The Fly Boys Page 12

  “No, sir. Do you?”

  Gold shrugged. “I’ve only known one Red in my time. You see, last year my company was authorized to supply some airplane parts to the Russians. I got to be quite friendly with the Russians’ representative when he came to visit for a tour of our factories.” He grinned. “You should have seen that guy in L.A. He was like a kid in a candy store.” He paused. “I guess what I’m saying is that I don’t see how the Reds can do us much harm. They may have the brawn, but we’ve got the brains.”

  “We do at the moment,” Horton agreed. “But what if the Reds got themselves some instant—German—brains?”

  Gold frowned. “I’m not sure I follow you.”

  “Sir, the Nazis located most of their aircraft industry in the east, to put it out of reach of our joint bombing operations with the British. With the Soviet advance, all of that German aeronautical technology is falling intact into Russian hands.”

  “I thought we had some kind of deal with the Reds about sharing that stuff?” Gold asked as the waitress arrived with their drinks.

  Horton waited until the waitress had served them and left. “We did, but last summer we found out the hard way that the Russians don’t intend to honor their agreement. Ever hear of Blizna?”

  “Doesn’t ring a bell,” Gold said.

  “Last summer the Reds overran Blizna, a German rocket-launching site in Poland, but when our boys and the British demanded our right to share in the secrets, the Reds stalled. By the time we got in, the Russians had stripped the place.”

  “That’s their style, all right, I guess,” Gold commiserated.

  Horton nodded glumly. “When we realized that was how the Russians wanted to play, we initiated ‘Operation Rustler,’ as in cattle rustling. We intend to rustle away as many as we can of those German brains before the Reds can brand them with the hammer and sickle. We don’t intend to let Russia leapfrog us in rocket, or airplane design, technology. We’ve got scouts in Germany seeking out and recruiting German talent, and helping those scientists to evade the Russians until our forces can get to them.”

  “But I still don’t understand where I fit into this,” Gold continued.

  “You fit into it because of Heiner Froehlig,” Horton replied.

  “Froehlig!” Gold blurted, shocked.

  Horton was studying him. “Heiner Froehlig—Air Minister Hermann Goering’s deputy in charge of aviation research and development—was a friend of yours, was he not, Mr. Gold?”

  Gold was appalled. “Sure, we were friends during the war—the first war,” he quickly added. “But that was over twenty-five years ago, when I was a fighter pilot and Froehlig was the maintenance crew chief for my airplane.”

  “But you were good friends?” Horton patiently repeated.

  “What is this, an interrogation? Horton, you’re starting to get me angry,” Gold warned. “What the hell is going on here? What are you implying? I happen to be an American citizen! I’ve never had anything to do with those American Nazi organizations that were sprouting like weeds before the war.”

  Horton held up his hands. “Please, sir, I didn’t mean any disrespect, and I certainly didn’t mean to impugn your patriotism. Your reputation is spotless.”

  Gold leaned back. “Okay, then, I’m sorry for the outburst, but you’d jump to conclusions, too, if you were in my shoes, Mr. Horton. I’ve been raked over the coals more than once concerning my German heritage.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I am a Jew, you know?”

  “Yes, sir, I do know that.”

  “All right, then. So you can imagine how I’ve felt in the past when I’ve been subjected to that kind of dim-witted bullshit.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “As long as we understand each other,” Gold grumbled, mollified. “Now then, getting back to the matter at hand, I haven’t seen Heiner Froehlig since—”

  “Since 1938, at the Moden International Seaplane Competition held in Venice, Italy,” Horton said, expressionless. “Yes, sir, we do know that, as well.”

  Gold took a sip of his club soda. It was a funny, almost queasy feeling to be sitting across from someone who evidently had gone through your past with a fine-tooth comb. “Well, Horton, if you know that much, then you also ought to know that Froehlig and I didn’t part on friendly terms.”

  Horton was nodding. “You mean when Froehlig, in his capacity as a Nazi big shot, unsuccessfully tried to convince you to return to Germany in order to design and build airplanes for the Reich?”

  Gold stared. “How could you have found out about that?” he harshly demanded. “Nobody knows about that. I didn’t even tell my wife.” He shook his head. “No matter how thorough your investigation, how could you have known?”

