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  But Gold had to proceed according to his own instincts, which were that generals did not take shit from colonels.

  “You tell the colonel that these happen to be goddamn American trucks, and in case he’s forgotten, I happen to be an American major general,” he continued forcefully, keeping his eyes on the Soviet. “That makes them my trucks, so I can do whatever I goddamn well please with them.”

  The colonel began to walk away toward the trucks. Gold paused, rattled. “Hey, you there!” he called after the Soviet officer, who ignored him.

  “Major Horton,” Gold said loudly. “Tell that man to come back here. I wasn’t finished addressing him.”

  “The fucker’s going to check out the trucks,” Horton worried softly.

  The colonel walked to the rear of the first truck and stared in. He moved to the second and looked into that one, and then returned to the jeep, where he rattled off a query to Horton.

  “He wants to know why there are suddenly so many more soldiers in the convoy,” Horton said.

  “Tell him he must be mistaken,” Gold replied. “Tell him, how could we have more soldiers—?”

  The Russian resumed speaking before Horton could relay the message. Horton, shaking his head, said something in reply. The Russian spoke again, this time sounding more emphatic.

  Horton, looking bleak, said, “He says that he doesn’t think he’s mistaken. He wants our men to leave the trucks and line up so that he can look them over.”

  “Tell him no way does he interrogate American soldiers,” Gold said calmly.

  “I did,” Horton replied. “But he insists.”

  The Russian turned away from the jeep to issue an order to the gunner on top of the half-track. The man swung his heavy-caliber machine gun around to aim at the convoy. The colonel than turned to stare at Gold and waited.

  “Corporal,” Horton addressed the man at the .50 mounted in the back of the jeep. “You may chamber a round.”

  “Yes, sir!” The click of the .50-caliber machine gun’s bolt sounded awfully loud in the sudden, tense stillness. Gold listened as Horton said something to the Russian colonel.

  “I explained to him that what we’ve got here is a Mexican standoff,” Horton told Gold. “That unless he’s prepared to open fire on us and take fire in return, it would be best if he got that Moscow-made tin can out of our way.”

  The colonel said something.

  “He’s worried,” Horton confided to Gold. “He says this is a difficult situation.”

  “Tell him only if he wishes to make it so,” Gold said. Come on, sucker, back down, he thought as Horton relayed his words. Down underneath the jeep’s dashboard, where the Russian couldn’t see, Gold had his fingers crossed.

  The colonel was shaking his head as he spoke to Horton, who sighed as he translated for Gold. “He offers many apologies to the comrade general, but the convoy must remain here while he contacts his superiors for instructions on how to proceed concerning this situation.”

  Fuck that, Gold thought. He reached down to haul his briefcase out from under the seat. “Ask the colonel if there is someplace private we can talk.”

  Horton hesitated. “I don’t know what you have in mind.”

  “Do it, Major!” Gold ordered sharply.

  “Yes, sir!” Horton said loudly, his eyes shooting daggers at Gold. “You’d better know what you’re doing,” he added under his breath.

  The Russian looked surprised as Gold’s request was relayed. He looked inquiringly at Gold as he gestured toward the tent by the side of the road.

  “Tell him the tent is fine,” Gold said. “Come with me, Major,” he instructed Horton as he got out of the jeep, taking his briefcase with him.

  “What are you planning?” Horton quietly demanded as they followed the Russian to the tent. “Herman, dammit—what’s in that thing?”

  “You’ll see. For now, just hope it works,” Gold whispered.

  Just before he ducked inside the tent, he paused to gaze wistfully beyond the half-track, toward the MT-37 cargo plane parked on the tarmac a mere couple of hundred yards away. So near and yet so far, Gold sighed to himself. Well, here goes nothing, he thought as he entered the tent.

  Inside the tent there was only a table and two wooden chairs. The interior light was diffused and golden from the daylight penetrating the thin, sun-bleached canvas. Gold sat down in one of the chairs without waiting to be asked. He was a general, after all. He watched as the Russian reluctantly sat down across from him. Horton stood by Gold’s side.

