Top Secret Part 9

Cronley nodded. "How long are you going to keep this up?"

"For another twenty-four hours. Perhaps a bit longer."

"And then?"

"The interrogation will begin."

"By who?"

"We're trying to decide whether it should be Dunwiddie or myself. One or the other. Dunwiddie's Russian isn't perfect, but on the other hand, he is an enormous black man."

"Would me getting a look at this guy interfere with your interrogation of him?"

Cronley saw that Mannberg didn't like the question.

"I'll keep my mouth shut," Cronley said. "I just want a look at him."

Mannberg looked at his watch.

"We're going to feed him his breakfast in about an hour. That will give you time to have your supper before you have your look."

"I'll take you," Dunwiddie said.

[ FIVE ].

Commanding Officer's Quarters Kloster Grnau Schollbrunn, Bavaria American Zone of Occupation, Germany 0705 29 October 1945 When he'd gone to bed, Cronley had had a very difficult time falling asleep. His mind insisted on replaying-over and over-everything that had happened in the past ten days. But eventually, at about one in the morning, fatigue had finally taken over.

When the telephone rang, he was in a deep sleep, and he took a long time to awaken and reach for it.

"Twenty-third CIC, Lieutenant Cronley speaking, sir."

"That's Captain Cronley, actually," the voice of Colonel Robert Mattingly informed him. "You might wish to write that down."

"Sorry, sir. I was really out."

"Well, rise and s.h.i.+ne, Captain Cronley. A new day has dawned. Duty calls."

"Yes, sir."

"Get dressed, have a shower, a shave, and a cup of coffee. Then go out to the road. Order the jeeps sitting there blocking it to move off the road. Whereupon, the road will now resume its covert role as a landing strip. With me so far, Captain? Or do you wish to find a pencil and paper and write this all down?"

"I'm with you, sir."

What the h.e.l.l is going on?

"Within the hour, an aircraft will land on the road. You will get in said aircraft and do whatever Lieutenant Colonel William W. Wilson, who will be piloting the aircraft, tells you to do. Got it?"

"Yes, sir. What-"

"It would behoove you to treat Colonel Wilson with impeccable military courtesy, Captain Cronley. He has the reputation for being a crotchety Old Regular Army sonofab.i.t.c.h. Speak only when spoken to. Do not ask questions. Understand?"

"Yes, sir."

The line went dead.

- Forty minutes later, Captain Cronley-having showered, shaved, and donned a fresh uniform-stood at the end of the road that, in a pinch, could be used as a landing strip for light aircraft. The two jeeps, both with pedestal-mounted .50 caliber Browning machine guns, which had had the dual mission of protecting the compound perimeter and blocking the use of the road as a landing strip, were now half in the ditch beside the road.

Cronley heard the sound of an aircraft engine, and just had time to identify it as the Argus 240-hp air-cooled inverted V8 engine of a Fieseler Storch, when a Storch appeared. Not from above, but from below. It had to pull up before the pilot could lower the nose and put his gear down on the road.

Kloster Grnau sat atop a hill in what Cronley had decided were probably the foothills of the Alps.

Jesus, this guy must have been chasing cows around the fields!

The Storch, which had U.S. ARMY painted on the fuselage and the Constabulary insignia on the vertical stabilizer, slowed quickly and stopped just past where Cronley was standing. It turned and taxied back down the "runway" to the end-where the road curved-where it stopped again, turned again, and stood there with the engine idling.

Conley realized that the pilot, the lieutenant colonel whom Colonel Mattingly had described as "a crotchety Old Regular Army sonofab.i.t.c.h," was waiting for him, and probably impatiently.

He trotted down the road, rehearsing in his mind what he was going to do now: come to attention, salute (holding the salute until it was returned), and bark, "Sir, Captain Cronley, James D., reporting to the colonel as ordered, sir!"

He got as far as coming to attention and raising his hand in salute when he saw the pilot's face. Cronley instantly concluded that the crotchety Old Regular Army sonofab.i.t.c.h lieutenant colonel wasn't flying the Storch.

The guy in the front seat had the bright unlined face of a newly commissioned second lieutenant.

He looks younger than me. He has to be a second lieutenant.

Cronley dropped the salute, walked up to the aircraft, put his foot on the step on the main gear, hoisted himself up into the c.o.c.kpit, and said with a smile, "Hi, where'd you get the Storch?"

The words were out of his mouth before he noticed the three silver oak leaves-one on each shoulder and a third on his collar point-pinned to the uniform of the guy who had the bright unlined face of a newly commissioned second lieutenant.

"s.h.i.+t!" Cronley said.

"I have been led to believe, Captain," Lieutenant Colonel William W. Wilson said, "that you have had some experience with Storch aircraft."

"Yes, sir."

"Sufficient experience for you to be able to get into the backseat without a.s.sistance?"

"Yes, sir."

"Please do so."

Cronley climbed into the backseat and closed the window-door. He had just located the seat belt and was putting it on when the Storch began to move.

