarty did a precise about-face movement, and then marched back to Captain Cronley, where he executed a precise left turn movement.

“Sir, Colonel Fishburn’s compliments. The colonel would be pleased to receive you, sir, at your earliest convenience. I have a jeep for you, sir. And men to guard your aircraft.”

“Captain Dunwiddie and I also have men to guard my airplane,” Cronley said. “And two other non-coms who’ll need a place to sleep. I suggest we leave that for later, while Captain Dunwiddie and I make our manners to Colonel Fishburn. I presume Captain Dunwiddie is included in the colonel’s invitation?”

“Yes, sir, I’m sure he is.”

“Well, then, I suggest you leave one of your sergeants in charge of your men, I’ll leave one of my sergeants in charge of mine, and we’ll go see Colonel Fishburn.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Captain, can I have a word?”

Cronley turned and saw that he was being addressed by Technical Sergeant Jerry Mitchell of the ASA.

Mitchell, a lanky Kansan, was the senior of the ASA non-coms Major “Iron Lung” McClung had loaned to DCI-Europe.

“Anytime, Jerry.”

“Did you see that control tower, or whatever it is?”

He pointed upward and to the rear of the hangar.

There was a control-tower-like four-story structure attached to the rear of Hangar Two. There was a second, free-standing six-story structure, painted in a yellow-and-black checkerboard pattern and bristling with antennae, across the field.

“Yes, I did.”

“It looks like they have two,” Mitchell said.

“Yeah. And you would like to use this one, right?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Bonehead, who would we have to see to use the building in the back of the hangar? We need it for our radios.”

“You’d have to ask the post engineer.”

“What about Colonel Fishburn? Could he give us permission to use it?”

“Of course, but you’re supposed to go through channels.”

“Mitch, the building is yours,” Cronley said to Sergeant Mitchell. Then he turned to Lieutenant Moriarty. “Take me to your leader, Bonehead.”

[THREE]

“Sir, the officers Lieutenant Moriarty met at the airport are here,” the sergeant major said.

“Send them in, Sergeant Major,” a deep voice called.

The sergeant major gestured to Cronley and Dunwiddie to pass through the colonel’s portal. Cronley gestured to Lieutenant Moriarty to come along.

Cronley and Dunwiddie marched through the door, stopped, and came to attention six feet from the colonel’s desk. Moriarty stopped behind Dunwiddie.

Cronley raised his hand in salute.

“Sir, Captains Cronley, J. D., and Dunwiddie, C. L., at your orders.”

Colonel Richard L. Fishburn, Cavalry, a tall, lean, sharp-featured man, returned the salute crisply.

“You may stand at ease, gentlemen,” he said, then went on, “Very nice, but I don’t think that courteous ‘at your orders’ statement is accurate.” He paused, then went on again: “I saw you on the train when you made your manners to General White. Correct?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I have received my orders vis-à-vis your visit from General White,” Colonel Fishburn said. “Not directly. Via Lieutenant Colonel Wilson. Who, while not a cavalryman, is at least a West Pointer, and therefore most likely would not say he was speaking for the general, if that were not the case. Wouldn’t you agree?”

Dunwiddie and Cronley said, “Yes, sir,” in chorus.

“I have a number of questions, but the orders I have are to provide you whatever you need and not ask questions of you. Colonel Wilson told me he will explain everything to me personally when he honors the regiment with his presence first thing in the morning. So, gentleman, what can I do for you between now and then?”

“Sir, we brought ten men with us,” Cronley said. “They will need quarters.”

“Not a problem. Lieutenant Moriarty, take care of that.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And, sir, we need a secure place where our radiomen can set up their equipment and erect an antenna. There’s a sort of second control tower attached to Hangar Two that I’d like to use.”

“That, of course, makes me wonder why you brought your own communications, but of course I can’t ask. Moriarty, is letting these people use that building going to pose a problem?”

“No, sir.”

“And I presume you would be pleased to ensure these gentlemen are fed and are given someplace to rest their weary heads tonight?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Well, that would seem to cover everything. Unless you have something?”

“No, sir,” Cronley and Dunwiddie said in chorus.

Colonel Fishburn looked at Cronley as if he expected him to say something.

After a moment, Cronley realized what Colonel Fishburn expected.

He raised his hand in salute.

“Permission to withdraw, sir?”