  Gold put the briefcase on the table. The Russian stared at it warily, and then stared back and forth between Gold and Horton.

  “Offer him a smoke,” Gold told Horton. “That Russian who visited me in L.A. couldn’t get enough American tobacco.”

  Horton took a fresh pack of Chesterfields and a battered Zippo lighter from his pocket. He held the cigarettes out to the Russian, who stared at the pack with obvious hunger.

  “Give him the pack and tell him to keep it,” Gold said. Horton did so. The colonel looked grateful. “Give him your lighter. Tell him to keep it, as well.”

  Horton looked reluctant. “But that’s my lucky lighter—”

  “Do it!” Gold commanded. As he waited for Horton to explain that the lighter was a gift, he thought that the kid might be a terrific spy, but he didn’t know shit about negotiating a business deal.

  “Now, then,” Gold began calmly, “tell him that both sides have guns, but the last thing either of us wants is to start shooting.”

  The Russian listened to Horton as he tore the cellophane from the cigarette pack and used Horton’s Zippo to light up a smoke. The expression on his face as he inhaled was that of a man having sex. He continued to listen to what Horton had to say, and then said something in reply, meanwhile smiling at Gold.

  “He agrees that comrades do not shoot each other,” Horton said cynically.

  “That’s right, Colonel,” Gold smiled broadly, nodding vigorously at the Russian. “Comrades don’t shoot each other. They cooperate. As victorious comrades it is now our duty to do all we can to foster friendship between our peoples.”

  As Horton relayed the message, Gold unsnapped the locks on the briefcase, opened it, and turned it around to display its contents to the Russian. As Gold had hoped, the colonel’s one good eye almost popped out of its socket as he stared at the the two dozen Mickey Mouse wristwatches on pigskin straps. The light glinted off the shiny nickel-plated cases. The gaudy yellow, red, and black Mickey Mouses painted on the watch faces glowed like jewels beneath the sparkling crystals.

  The Russian reached tentatively to touch one of the watches. He breathed a query.

  “He wants to know if they’re bona fide American,” Horton chuckled softly.

  “Tell him that’s Mickey Mouse looking up at him, isn’t it?” Gold demanded. “And then tell him that a smart fellow like himself could peddle these watches to his comrades for a fortune in occupation currency.”

  The Russian, listening as Horton translated Gold’s words, seemed overwhelmed. He just kept nodding and staring down at the watches.

  “Tell the colonel that we are now prepared to leave this tent, leaving those watches behind. All he has to do is tell the half-track to move out of our way, and we’ll get on our plane and be out of here. That’ll be the end of it, and he can start thinking about how he’s going to enjoy his newfound wealth.”

  The Russian, listening as Horton translated, looked sad. He began to shake his head.

  “Of course, there’s the alternative,” Gold said, his tone growing cold. “He can dig in his heels and contact his superiors, and I can close up this briefcase and put it back in my jeep. What happens next is anyone’s guess, but it won’t be nearly as pleasant as receiving these watches.”

  The Soviet, listening to Horton, nodded. He was quiet for a moment, smoking his cigarette down to a nub before reluctantly grinding it out against the tabletop. He looked at Gold, who could see by the expressio
n on the Russian’s war-ravaged face that he was weighing his decision.

  Gold forced himself to look relaxed and unconcerned. Let the Russian think that he was offering this bribe merely to avoid the nuisance of a long delay.

  The Russian addressed Horton.

  “He wants to know if he can keep the briefcase,” Horton said, not quite able to keep the note of triumph out of his voice.

  Gold bit down hard on his tongue to keep from laughing.

  “Tell him he drives a hard bargain, but sure, we’ll throw in the briefcase.”

  Horton told him. The colonel quickly stood up. He ushered Gold and Horton from the tent, stuck his head through the flap, and called out an order to the half-track. It started up and was backed out of the way by the time Gold and Horton were back in their jeep.

  “Move out before scarface changes his mind,” Gold quietly said.

  Horton put the jeep in gear and rolled away. The trucks were right behind.

  “That was brilliant,” Horton complimented Gold.

