Part 41 (1/2)
8.
CAIRO, EGYPT 1225 HOURS 20 FEBRUARY 1943.
Captain Stanley S. Fine resisted the temptation to let Lt. Colonel Peter Dougla.s.s, Jr., who was riding as copilot, land the B-17F. Doug Dougla.s.s, despite the expected fighter pilot's denigration of the ”flying barge,” was obviously fascinated with the bomber. He would have liked to make the landing, and he probably would have handled it onto the wide and long runway without any trouble at all. He was an experienced pilot, and he had been an apt pupil.
But the moment they had taken off from Fersfield, Fine had been very much aware that they had crossed a line. From now on, everything was dead serious. There was no excuse whatever for taking any kind of a chance, no matter how slight.
Nothing had been said between them, but Dougla.s.s had seemed to understand and had conducted himself as a copilot should, making no control movements at all without first getting Fine's permission.
Fine set the B-17F down smoothly within two hundred feet of the threshold, then lowered it gently down onto the tail wheel.
”Call the tower?” Dougla.s.s's voice came over the intercom.
”Please,” Fine said.
”Cairo, Army Triple Zero Four on the ground at twenty-five past the hour,” Dougla.s.s said. ”Request taxi instructions. ”
”Triple Zero Four, take Taxiway Two Right and find yourself a place to park with the other B-17s on the line.”
Dougla.s.s looked over at Fine. He was surprised. Ten minutes before, Cairo had acknowledged the ”This is Eighth Air Force Flight Five Six Six” message that was supposed to alert OSS Cairo that they had arrived. Dougla.s.s did not expect the B-17 to be ordered to find itself a place to park with the other 17s on the line.
Fine looked surprised, too.
Dougla.s.s pressed the mike b.u.t.ton.
”Cairo, Triple Zero Four, say again your last transmission. You were garbled.”
Cairo repeated the order.
There were a dozen B-17s and B-24s, and twice that many other transient aircraft on the parking line, but there was no sign of Canidy's B-25.
Fine taxied the B-17 to the end of the line, parked it in a line with another B-17, shut it down, and prepared the flight doc.u.ments.
A gas truck, a brand-new General Motors semitrailer, stopped just off the taxiway in front of them, and a crew got off and began to unroll fueling hoses.
”I'll go see what's going on,” Fine said, unstrapping his harness. ”I think we had better keep our pa.s.sengers aboard.”
Fine opened the access hatch and lowered himself through it. Dougla.s.s went through the bomb bay into the rear of the fuselage. The team was peering out the gun ports.
”Colonel?” Janos asked. ”Can we get off?”
”Not yet,” Dougla.s.s said. ”Somebody f.u.c.ked up. There's n.o.body here to meet us.”
”That figures,” Janos said.
It was already getting hot in the fuselage; Dougla.s.s felt sweat under his arms and on his forehead as he saw it pop out on Janos's face.
”f.u.c.k it,” he said. ”I don't see any point in melting. Get out, get in the shade of the wing, but don't stray off. And don't take anything with you.”
He went to the side door in the fuselage and opened it, then waited until the last of the team had gotten out before getting out himself.
The team was gone when he got outside, and he saw that a Dodge ambulance had been backed up to the nose of the B-17. Normally, Dodge ambulance bodies had huge red crosses painted on their sides and roof; this one did not.
”You get to ride in front, Colonel,” a voice called, and he saw a hand gesture toward the front of the vehicle.
Dougla.s.s walked to the ambulance and got in.
The driver was a sergeant, and Dougla.s.s had his mouth open to ask him where they were being taken when a familiar voice spoke.
”The s.h.i.+t's. .h.i.tting the fan.”
Dougla.s.s looked into the back of the ambulance. The narrow benches on each side were jammed with people, and one of them was Lt. Commander John Dolan.
”Canidy went into Hungary,” Dolan went on.
”Jesus!” Dougla.s.s said, then: ”How are you? There was word you had a terminal case of the GIs.”
”I'm better,” Dolan said.
”Where are we going?”
”They got a villa,” Dolan said. ”Very nice, swimming pool and everything.”
”Does anybody know why d.i.c.k went into Hungary?” Dougla.s.s asked.
”Does anybody know why he does anything?” Dolan replied. ”They're trying to get a message to him to get his a.s.s out of there. Everything's on hold until we see if that works.”
”Who's 'they're'?” Dougla.s.s asked.
”Donovan himself,” Dolan said. ”They're apparently really p.i.s.sed.”
Wilkins, the Cairo Station Chief, was waiting for them at the villa. A lunch had been laid out for everyone at the side of the pool. There was no sense of urgency, and both Fine and Dougla.s.s were annoyed. But as they were eating, a distinguished-looking man in a stiffly starched but tieless s.h.i.+rt came to the table and handed Wilkins a sheet of paper.
Wilkins glanced at it, then handed it to Dougla.s.s.
”Sorry, Colonel,” he said. ”But I didn't know where exactly you fitted into this.”
Dougla.s.s read it.
TOP SECRETFROM OSS WAs.h.i.+NGTON TO OSS CAIROLT COL PETER DOUGLa.s.s JR USAAC IS AUTHORIZED ACCESS TO SUCH CLa.s.sIFIED MATERIAL IN CONNECTION WITH CURRENT MISSION AS IS DEEMED ABSOLUTELY NECESSARY REPEAT ABSOLUTELY NECESSARY BY STATION CHIEF CAIRO AND PHARMACIST TWO DONOVAN.
”Well,” Dougla.s.s said, ”it's nice to know I'm to be trusted, if absolutely necessary.”
Wilkins did not seem amused.