  “Sir, if you’ll let me explain—Froehlig told us. Several days ago one of our operatives made contact with Froehlig at the German Air Ministry in Berlin. The city—or what’s left of it—is in chaos right now. Nobody is getting in or out. The Krauts—” Horton stopped, blushing. “Sorry, sir. No offense meant.”

  “Just get on with it,” Gold grumbled.

  “Yes, sir. Well, the crux of the matter is that Froehlig wants to cut a deal to come over to our side.”

  Gold scowled. “What do you want him for? He’s not a scientist.”

  “We know that, and so does Froehlig,” Horton said. “In order to sweeten the pot, he’s offering us a package deal. He’s got a half dozen of the Reich’s top aviation engineers in tow. We take Froehlig, and we get the cream of the crop of German jet designers. There’s an agreement that Roosevelt made with the Soviets that we would hang back and let them take Berlin. When that happens, Froehlig and his scientists are going to go into hiding in the city until we can get them out.”

  “It’s going to be tricky getting them past the Russians,” Gold mused.

  “We know that, and so does Froehlig.” Horton nodded. “That’s why he wants you to come and get him, Mr. Gold.”

  “Me?” Gold laughed weakly. “Is this a joke?”

  “No, sir. Froehlig says that you’re the only American he knows and trusts.”

  “What the hell do I know about shepherding some fugitive Nazis past the Russians?” Gold complained.

  “You can leave the details of the operation to us, sir,” Horton said quickly.

  “What operation?” Gold demanded. “You’ve got some kind of plan to accomplish this?”

  “I think that it would be best if we handled this on a need-to-know basis, sir. That’s for your own protection, in case there’s a problem with the Soviets.”

  “In other words, in case this top secret plan of yours falls apart and the Reds grill me before shipping me to Siberia for the rest of my life?”

  “Sir, we think that we have a good plan, but there is always an element of risk in endeavors of this nature,” Horton admitted. “Let me just add that I myself would be with you every step of the way.”

  “That’s very reassuring, Mr. Horton,” Gold said dryly. “But the prospect of you being my roommate in a Soviet work camp does not sweeten the deal.”

  Horton frowned. “I’m going to level with you, Mr. Gold. Your country wouldn’t ask this of you if it weren’t absolutely necessary. Either due to your past friendship back in the good old days fighting for the Kaiser, or for some other reason, Froehlig has fixated on you as the only hero who can ride to his rescue. He’s made it clear that if you can’t—or won’t—bring him out, he’ll cut a deal with the Reds.”

  Gold was about to turn Horton down, but then it occurred to him that maybe he could get something out of this for GAT.

  Last year Gold had presented GAT’s R&D people with Stoat-Black’s Starstreak commercial jet airliner coventure proposal. Teddy Quinn and his staff had studied the specs, and then nixed the deal, citing their serious reservations about aspects of Stoat-Black’s proposed design for the Star-streak’s pressurized cabin. Gold had then tried to get Stoat-Black to modify the design by incorporating Teddy’s su
ggestions, but he’d received the brush-off from Hugh Luddy. It seemed that despite all of Luddy’s talk about mutual cooperation, Stoat-Black expected GAT to come in as a silent partner or not at all. Gold was disappointed, but without input, there was no way he would invest a fortune and what was left of GAT’s credibility into Stoat-Black’s project. He’d walked away.

  Meanwhile, little progress had been made at GAT in designing a new swept-wing jet fighter. It seemed that Gold and Teddy and all the rest of GAT’s R&D talent were up against a corporate mental block. What was needed, Gold had long ago decided, was a healthy dose of fresh, new talent into GAT’s idea pool. To that end, Gold had unsuccessfully tried to raid the R&D staffs of his industry rivals. He’d had no other idea of where to get new, experienced talent.

  Until now.

  “Okay, Horton,” Gold began. “I’ll do this for you, but I want something back in return.”

  “Sir?” Horton asked warily. “What would that be?”

  “I want Froehlig’s boys to work exclusively through GAT. My firm would be the middleman between them and the U.S. military.”

  Horton laughed uneasily. “You’re joking, right?”

  “Do I look like I’m joking?”