  Sighing, Gold leaned back against the seat. “Remember that Russian I told you about?” he said expansively. “The one who visited me in L.A.? He couldn’t get enough crap: cigarette lighters, fountain pens … but especially wrist-watches.” He winked at Horton. “The gaudier, the better.”

  “Just fucking brilliant,” Horton repeated in admiration.

  Gold cracked a wide grin. “You know what? I think I just made the second greatest deal in history.”

  “How so?” Horton asked.

  Ahead, the MT-37’s ramp was looming. Horton beeped his horn. The cargo plane’s engines fired up, squirting blue smoke. Its props begun to turn as the aircrew prepared for a quick takeoff. The U.S. Army guards saluted as the convoy roared up the cargo plane’s ramp, into the sanctuary of the hold.

  “Remember how the Dutch bought Manhattan Island from the Indians for a few bucks’ worth of glass?” Gold asked Horton.

  “Yeah?”

  “Well, don’t tell this to Froehlig or any of those scientists,” Gold laughed. “It’d upset their precious Teutonic egos if they learned that I just bought myself the cream of Germany’s aviation science establishment for a handful of five-and-dime trinkets.”

  CHAPTER 7

  * * *

  (One)

  United States Army Air Force Base

  Iwo Jima

  6 August 1945

  Captain Steven Gold was standing at the crowded bar in the officers’ club. He was smoking a cigarette, staring into his bourbon on the rocks.

  He was doing his best to ignore the fact that the club was a madhouse of celebration.

  Somebody had commandeered the club’s phonograph and kept playing a scratchy copy of “You’d Be So Nice To Come Home To.” All around Steve men were singing and dancing, laughing and babbling in a drunken tumult. Normally staid officers were spilling booze on their uniforms in the rush to deliver toasts to each other, and to the large, hastily scrawled banner strung across the room:

  GOD BLESS TRUMAN AND THE ADAM BOMB

  It had been midmorning when Steve had heard about the B-29 that had dropped some kind of new bomb on the Japanese city of Hiroshima. The rumor had been that this Adam bomb (Adam supposedly being the name of the guy who’d invented it) had totally wiped out the city. That it was going to end the war and make an invasion of the Japanese mainland unnecessary.

  At first Steve had been skeptical, but as the details kept coming in throughout the day, he’d gradually accepted the news as the truth. So did the brass, evidently. They usually put the kabosh on these kinds of rumors, claiming that they were bad for morale. So far, though, they’d kept mum.

  A pilot from the squadron bumped into Steve and toasted him. Steve toasted the guy back. Steve was polite whenever tonight’s celebration touched him, but mostly he let it just swirl around him, the way frothing water moves around a stolid gray boulder plunked down in the middle of a rushing stream. He was able to shut out the happy commotion by mentally reliving all the action the Double Vees had seen since leaving Santa Belle last summer.

  The squadron had been all over the Pacific this last year, and the hunting had been good. Steve and his wingman, Captain Benny Detkin, had made an unbeatable team. In the spring the squadron had been assigned to Iwo Jima, and been equipped with new fighter planes: North American–built P-51 Mustangs. Steve thought he’d died and gone to heaven flying his Mustang for the first time. She was fast, potent, and in the right hands—his hands—nimble at any altitude. The Double Vees’ Mustangs were equipped with drop tanks. The squadron’s new assignment was to fly long-range fighter escort for the B-29s making bombing runs over Japan. They’d been doing it ever since.

  Steve had initially thought that helping to take the war home to the Japs would be satisfying, but he’d found the missions to be depressing. The enemy had been able to send up only a few antiquated airplanes to counter the bombing strikes which were laying smoldering waste to the Japanese cities built of wood and paper. Soon even that pitiful enemy fighter resistance had ceased. The missions had become pretty much milk runs.

  About that time it became obvious that the war was winding down. Lately it had become a pale imitation of itself, the way a love affair paled once passions cooled.

  But in war, like in love, every crummy action beat nothing at all, Steve thought, taking a sip of bourbon.

  He felt a hand on his shoulder and turned. Benny Detkin was smiling at him.