Moments later it was airborne.

Jimmy looked around where he was sitting. The rear seat had the basic controls-stick, rudder pedals, throttle, airspeed indicator, altimeter, and artificial horizon. There was a small panel holding an Army Air Corps radio of a type he had never seen. A headset and a microphone hung to the side.

Suspecting that the colonel was anxious to use the intercom to say a few words about the unusual greeting he had received, Cronley put on the headset.

He rehea.r.s.ed his reply, drawing on his military courtesy training at Texas A&M. "Sir," he would say. "Sorry, sir. No excuse, sir."

Nothing but an electronic hiss came over the earphones for perhaps ten minutes.

Cronley became aware that they were at an alt.i.tude of about 2,000 meters, making, according to the airspeed indicator, about sixty knots.

That was cause for concern. In his lengthy flight training in the Storch-almost two hours-Willi Grner had told him that the Storch tended to stop flying somewhere between forty-five and fifty-five knots.

Unless the colonel watches himself, he's going to put us into a stall.

The engine coughed and stopped.

Jesus Christ, now what?

The airspeed needle rapidly unwound.

As the Storch stopped flying and went into a stall, the earphones came to life.

"You have the aircraft, Captain," Lieutenant Colonel William W. Wilson announced.

Cronley saw that the colonel was demonstrating this by holding both his hands above his head.

"Holy s.h.i.+t!" Cronley said, and then Pavlovian reaction took over.

He shoved the stick forward.

If I can get this sonofab.i.t.c.h back up to sixty, maybe it'll fly!

When he first felt a little life come into the controls, they were at 500 meters, and the needle was indicating 350 when he felt confident enough to try to pull out of the stall.

He came out of the stall moments later and was desperately looking around for someplace where he could-very quickly-make a dead stick landing when the starter ground, the engine started, and the propeller began to take a bite out of the air.

"Why don't you pick up a little alt.i.tude," Lieutenant Colonel William W. Wilson suggested conversationally over the earphones, "and take up a heading of two-seventy?"

Five minutes later, they were indicating 150 knots at 3,000 meters on a heading of 270.

Cronley took the microphone from its hook.

"Sir, may I inquire where we're going?"

"Sonthofen. It's about thirty miles. You'll know we're close when I get on the radio."

Sometime thereafter, Lieutenant Colonel William W. Wilson suggested, "Why don't you start a gentle descent to five hundred meters?"

Several minutes after that, he announced, "Sonthofen, Army-Seven-Oh-Seven. About three miles out. Request straight-in approach to Twenty-seven."

"Sonthofen clears Army Seven-Oh-Seven as Number One to land on Two-seven. We have you in sight. Welcome home, Colonel."

"Tell the man you understand, Captain," Colonel Wilson ordered.

"I'm supposed to land this thing?"

"Without breaking anything, if possible. Talk to the man."

Cronley dropped the nose so that he could make out what lay ahead. He saw they were more or less lined up with a runway, around which was a fleet of L-4s, plus two C-47s and some other aircraft Cronley didn't recognize.

"Sonthofen, Seven-Oh-Seven understands Number One to land on Two-seven," Cronley then said into the microphone.

"There are two hangars," Wilson announced. "If you manage to return us to Mother Earth alive, taxi to the one on the right."

"Yes, sir."

- When Cronley had parked the Storch on the tarmac before the hangar, Lieutenant Colonel Wilson climbed out of the front seat and motioned for Cronley to follow him.

A master sergeant approached them and saluted.

"Say h.e.l.lo to Captain Cronley, Sergeant McNair," Wilson said. "And then get out the paint and obliterate our beloved insignia that's on the vertical stabilizer. Our bird has a new master."

"I hate to see her go," Sergeant McNair said.

He offered his hand to Cronley and said, "Captain."

"I am taking some solace in knowing that she has found a new and loving home," Wilson said, and turned to Cronley. "Let's go get a cup of coffee. It will take half an hour for the obliteration to dry."

He led Cronley to an office inside the hangar.

"Close the door, please, Captain," Wilson said. "I wouldn't put it past the Air Force to have a spy in here, and we wouldn't want them to hear what I have to say, would we?"

He added, "Sit," and walked to a coffeemaker.

There was a framed photograph on the wall, showing an L-4 about to touch down beside the Coliseum in Rome.

Cronley blurted, "I saw that in the newsreels."

Wilson glanced at the photograph. "Ah, yes. The triumphal entry of General Markus Augustus Clark into the Holy City. I had the honor of being his aerial taxi driver."

When Wilson saw the look on Cronley's face, he added, "Oh, yes, Colonel Mattingly told me what you think of Army Aviators. You're wrong, of course, but young officers often are."

He let that sink in a moment, and then added, as he handed Cronley a coffee cup on a saucer, "Yes, Captain Cronley, I know a good deal about you-and knew you were out of the mold even before I saw you running up to the Storch in your cowboy boots."

s.h.i.+t, I shouldn't have put my boots on.