  “Mr. Gold … sir—” Horton was shaking his head. “It’s impossible.”

  “Nothing’s impossible,” Gold smiled. “It just has to be negotiated, is all. Now then, you want something from me: to go fetch these guys out of Berlin. According to you I’m the only guy in the whole wide world who can do it for you. Okay. All I’m asking for in return is the opportunity to more efficiently put them to work by personally harnessing their creativity. They design jet planes, and GAT will build them for Uncle Sam.”

  “You mean, sell them to Uncle Sam, don’t you, sir?” Horton asked wryly.

  “Of course, sell them,” Gold said impatiently. “That’s the difference between us and the commies, isn’t it, Horton? We live in a free-market capitalist society.”

  “Mr. Gold, with all due respect, this is an outrageous request.”

  “What’s so outrageous?”

  “What would your competitors think?”

  Gold shrugged. “You never heard of ‘finders keepers, losers weepers’?”

  “Sir?”

  “I’m finding these scientists for you, so I should get to reap the benefits of their labors. If you’re so worried about what my competitors might think, go ask them to risk their skins sneaking Germans out from underneath Soviet guns.”

  “But there are logistics to be considered once the Germans are here,” Horton argued. “These men will be prisoners of war. They must be kept under guard on a military post.”

  “We have military posts in California,” Gold replied, shrugging. “Basically, I don’t care where you keep them, as long as GAT gets first crack at their work.”

  “I’ll have to think about this, Mr. Gold.”

  “Think all you want,” Gold said reasonably. “Think about taking it or leaving it,” he added, standing up, “because that’s your real choice.”

  Horton frowned. “I’ll need to talk to my superiors.”

  “Okay, I understand that,” Gold nodded before walking away. “Think, and talk, and decide with your superiors whether you want to take it or leave it. If you decide the former, give me a call….”

  (Two)

  Tempelhof Airfield

  Berlin, Germany

  24 May 1945

  Herman Gold was jolted awake as the MT-37 cargo plane touched down on the runway. He’d been dozing on a hammock strung between two trucks in the MT-37’s cavernous hold.

  “Herman, we’re here.” Horton was climbing down from the cab of one of the trucks. He had on his black horn-rims and his government-issue watch, but instead of a suit and tie he was dressed in the field uniform of an officer in the United States Army. It had turned out that Horton was an Army major, on loan to the OSS.

  “Easy flight,” Horton said, putting on his steel helmet and buckling around his waist a webbed belt holding several spare magazine pouches for his M-1 carbine.

  “Told you it would be,” Gold replied, standing up and stretching. Some air turbulence had been forecast when they’d left the American-held airfield near Frankfurt, but the good old MT-37—the military transport version of the GAT Monarch GC-10—had smoothed out the ride. “Gold Aviation and Transport builds good planes, Jack, my boy,” Gold said jovially.

  Horton put a finger to his lips as a soldier came over to unsling the hammock from the trucks. “Remember,” he whispered to Gold, “as far as the men are concerned, you’re a real major general.”

  Gold nodded, reaching up to check that the dual silver stars indicating his bogus rank were still pinned to his field cap. Gold’s shirt and tie were pale brown beneath his olive drab, waist-length “Ike jacket.” His trousers matched the jacket and were tucked into shiny black boots. He was “armed” with a Colt .45 automatic in a russet leather shoulder holster.

  Horton had assured him that the unloaded Colt was just for show, which was fine with Gold. He hadn’t fired a handgun since he’d been involved in a certain bootlegging incident some twenty years ago, and he’d been a lousy pistol shot back then.

  The soldier was finishing folding up the hammock as the MT-37 slowed down and began to taxi. The soldier tucked the folded hammock under his arm, and then came to attention and saluted Gold. Gold awkwardly nodded to the soldier. “You’re … um—dismissed!”

  Horton was grinning as the soldier crisply turned on his heel and marched away. “You carry that uniform well. If you can fool our own guys, you’ll fool the Soviets with no problem at all.”

  The MT-37 came to a halt. There was a loud clanging of gears kicking in, and then a hydraulic whine began to reverberate inside the hold. Daylight flooded the interior of the cargo plane as the rear ramp descended.

  “Time to go,” Horton said, leading Gold to a jeep parked at the top of the ramp.

