The Fly Boys (16 page)

“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….”

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 Horton. “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.

Horton and the Soviet officer were still jabbering at each other in Russian. Gold began to worry. In rehearsal the exchange
had never taken this long.

“What’s the problem here, Major?” Gold interrupted, trying his best to sound gruff and angry instead of frightened. In rehearsal
Gold had been coached that an authentic senior officer would react aggressively and in frustration to any delay caused by
the Russians.

“The colonel here seems to think that three vehicles are too many to be covered by one pass,” Horton muttered. “He wants us
to leave one truck behind.”

Gold nodded. Some petty bullshit from the Russians had been expected. The Russians knew that the United States Army had been
hamstrung by President Truman. The new President, preoccupied with domestic policies and the ongoing war with Japan, was not
prepared to face down Stalin. Despite that, it had never occurred to the stateside planners that the Reds would try and cut
down the convoy’s
size
. Both trucks were needed if the convoy was to have enough room for Froehlig and his six scientists.

Gold glared at the Russian officer as he spoke to Horton. “Major, you tell this fella that these stars I’m wearing means that
I’m an important
United States Army
officer, and that I don’t even go to the
fucking latrine
without an escort this size.”

As Gold had hoped, he saw a flicker of a smile cross the Russian’s face. The guy may not have known proper English, but he’d
picked up on Gold’s indignant tone and his use of the obscenity. No matter where you were born or what language you spoke,
you had to understand that only a VIP could take such imperious liberties.

The colonel listened as Horton conveyed Gold’s message. Meanwhile, Gold was hoping that the Russian officer would realize
that he had overplayed his hand, that an ill-tempered United States two-star general could not be stripped of his retinue
without causing an international incident.

The Soviet colonel was nodding. He briefly said something in Russian as he handed back the papers to Horton.

“The colonel has agreed to let us pass, sir,” Horton told Gold.

The Russian yelled a command toward the half-track. The armored vehicle started up. Its tank treads churned mud as it backed
away, clearing the road.

Horton put the jeep in gear and drove on. The trucks followed.

“Nice improvisation,” Horton softly told Gold.

“I just figured that since our pass is valid, the colonel was only authorized to push us until we resisted and then back off.
I’m just glad it worked.”

“I guess it did,” Horton said, sounding uncertain as he glanced in his side rear-view mirror. “He’s just standing there, watching
us.”

“To hell with him—we’re past him,” Gold said firmly. He paused. “Although it is a bad omen that he tried that bullshit with
us.”

Horton shrugged. “No point in worrying about it now. Let’s just hope somebody else is on duty when we come back,” he sighed.

Gold shook his head. “I never count on luck.” He patted the briefcase, which he had removed from beneath his seat and put
on his lap. “I—”

Gold’s words died in his throat as they left the Russian-held airfield behind, moving into the urban battleground that had
once been a thriving city.
My God
, Gold thought.
What has been done here?

The devastation was unbelievable. High dunes of rubble lined both sides of the road, and the stench of raw sewage filled the
air. Overhead, black, cawing scavenger birds wheeled and danced like furies.

As the convoy turned onto the Mehringdamm, it had to slow down in order to snake its way through a narrow canyon cut through
the high walls of rubble. Gold had plenty of time to study the gaunt women and children dressed in filthy scarecrow rags.
The people were moving like zombies as they picked what they could out of the garbage. The soldiers in the trucks who had
been chatting and laughing became subdued as the convoy passed the women with their silent, staring children. Gold wondered
what the men were thinking as they made this journey through this city of the dead.

The convoy drove across a bridge spanning the trash-strewn, oily waters of the Spree. Mounded rubble was everywhere, with
the occasional standing, skeletal remains of a building jutting against the sky, framing bright rectangles of blue within
the confines of its gutted windows.

Horton led the convoy around the desolate city for a couple of hours. He wanted to kill time and to discover whether the Reds
had graced the convoy with a tail. If there was a tail, the meandering route would hopefully convince the snoops that the
convoy really was on a mission to survey Berlin.