“Granted,” Colonel Fishburn said, returning the salute.

“Atten-hut,” Cronley ordered. “About-face. Forward, march.”

Captain Dunwiddie and Lieutenant Moriarty obeyed the orders and the three officers marched out of the regimental commander’s office.

The jeeps that had carried them from the hangar were waiting at the curb outside the headquarters building. Their drivers came to attention when they saw Cronley, Dunwiddie, and Moriarty come out of the building.

Cronley put his hand on Moriarty’s arm when they were halfway between the building and the jeeps.

“Hold it a minute, Bonehead,” he said.

“Can I infer now you know me?” Moriarty said.

“How could I ever forget you?”

“Are you going to tell me what the hell’s going on?”

“If you have a bottle of decent whisky in your BOQ, I’ll tell you what I can. And if you don’t have a bottle of decent whisky, why don’t we stop at the Class VI store on our way to your BOQ?”

Moriarty, after an awkward pause, said, “I don’t have a BOQ, Jim.”

“So where do you sleep?”

“Ginger and I are in Dependent Quarters.”

After another awkward pause, Cronley replied, “That’s right. You married Ginger, didn’t you?”

“You were there, Jimmy. All dressed up in your brand-new second lieutenant’s uniform, holding a saber over us as we came out of the chapel.”

And if I wasn’t the world’s champion dumb fuck, that’s what I should have done, married the Squirt the day after I graduated.

The Squirt was one of Ginger’s bridesmaids, but I didn’t pay any attention to her. I wanted to — and did — jump the bones of another bridesmaid, a blond from Hobbs whose name I can’t even remember now. Probably couldn’t remember the next day.

And look where I am now!

“I don’t think my seeing Ginger — or Ginger seeing me — right now is a good idea, Bonehead.”

“She knows I went to the airport to meet some big shot,” Moriarty said. “She’ll ask me how that went. And I don’t lie to Ginger.”

“Can she keep her mouth shut?”

“Fuck you!”

“Bonehead, what we’re doing here is classified Top Secret — Presidential,” Cronley said.

Moriarty looked at him for a long five seconds.

“So what do I tell my wife, Captain Cronley, sir?”

“Jim, I suggest you go see Mrs. Moriarty and play that by ear,” Dunwiddie said.

“You work for him, Captain? I thought it was the other way around,” Moriarty said to Dunwiddie.

“I work for him, Lieutenant.”

“Why don’t we all go make our manners to Mrs. Moriarty?” Cronley asked.

[FOUR]

Mrs. Virginia “Ginger” Adams Moriarty was red-headed, freckled, twenty-two years old, and conspicuously pregnant.

“Well, I’ll be!” she greeted Cronley. “Look what the cat dragged in! I guess you’re with the big shot Bruce met. Hey! What’s with the captain’s bars?”

A moment later, having seen the look on Cronley’s face, she said, “Why don’t we all pretend I didn’t say what I just said. Let me start all over.” She then did so: “Jim, what a pleasant surprise.”

“Hey, Ginger.”

“I think you know how devastated Bruce and I were when we heard about Marjie.”

“Thank you. Ginger, this is Chauncey Dunwiddie, who is both my executive officer and my best friend.”

“My friends, for reasons I can’t imagine, Mrs. Moriarty, call me ‘Tiny.’ I hope you will.”

“Welcome to our humble abode, Captain Tiny.”

“Thank you. Mrs. Moriarty, I’d like to show—”

“If you want me to call you ‘Captain Tiny,’ you’re going to have to call me ‘Ginger.’”

“Deal. Ginger, I’d like to show you something.”

“Will that hold until I give you something to cut the dust of the trail?”

“I’m afraid not,” Tiny said, and extended his DCI credentials to her.

She studied them carefully.

“Wow!” she said. “Have you got one of these, Jim?”

“He does,” Dunwiddie said, and put out his hand for the credentials.

“Tiny,” Cronley said, and when Dunwiddie looked at him, he pointed to Moriarty.

Dunwiddie handed the credentials to Moriarty.

“Jesus!” Bonehead said, after he had examined them.

“Don’t blaspheme,” Ginger said.

“Sorry,” he said.

“Well, Marjie always said Jimmy was going to be somebody special,” Ginger said, and then added, “I guess I can’t ask what’s going on.”