  “Steve, why the long face?” Benny asked loudly above the noise of the party. “Isn’t this bomb stuff great news?”

  “Yeah, sure….” Steve attempted a smile as Benny shouldered his way next to Steve at the crowded bar. He managed to get the harried bartender’s attention, and ordered a ginger ale.

  “Come on, we’ve been flying together a long time,” Benny said. “You can’t bullshit me. What’s eating you?”

  There were angry complaints by the phonograph as somebody bumped into it, sending the needle skidding across the record. A few moments later the song again began warbling through the room, sounding like the crooner was being accompanied by a frying pan full of bacon.

  “You want the truth, Benny?” Steve muttered. “I haven’t felt so glum since Roosevelt died. I’ve always known in the back of my mind that the war couldn’t last forever, but—” He paused, feeling ashamed for what he was about to say. “Benny, I don’t want it to stop.”

  “Huh?” Benny was eyeing him.

  “I don’t want the war to end.”

  “I can’t believe you,” Benny said, sounding angry. “How can anyone mourn the end of a war? Don’t you care about all the suffering?”

  “Of course I care,” Steve replied, annoyed. “But I don’t worry about it. I mean, I didn’t start this war, but I did grow up with it. One way or the other, I’ve been flying a fighter since I was seventeen. It’s been the only real job I’ve ever had, but now it looks like I’m about to be put out of work.”

  “Hey, Steve, snap out of it!” Benny laughed. “Take a look at yourself! You’re selling yourself short! You’re a captain with a chest full of medals and nineteen kills to your credit. Let’s see a little of that confidence you’ve shown in the cockpit.”

  That’s just it, Steve thought glumly. What confidence out of the cockpit?

  “There’s plenty of stuff you can do!” Benny was saying.

  “Like what?”

  “Well,” Benny hesitated, “you could go back to school. Go to college, like you’re always threatening to do!”

  Steve nodded, but he knew he would never willingly put himself back in a classroom. He was no student. His sister, Susan, was the kid in the family who’d been born with those kinds of smarts. She’d always been the A student, and outstanding in music, dance, swimming, horseback riding; anything and everything she’d ever tried.

  “Is that what you’re planning to do, Benny?” Steve asked. “You going back to law school?”

  “Yeah, I’m thinking about it,”
Benny said.

  “You should,” Steve said firmly. “You’ve got the brains, and you’ve got the gift of gab. You were born to make a swell lawyer.”

  “Thanks, I guess….” Benny chuckled. “But what about you?” he demanded, growing serious. “What were you born for?”

  “What are you getting at?” Steve asked. “Flying a fighter was what I was born to do. That’s my gift, such as it is.”

  “Steve, you’re Herman Gold’s son,” Benny said impatiently. “Your father has a huge company.”

  “I don’t want to hear this, Benny—”

  “It’s your duty to help your father run GAT,” Benny insisted. “It’s your fate—” Benny paused, thinking hard. “Just like when a prince takes over from the king!” he finished triumphantly.

  “I’m no prince,” Steve laughed. “And take it from me, my pop’s no king.”

  “You’re too close to look objectively at the situation,” Benny said, “or you’d realize that with your aptitude, working with your father is exactly what you should do.”

  “You’re wrong.” Steve said.

  “Okay, be that way,” Benny said, sounding angry. “Be stubborn! But you and I both know that you’re only trying to spite yor father.”

  “That’s not it,” Steve said quickly. “I’m not being stubborn or spiteful—really, I’m not.” He shrugged. “Maybe it started out that way, but that’s not the way it is anymore.”

  “Bullshit.” Benny began to turn away.

  “Listen to me,” Steve urged. “If I could, I’d have things different. I swear I would. You don’t know how often I daydream about going to work with my pop,” he said wistfully. “In my head I imagine how everyone sits up and takes notice of me as I lead the company my old man built to even greater heights.”

  “You could do it,” Benny encouraged.

  “No, I can’t do it,” Steve replied dully. “I wish I could sit behind an executive desk and know what to do, the way I know how to win while sitting in a fighter’s cockpit.” He shook his head. “But I don’t. I can’t….” he trailed off.