The Assassination Option Part 56

Cronley saw in Winters's expression that he had picked up on the "we."

"And now DCI-Europe has two of them. Maksymilian Ostrowski, former captain, Free Polish Air Force, and Kurt Schrder, former hauptmann, Luftwaffe."

"I can't find fault with that," Wallace said. "What about you, Colonel?"

"I hate to admit it, but it makes sense."

"Anything else?"

"A couple of things. When I speak with General Greene, I'm going to ask him to transfer to DCI-Europe not only the six ASA guys he's loaned me, two of whom I brought here with me, but also to get Second Lieutenant Bruce Moriarty of the Eleventh Constabulary Regiment transferred to me. Us."

"Not 'us,' Cronley," Wallace said. "Transferred to you, in your role as chief, DCI-Europe. As you know, I have nothing to do with DCI-Europe."

"Sorry."

"But since the subject has come up, what's this all about? Start with the ASA men," Wallace ordered. "And the last time I looked, Brunhilde is not a guy."

"Freddy had already arranged for Brunhilde to be transferred to DCI. I'm talking about the radio guys. They're smart. Freddy told me that at the Reception Center, when they enlisted or get drafted, they all scored at least 110 on the Army General Cla.s.sification Test and were given their choice of applying for Officer Candidate School or going into the ASA."

"And these guys didn't want to be officers?"

"They didn't want to serve four years if they could get out of the Army after two," Cronley said. "The point is, they're smart. That has its ups and downs. Because they're smart, they do their jobs well. That's the up. The down is that if somebody else needs them, and Greene transfers them, they'll walk away knowing too much about DCI-Europe, and that makes me uncomfortable."

"Okay. Point taken. But how do you know they want to leave the ASA?"

"Because I offered them an immediate one-stripe promotion if they did, and a second three months after that."

"You can do that?"

"According to Fat Freddy, I can. I promoted him to staff sergeant."

"Okay. What about the lieutenant? Who is he?"

"An A&M cla.s.smate of mine. He'll be given command of Company C, 203rd Tank Destroyer Battalion and the Polish guards."

"That's a lot of responsibility for a second lieutenant," Wallace said.

"He can handle it. And we need somebody to handle it."

"Anything else?"

"I told Brunhilde to look for some clerical help among the WACs in ASA. We're going to need all kinds of help in that department."

"It looks like you're building quite an empire, Cronley," Wilson said. His tone suggested he didn't approve.

Cronley's temper flared and his mouth went on automatic, and as usual, he regretted the words as soon as they came out of his mouth.

"Sir, I'm doing what I believe to be the right thing to do. If my superiors in the DCI decide I'm not doing the right thing, or doing more than I should, they'll relieve me."

Not smart. Not smart. Rubbing what Wallace said to him in his face was not smart.

And that "my superiors" crack sounded as if I'm daring Wallace to relieve me. Not smart.

Stupid.

"I'm sure that would happen," Wallace said.

"We saw one of the black birds as we came in," Cronley said. "Are they both here?"

"The second came in just before you did. They're being serviced. I brought the mechanics I gave you with us."

"I should have thought of that, of servicing the Storchs."

"Yes, you should have," Wallace said, "but n.o.body's perfect, right?"

"Yes, sir."

"What do we hear from Seven-K?" Cronley asked.

"We have communication scheduled for noon," Mannberg said. It was the first time he opened his mouth. "We may get a schedule then."

"Then there's time for Winters to take Schrder on a tour of the border," Cronley said. "I think that's important. I saw a lot I didn't see in the photos."

"As you may have noticed, Tom," Wilson said, "Captain Cronley has a tendency to volunteer people for things they'd really rather not do. Are you comfortable with what's happening? Are you sure you want to get involved in something like this?"

"Sir, something like this is obviously more important than dropping bags of flour on M-8 armored cars, which is what I've been doing here."

"Tom, you wouldn't be here now if I hadn't asked you to make the first tour of the border, the one with a photographer in the backseat. Then Cronley, who is clever at that sort of thing, and knew about that mission, figured out that it was you who flew it, and then cleverly convinced you that flying the border again with him in the backseat was something I would approve, so you flew it. Correct?"

"Yes, sir."

"That being the case, I feel that I should say this: Intelligence, and especially black operations like this one, are indeed more exciting and important than dropping flour bags on M-8 armored cars. But there's a downside for someone like you. You're a West Pointer, a professional soldier, the son of a general officer. You know there is little love between intelligence types and . . . the Army Establishment. If you go with Cronley, you will almost certainly be kissing your career goodbye. And any chance of pinning stars on your own epaulets one day. And if your father were here, I know he'd agree with me."

"Sir, I got the impression I didn't have any choice in the matter."

"Well, I'm going to give you that choice. Now, and think your answer over carefully before you reply. Let me add there's no need for you to fly the mission Captain Cronley suggests. He can fly Schrder down the border as well as you can. Here's the question: Would you like to just walk out of here and go back to your duties with the Eleventh Constabulary and forget anything like this ever happened? Colonel Fishburn doesn't know you flew this unauthorized mission, and I can see no reason that he should ever learn about it. Think it over carefully."

You sonofab.i.t.c.h! Cronley thought, as his mouth went on automatic.

"I've got something to say," he said.

"No, you don't, Captain Cronley," Wilson snapped. "This is between Lieutenant Winters and myself."

"No, Billy, it isn't," Wallace said. "Cronley's involved. Let's hear what he has to say."

"It's none of Cronley's G.o.dd.a.m.n business!"

"I disagree," Wallace said. "Go ahead, Jim."

