“One more fact bearing on the problem,” Claudette said. “Major Wallace said to reserve a room here, long term, for a CIC agent named Hammersmith. What’s that all about?”
“You said Hammersmith?”
“CIC Supervisory Special Agent John D. ‘Jack’ Hammersmith.”
“If that’s who I think it is, he’s a heavy-duty CIC agent I knew when I was in Marburg. He used to be a major, now that I think about it. I have no idea what it’s about. Probably something to do with what happened to you last night. Ready, Freddy?”
“Yes, sir.”
III
[ ONE ]
Kloster Grünau
Schollbrunn, Bavaria
American Zone of Occupation, Germany
1005 24 January 1946
“Follow me through, Tom,” Cronley ordered.
“Yes, sir,” Winters replied, and put his hand very lightly on the stick of the Fieseler Fi-156 Storch, and then put his feet very lightly on the rudder pedals.
“First we put the flaps down,” Cronley said, as he pointed the nose of the aircraft at a dirt road just outside a small compound in the foothills of the Bavarian Alps.
Flaps came out of the trailing edge of the aircraft’s wing.
The Storch—a high-wing three-seater with long-legged landing gear, hence Storch, which is German for “stork”—was painted a dull black. Visible on the wings and fuselage from, say, fifty feet, but no farther than that, were the insignias identifying it as a military aircraft in the service of the U.S. Army.
“Which of course slows us down,” Cronley said conversationally, “which, in turn, causes the leading edge of the wing, previously held in place by air pressure, to drop.”
Winters looked up at the wing in time to see the leading edge drop.
“I’ll be damned,” he said.
“No man is without sin,” Cronley said. “Which in turn slows us down even more, at the same time giving us a little more lift.”
Ten seconds later he said, “Which permits us to land at about forty kilometers an hour. I presume you’ve noticed the airspeed and altimeter give readings in klicks?”
“Yes, sir.”
The wheels chirped as they touched down.
“Which in turn permits us to stop in about two hundred, two hundred fifty feet.”
The Storch slowed and stopped.
“That’s amazing,” Winters said. “It stalls at forty kilometers?”
“A little under that,” Cronley said, and then added, “You have the aircraft. Taxi to the end of the runway and turn it around.”
When Winters reached the end of the runway—which was actually a dirt road—he saw that two jeeps were waiting for them. One, with a pedestal-mounted .50 caliber Browning machine gun, held two Poles. The other held a first sergeant, a black man, and a man in triangle ODs.
/> “You want me to go through that again,” Cronley asked, “or do you think you can take off and land safely at your present skill level?” He paused, but before Winters could reply, he added, “If you make me go through it again, I will be annoyed. If you bend my bird trying to get it back onto the ground, I will really be annoyed. Your call.”
“He’s going to take off again?” a third voice, belonging to the man in the third seat, came over their headsets.