“You want to tell them, Jim, or should I?” Tiny asked.

Cronley pointed at Dunwiddie, mostly because his mind was flooded with images of the Squirt and he didn’t trust himself to speak.

“Ginger, Bonehead, what I’m about to tell you is classified Top Secret — Presidential. And even if we succeed in doing what we’re here to try doing, you are to tell no one at any time anything about it. Understood?”

Both nodded.

“In the next couple of days, we’re going to try to pick up a woman, a Russian woman, and her two sons in Thuringia and bring them back across the border.”

“Can I ask why?” Moriarty asked.

“I’m sorry, I don’t think you have the need to know that. But I will tell you that it’s important. Not just a mercy mission.”

“Got it,” Bonehead said.

“I understand,” Ginger said.

“The only reason I’ve told you this much is so you won’t go around asking questions. Any questions you would ask would attract attention to us. And we don’t want to attract any attention at all. Understand?”

“Got it,” Bonehead said again.

“I understand,” Ginger said. “The rumors are already starting.”

“What rumors are those?” Cronley asked.

“That you’re the advance party for a secret — or at least not yet announced — visit by General White.”

“Where’d you hear that?”

“This afternoon — fifteen minutes ago. In the checkout line at the commissary.”

Cronley made a Give me more gesture with his hands.

“Well, one of the girls — one of the officers’ wives — said that she had heard from a friend of hers in Sonthofen… you know what I mean?”

“I was there earlier today,” Cronley said.

“Constabulary Headquarters,” Ginger went on. “Anyway, the girl in line said she had heard from a friend of hers, whose husband is also a Constab officer, that they were preparing General White’s train… You know he has a private train?”

“Colonel Fishburn said he saw them on the general’s private train,” Bonehead furnished.

“You do get around, don’t you, Jimmy? Marjie would be so proud of you!”

“Ginger, do me a favor. Stop talking about the… Marjie. It’s painful.”

“Sorry,” she said, and then considered what she had said, and went on, “Jimmy, I didn’t think. I’m really sorry.”

“It’s okay, Ginger. Now what was the rumor in the commissary checkout line?”

“Well, she said her friend told her her husband had told her that they were getting General White’s train ready for a secret — no, she said, ‘unannounced’—for an unannounced visit to the Constab units up here. You know, Hersfeld, Wetzlar, Fulda, Kassel, and of course here. And then another lady said, ‘He’s coming here first. They already flew in the advance party. Just now. Special radios and everything.’”

“Jesus Christ!” Cronley said, shaking his head.

“Jimmy, you’re as bad as Bruce. Please don’t blaspheme. It’s a sin.”

“The OLIN is incredible if not always infallible, Jim,” Tiny said. “I know. I grew up in it.”

“The what?”

“The Officers’ Ladies Intelligence Network.”

“Well, is he, Jimmy? Is General White coming here?” Ginger asked.

“I have no idea, but having people think we’re part of his advance party is even better than having them think we’re a soldier show, which is what I told that Air Force officer.”

“And even better than having them think we’re from the 711th Mobile Kitchen Renovation Company,” Tiny said, chuckling. “Ginger, did I hear you say something about something to cut the dust of the trail?”

“Why don’t we go in the living room?” Ginger suggested.

There were a number of framed photographs on a side table in the living room, including one of the Adams-Moriarty wedding party.

“Tiny,” Cronley said softly, and when Dunwiddie looked at him, pointed at it.

When Dunwiddie took a closer look, Cronley said, “Second from the left. The late Mrs. James D. Cronley.”

“Nice-looking,” Tiny said.

“Yeah,” Cronley said.

“You never showed me a picture of her.”

“I never had one.”

Ginger, as she handed them drinks, saw they were looking at the picture.

“Are you married, Captain Tiny?”

“No, ma’am.”

“What is it they say, ‘Lieutenants should not marry, captains may, and majors must’?”

“My mother told me that,” Tiny said. “As a matter of fact, keeps telling me that.”

“You’re from an Army family?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Oh, is he from an Army family,” Cronley said. “Not only did his grandfather, First Sergeant Dunwiddie of the legendary Tenth U.S. Cavalry Regiment, beat Teddy Roosevelt’s Rough Riders up San Juan Hill in the Spanish-American War, but his father, Colonel Dunwiddie, is a 1920 classmate of General White’s at Norwich.”