  Horton slid in behind the wheel, setting his carbine between himself and Gold, who was checking to make sure that his black leather briefcase was where he’d left it beneath the jeep’s front passenger seat. Gold looked behind him as a corporal in combat gear got into the rear of the jeep to man the pedestal-mounted .50-caliber machine gun.

  Horton started up the jeep’s engine. Behind it, the two olive drab trucks roared to life. They were Dodge, 1½-ton six-wheel-drive rigs with high, fat tires and canvas sides rolled halfway down the truck beds’ hooped frames. Each truck carried two men in the cab, and six more sitting on the benches running along both sides of the truck bed. All the man were wearing field jackets, helmets, and armed with carbines or Thompson submachine guns.

  “Let’s move out,” Horton said. He put the jeep in gear and led the way down the ramp, out onto the tarmac.

  It was a blustery day. A little cool. The sun was playing peekaboo between the clouds, painting rapidly changing patterns of light and dark upon the strange-looking airplanes and vehicles emblazoned with red stars parked around the compound.

  “Sure are a lot of Russians here,” Gold muttered. The Soviets in their high-collared wool tunics were stopping what they were doing to stare at the American convoy as it rolled past.

  Still not too late to back out of this, Gold thought to himself. You’re too old to play the hero.

  It was scary as hell to leave the protection of the airplane, which was sort of like an embassy. Even now U.S. armed guards were taking up positions beside the ramp to insure that the Soviets respected United States sovereignty.

  “Herman, from now on, I’ll be referring to you as ‘General Gold,’ or ‘sir,’” Horton said quietly so that the gunner riding behind them couldn’t overhear.

  “Huh? Yeah, sure, Jack,” Gold said, feeling distracted and a little light-headed. I’m back in Germany. Back in Berlin. I’m home.

  “And you should be referring to me as Major Horton.”

  Gold nodded absently. “Yeah, okay … major.” He glanced at Horto
n. “It’s really happening, isn’t it? I mean, all that planning during the last month. But now it’s really happening.”

  “Yeah.” Horton was peering at him, looking worried. “Are you going to be okay?”

  “I won’t let you down,” Gold declared. He reached down to touch the briefcase beneath his seat, just to reassure himself.

  “I wish you’d tell me what the hell you have in there?” Horton complained.

  “A little insurance, in case the Soviets give us a hard time.”

  “But what exactly?”

  “Need to know, Jack,” Gold winked. “And call me General.”

  Horton chuckled. “Yes, sir!” But his smile faded as they approached the Soviet half-track blocking the road.

  The big, boxy vehicle was painted green. It’s star insignia was bright red outlined in white. The half-track had tires in the front and tank treads in the back. Its green nicked and dented armor plating made it look like some kind of prehistoric monster in their path.

  The half-track’s top turret gunner was watching them approach over the heavy barrel of his rail-mounted machine gun. Horton brought the convoy to a halt as a uniformed Soviet officer wearing a pistol belt stepped out of a tent erected on the road’s shoulder.

  Gold guessed that the Russian was no more than twenty-five years old. He had dark blonde hair curling out from beneath his visored cap. A black patch covered his left eye. A glistening, pink and white burn scar began underneath the patch. It splashed down the length of the left side of his face and neck, before disappearing beneath his tunic’s standing collar. The Russian’s good right eye was startlingly blue.

  Horton produced some papers and began speaking Russian to the frowning officer. Gold didn’t understand Russian, but he knew from all the endless stateside planning sessions and rehearsals what Horton was saying: that the major general was a deputy of Eisenhower’s here to make a survey of the city for the Allied Commander. To that end, the convoy had a one-day pass to enter Berlin issued from the office of the Russian military commander Marshal Georgy Zhukov.

  The part about the pass was true. A few weeks ago Zhukov had planned a grand reception to welcome Eisenhower to Berlin, but then Stalin reneged on his original agreement to immediately allow American forces to occupy the city. Zhukov, embarrassed over being forced to turn away Eisenhower, had been anxious to make amends. Horton and his OSS and AI buddies had seized the opportunity to go through channels to get Zhukov’s office to issue this one-day pass as a goodwill gesture toward Eisenhower.