I don't have a G.o.dd.a.m.n clue what to say, Cronley thought, and then his mouth went on automatic again: "The first thing I thought when I heard Colonel Wilson just now was that I wished he would keep his nose out of my business," Cronley said. "Then, I thought, well, he's actually a nice guy. Colonel Wallace-"

"Oops!" Wallace interrupted. "Another cow out of the barn. Watch yourself, Jim."

"-has made that clear, and I know it from personal experience."

"Why don't you tell him to keep his nose out of my business?" Wilson asked.

"Pray continue, Captain Cronley," Wallace said.

"And then I remembered another time Colonel Wilson had wisely counseled a junior officer. The day I met him. He knew that I had been promoted to captain from second lieutenant before I had enough time in grade to be a first lieutenant, and he was kind enough . . . as the youngest lieutenant colonel in the army . . . to explain to me what he believed that meant.

"I remember what he said. Word for word. I've thought of it a thousand times since then. And I even quoted it, and the source, when Captain Dunwiddie-another professional soldier like you, Tom-was uncomfortable with the direct commission as a captain I asked the admiral to arrange for him."

"How long do I have to listen to this?" Lieutenant Colonel Wilson protested.

"For however long it takes him to make his point. Put a cork in it, Billy."

"Quote," Cronley said, "'The advantages of getting rank, et cetera, means that you can do things for the good of the service that otherwise you could not do. And that's what we professional soldiers are supposed to do, isn't it? Make contributions to the good of the service?' End quote.

"What I'm suggesting, Tom," Cronley said, "is that you base your decision, as a professional soldier, on where you can make the greater contribution to the good of the service."

After a moment, Wallace said, "Colonel Wilson, in the opinion of the senior officer present, Captain Cronley has just nailed your s.c.r.o.t.u.m to the wall."

"Or I nailed it there myself," Wilson said.

"Your call, Lieutenant Winters," Wallace said.

"Two things, sir," Winters said. "First, Colonel Wilson, sir, I really appreciate your concern. Second, Captain Cronley, sir, is there anything in particular you want me to show the Storch pilot?"

"Welcome to Lunatics Anonymous, Lieutenant," Wallace said.

"What I think we should do now is make our manners to Colonel Fishburn," Wilson said.

"Why don't you do that while I get on the SIGABA and have a chat with the Navy?" Wallace replied.

"I was afraid you'd say that."

"Mitch.e.l.l has problems with the SIGABA?" Cronley asked.

"No," Wallace said. "According to Dunwiddie, Mitch.e.l.l has been up and running since about nineteen hundred last night. Why do you ask?"

"I've been wondering why you didn't get on the SIGABA as soon as you got here. And why you're all sitting here in the Gooney Bird. There's a . . . I guess you could call it a 'lounge' in the building. Complete with a coffee machine."

"I was dissuaded from doing just that by Colonel Wilson," Wallace said. "May I tell the captain why, Colonel?"

"Why not? It may add to his professional knowledge."

"Colonel Wilson thought it was entirely likely that Colonel Fishburn would ask him if he'd seen you. And if he replied in the negative, that Colonel Fishburn would wonder why not."

"And if that happened," Wilson said, "and I think it would have, I would have had to tell him you were flying up and down the border in one of his airplanes, which I did not want to do, or profess innocence vis--vis knowledge of your whereabouts. Since I am (a) a West Pointer, and (b) not in the intelligence business, I do not knowingly make false statements to senior officers. Now when I make my manners, I can tell him truthfully, repeat, truthfully, that I came to see him immediately after getting off General White's aircraft. I don't expect either you or Major Wallace to understand that, but that's the way it is."

But deceiving him is okay, right?

"I understand, sir," Cronley said.

"And if that question is asked," Wilson said, "and I believe it will be, I can now reply that I had a brief word with you aboard the general's aircraft."

"Yes, sir," Cronley said.

[TWO].

Hangar Two U.S. Air Force Base, Fritzlar, Hesse American Zone of Occupation, Germany 1150 19 January 1946 Technical Sergeant Jerry Mitch.e.l.l and Sergeant Pete Fortin of the ASA started to rise when Cronley, Wallace, Dunwiddie, Mannberg, Ostrowski, and Schrder filed into what looked like it had once been a control tower and now was the radio room.

"Sit," Wallace ordered with a smile.

"How we doing?" Cronley said.

"Waiting, sir," Mitch.e.l.l said. "They're usually right on time. We've got about nine and a half minutes to wait."

"Which gives us time to run over what's going to happen," Wallace said, "so let's do that."

"Yes, sir. Seven-K initiates the contact. They will transmit, three times, a five-number block. Pete'll type it, and hand it to me. If it matches the number Colonel Mannberg gave us, we will reply with the five-block number he gave us. They'll check that against their list of numbers. Then we'll be open. Protocol is that they send, in the clear, a short phrase, a question to verify that Colonel Mannberg is on this end."

"For example?" Wallace asked.

"Middle name Ludwig," Mannberg said. "My middle name is Christian, so we would send that, for example."

"And then," Mitch.e.l.l said, "they reply with what they want to send us. We acknowledge, and that's it."

"I hate to sound like a smart-a.s.s," Cronley said.

"Hah!" Wallace said.

"But I think you forgot to turn the SIGABA on."

"It's off, Captain. I was afraid that there might be some interference with the eight slash ten from it."

"With the what?"

Mitch.e.l.l pointed to three small, battered, black tin boxes. They were connected with cables, and what could be a telegraph key protruded from the side of one of them, and a headset-now on Sergeant Fortin's head-was plugged into one of the boxes.