“Really?” Ginger asked.

“That’s what he was doing on General White’s train. Making his manners to his godfather.”

“General White is your godfather?” Ginger asked incredulously.

“Yes, ma’am, he is,” Tiny said, and glowered at Cronley.

“I would rather have that truth circulating among the ladies at the commissary checkout line than have them wonder what we were doing on the train,” Cronley said.

Dunwiddie considered that for a moment, and then, grudgingly, said, “Okay, blabbermouth, point well taken.”

“You mean I can tell the girls?”

“Only if the subject comes up, Ginger,” Cronley said. “If, and only if, the subject comes up, then and only then, you can say, ‘What I heard, girls, is that Captain Dunwiddie is General White’s godson.’ Okay, Ginger?”

“Got it,” she said.

“And now, before we accept Captain Dunwiddie’s kind offer to dine with him, at his expense, at the O Club, what else should we talk about?”

Bonehead took the question literally.

“A couple of weeks ago, we had a meeting of Aggies in Kassel. One of them was a classmate of your pal Cletus Frade, before Frade dropped out, I mean. He said he heard he became an ace with the Marines on Guadalcanal early in the war. But that was the last he heard. Did he come through the war all right, Jimmy, do you know?”

“I was about to say,” Cronley said, “that it’s a small world, isn’t it?”

“And I was about to say the trouble with letting one worm out of the can is then the rest want out,” Dunwiddie said.

“I don’t understand,” Ginger said.

“This doesn’t get spread among the ladies in the checkout line or anywhere else, okay?”

“Understood.”

“Colonel Cletus Frade, Navy Cross, United States Marine Corps…”

“He got to be a colonel?” Bonehead asked incredulously.

“A full-bull fire-breathing colonel,” Cronley confirmed. “He spent most of the war running the OSS in Argentina. In his spare time, he got married — to a stunning Anglo-Argentine blond named Dorotea — and sired two sons. And one day, when he was visiting Germany…” He stopped in midsentence. “The look on Captain Dunwiddie’s face tells me he’s wondering why I’m telling you all this.”

“You’re very perceptive,” Dunwiddie said.

“I have my reasons,” Cronley said. “So let me go off on a tangent for a moment. Bonehead, what kind of a security clearance do you have?”

“Top Secret. As of about a month, six weeks ago.”

“I think I know where you’re going,” Dunwiddie said.

“You’re very perceptive. Should I stop?”

“Go on.”

“Captain Dunwiddie and I have need, Bonehead, of a white company grade officer with a Top Secret security clearance to command Company C, 203rd Tank Destroyer Battalion, the enlisted men of which, some of whom you met today, are all of the African persuasion, and most of whom are as large as you are.”

“Despite its name and distinguished heritage, Bonehead, Charley Company today has nothing to do with destroying tanks,” Dunwiddie said.

“What it does these days is guard two classified installations we run in Bavaria,” Cronley said.

“And also supervises Company ‘A,’ 7002nd Provisional Security Organization, which is a quasi-military organization whose members are almost entirely Polish displaced persons, which also guards these two classified installations,” Dunwiddie furnished. “Would you be interested in assuming that responsibility?”

“You said ‘company.’ Companies are commanded by captains.”

“Not always. In olden times, when I was a second lieutenant, I had the honor of commanding Charley Company,” Cronley said.

“If you’re not pulling my leg about this, Jimmy, Colonel Fishburn would never let me go. We’re short of officers as it is.”

“Well, then,” Dunwiddie said, “let me rephrase: Presuming Colonel Fishburn would let you go, would you like to command two hundred thirty — odd Black American soldiers and a like number of Polish DPs?” Dunwiddie asked.

“Sir, I just told you, Colonel Fishburn wouldn’t let me go.”

“You call him ‘sir’ and refer to me by my nickname? Outrageous!”

“Answer the question, Lieutenant,” Dunwiddie said.

Bonehead considered the question a moment, then asked, “Is there a good hospital in Munich?”

“That’s a question, not an answer, Bonehead,” Cronley said. “Why is a hospital important to— Oh.”

“The 98th General Hospital in Munich, Lieutenant,” Tiny said, “is one of the best in the U.S. Army. Apropos of nothing whatever, its obstetrical services are about the best to be found in Europe.”

“No shit?” Bonehead asked.

“Bruce, you’re not really thinking of going along with Jimmy, are you?”

“No shit, Bonehead,” Cronley said. “It’s a great hospital.”

“Sweetheart…”

“The colonel would be furious if he even thought you’re thinking of asking for a transfer.”

“Then the both of you better be prepared to act really surprised when his orders come down,” Cronley said.

“You’re not going to ask Colonel Fishburn?” Ginger asked, but before Cronley could reply, she looked at Dunwiddie and asked, “Can he do that, Captain Tiny?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Dunwiddie said. “He can.”

“How soon?”

“Well, what we’re here for shouldn’t take more than three days. A couple of days to finish what we’ve started here. Say a week.”

Presuming, of course, that I’m not strapped to a chair in an NKGB jail cell by then watching them pull my toenails out with pliers.

Or pushing up daisies in an unmarked Thuringian grave.

Or a blackened corpse sitting in the burned-out fuselage of a crashed or shot-down Storch.

“You seem very confident about this, Jimmy,” Ginger said.

“Ginger, that’s why my men call me ‘Captain Confidence.’ Isn’t that so, Captain Dunwiddie?”

Dunwiddie shook his head.

“Why don’t we go to the O Club?” he suggested. “I saw a sign in the headquarters saying tonight is steak night.”

“They import the steak from Norway,” Ginger said, then with great effort and some grunts, she pushed herself out of her chair.

[FIVE]

Since all German restaurants and bars were off-limits, the officers of the 11th Constabulary Regiment had three choices for their evening meal: They could eat at home, or have a hamburger or a hot dog at the PX snack bar, or they could go to the officers’ open mess. If they wanted a drink, or a beer, they had only their home or the O Club to choose between, as the PX did not serve intoxicants of any kind.

On special occasions, such as “Steak Night,” the O Club was usually very crowded. When Cronley, Dunwiddie, and the Moriartys walked in, there was a crowd of people waiting to be seated.

Among them was a young woman who was just about as conspicuously in the family way as Mrs. Moriarty. When she saw Mrs. Moriarty, she went to her, called her by her first name, kissed the air near her cheek, and announced, “Tommy has a theory.” She nodded in the direction of her husband. Cronley followed the nod and saw a rather slight lieutenant.

“Tommy says,” the woman continued, “the way to get in here quickly is to tell the headwaiter you have a party of eight. Interested?”

Her meaning was clear to Ginger Moriarty. They should merge parties. But then Ginger did the arithmetic. “But there’s only six of us.”

“Tell them we’re expecting two more. We can’t be responsible if they don’t show up, can we?”

Cronley went from Oh, shit, the last thing I need is to sit next to another mother-to-be to quite the opposite reaction in a split second when he saw on Lieutenant Tommy’s chest the silver wings of a liaison aviator.

“Go get the lieutenant, Bonehead,” he ordered. “His wife is right. He has a great theory.”

He went to the headwaiter and said, “We’re a party of eight. Colonel and Mrs. Frade will join us later. When the colonel comes, will you send him and his lady to our table, please?”

“Yes, sir, of course. And which is your table, Captain?”

“I thought you’d tell me,” Cronley replied. “Whichever table you’ve reserved for Colonel Frade. Maybe that empty one over there?”

“If you and your party will follow me, sir?”

“Tom, this is Captain Jim Cronley,” Bonehead said, when they were all at the table. “We were at Texas A&M together. And this is Captain… I didn’t get your first name, sir?”

“My friends call me, for reasons I can’t imagine, ‘Tiny,’” Dunwiddie said.

“… Dunwiddie.”

“How do you do, sir?” Lieutenant Thomas G. Winters said to Dunwiddie and then to Cronley.

“Why don’t you sit across from me, Lieutenant?” Cronley said. “And we’ll seat Mrs. Moriarty next to your wife?”

“Yes, sir,” Lieutenant Winters said.

“That way she won’t get in Captain Dunwiddie’s way when he reaches for the scotch bottle, which he will do again and again and probably again.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Where is the waiter?” Cronley asked. “Be advised, Lieutenant, that Captain Dunwiddie is picking up the tab tonight, so feel free to order anything.”

“You seem to be in a very good mood,” Dunwiddie said. “Ginger, how much did you give him to drink at your quarters?”

“Just that one,” Ginger said.

The waiter appeared.

“You speak English, I hope?”

From the waiter’s reply in English, it was clear he did not speak the language well.

“We’ll start off with a bottle of Haig & Haig Pinch,” he said in German. “And then bring us the menu.”

“Jawohl, Herr Kapitän,” the waiter said, and marched off.

“That’s very kind of you, sir,” Lieutenant Winters said. “But I’m not drinking.”

“You don’t drink?”

“Not tonight, sir. I’m flying in the morning.”

“I thought the rule there was that you had to stop drinking eight hours before you flew.”

“Sir, the Army rule is twelve hours before you fly.”

Cronley looked at his watch.

“It’s 1815,” he said. “That means, if you took a drink now, you could take off tomorrow morning at, say, 0630 and still follow the rule. So what do you say?”

“Sir. Thank you, sir, but no thank you.”

“You must take your flying very seriously.”

“Yes, sir. I do.”

“And exactly what kind of flying do you do?”

“Whatever I’m ordered to do, sir.”

“Jimmy, what the hell are you up to?” Lieutenant Moriarty asked.

“Put a cork in it, Bonehead,” Cronley said.

“Same question,” Dunwiddie said. “Lieutenant, Captain Cronley is known for his unusual — some say sick — sense of humor. Don’t take him seriously.”

“Yes, sir,” Winters said, visibly relieved.

“I’m dead serious right now,” Cronley said. “Answer the question, Lieutenant. Exactly what kind of flying do you do?”

“Sir, I do whatever is expected of me as an Army aviator.”

“Like flying the Hesse/Thuringia border?”

Winter’s face tightened, but he did not reply.

“With a photographer in the backseat taking pictures of the picturesque Thuringian countryside?”

Winters stood up.

“The captain will understand that I am not at liberty to discuss the subject he mentions. The lieutenant begs the captain’s permission to withdraw.”

“Sit down, Lieutenant,” Cronley ordered. When Winters remained standing, Cronley said, “That was not a suggestion.”

Winters sat down.

“Clever fellow that I am, I suspected it was you the moment I saw the West Point ring. And, of course, the wings.”

“Sir?”

“What the hell are you talking about, Jim?” Dunwiddie said, not at all pleasantly.

“You’re an intelligence officer… and on that subject, show Lieutenant Winters your credentials. And that’s not a suggestion, either.”

“Jesus!” Tiny said, but handed Winters his credentials folder.

“You may show that to Mrs. Winters, Lieutenant, but you are cautioned not to tell anyone what you saw.”

Mrs. Winters’s eyes widened when she examined the credentials.

“Now, where were we?” Cronley asked rhetorically. “Oh, yeah. Tell me, Captain Dunwiddie, if you were a West Pointer, and a lieutenant colonel of artillery, and an aviator, and required the services of another aviator to fly a mission…”

“Along the border,” Dunwiddie picked up. “That you didn’t want anybody talking about…”

“… wouldn’t you turn first to another graduate of Hudson High who was also an artilleryman?”

Dunwiddie shook his head.

“I thought you were just being a pr— giving him a hard time.”

“That thought never entered my mind,” Cronley said. “Because if he turned out to be who I thought he was, I wanted to be very nice to him, because first thing tomorrow morning he’s going to take me border-flying again. I want to see what he saw and photographed.”

“Sir, I couldn’t do that without authorization,” Winters said.

“Did Colonel Fishburn authorize the flights you already made?”

“No, sir. But—”

“A certain lieutenant colonel, whose name we shall not mention, told you it was all right, right?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Did he tell you why we were interested in the fields and back roads of Thuringia?”

“Yes, sir. He said that somebody was going to land a light airplane…”

“I’m one of them,” Cronley said. “Now, we can go to Colonel Fishburn, which you will note Hot — the unnamed lieutenant colonel… did not do… and show him our credentials, following which I’m sure he will tell you to take me flying down the border. But if we do that, his sergeant major will hear about it, and so will his wife, and all the girls in what Captain Dunwiddie calls the Officers’ Ladies Intelligence Network… which would not be a good thing.”

Lieutenant Winters looked at Cronley, expressionlessly, for twenty seconds.

Then he said, “Sir, if you’ll tell me where you’re staying, I’ll pick you up at 0530, which will give us time for a cup of coffee and an egg sandwich before we take off at first light.”