unending scream; steel ribs whipped downward from the top and sides of the
fuselage – snapping, contorted, sprung from their mountings.
A second explosion blew out the front cabin; sprays of blood and pieces of
flesh spat against the crumbling, spinning walls. A section of human scalp
with traces of burnt hairline under the bright, viscous red fluid slapped
into Spaulding’s forearm. Through the smoke David could see the bright
sunlight streaming through the front section of the careening plane.
The aircraft had been severed!
David knew instantly that he had only one chance of survival. The fuel
tanks were filled to capacity for the long Atlantic flight; they’d go up in
seconds. He reached for the buckle at his waist and ripped at it with all
his strength. It was locked; the hurling fall had caused the strap to bunch
and crowd the housing with
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cloth. He tugged and twisted, the snap sprung and he was free.
The plane – what was left of it – began a series of thundering convulsions
signifying the final struggle to come to a halt on the rushing, hilly
ground beyond the runway. David crashed backward, crawling as best he could
toward the rear. Once he was forced to stop and hug the deck, his face
covered by his arms, a jagged piece of metal piercing the back of his right
shoulder.
The cargo hatch was blown open; the air force sergeant lay half out of the
steel frame, dead, his chest ripped open from throat to rib cage.
David judged the distance to the ground as best his panic would allow and
hurled himself out of the plane, coiling as he did so for the impact of the
fall and the necessary roll away from the onrushing tail assembly.
The earth was hard and filled with rocks, but he was free. He kept rolling,
rolling, crawling, digging, gripping his bloodied hands into the dry, hard
soil until the breath in his lungs was exhausted.
He lay on the ground and heard the screaming sirens far in the distance.
And then the explosion that filled the air and shook the earth.
Priority high-frequency radio messages were sent back and forth between the
operations room of Lajes Airfield and Field Division, Fairfax.
David Spaulding was to be airlifted out of Terceira on the next flight to
Newfoundland, leaving in less than an hour. At Newfoundland he would be met
by a pursuit fighter plane at the air force base and flown directly to
Mitchell Field, New York. In light of the fact that Lieutenant Colonel
Spaulding had suffered no major physical disability, there would be no
change in the orders delivered to him.
The cause of the B-17 explosions and resultant killings was, without
question, sabotage. Timed out of Lisbon or set during the refueling process
at Lajes. An intensive investigation was implemented immediately.
Hollander and Ballantyne had been with David when he was examined and
treated by the British army doctor. Bandages around the sutures in his
right shoulder, the cuts on his hands and forearms cleaned, Spaulding
pronounced himself shaken but operable. The doctor left after administering
an intravenous sedative
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that would make it possible for David to rest thoroughly on the final legs
of his trip to New York.
‘I’m sure it will be quite acceptable for you to take a leave for a week or
so,’ said Hollander. ‘My God, you’re lucky to be among us!’
‘Alive is the word,’ added Ballantyne.
‘Am I a mark?’ asked Spaulding. ‘Was it connected with meT
‘Fairfax doesn’t think so,’ answered the balding Hollander. ‘They think
it’s coincidental sabotage.’
Spaulding watched the Az-Am agent as he spoke. It seemed to David that
Hollander hesitated, as if concealing something.
‘Narrow coincidence, isn’t it? I was the only passenger’
‘If the enemy can eliminate a large aircraft and a pilot in the bargain,
well, I imagine he considers that progr~ss. And Lisbon security is rotten.’
‘Not where I’ve been. Not generally.’
‘Well, perhaps here at Terceira, then…. I’m only telling you what Fairfax
thinks.’
There was a knock on the dispensary door and Ballantyne opened it. A first
lieutenant stood erect and spoke gently, addressing David, obviously aware
that Spaulding had come very close to death.
‘It’s preparation time, sir. We should be airborne in twenty minutes, Can
I help you with anything?’
‘I haven’t got anything, lieutenant. Whatever I had is in that mass of
burnt rubble in the south forty.’
‘Yes, of course. I’m sorry.’
‘Don’t be. Better it than me…. I’ll be right with you.’ David turned to
Ballantyne and Hollander, shaking their hands.
As he said his last good-bye to Hollander, he saw it in the agent’s eyes.
Hollander was hiding something.
The British naval commander opened the screen door of the gazebo and walked
in. Paul Hollander rose from the deck chair.
‘Did you bring iff he asked the officer.
‘Yes.’ The commander placed his attach6 case on the single wrought-iron
table and snapped up the hasps. He took out an envelope and handed it to
the American. ‘The photo lab did a rather fine job. Well lighted, front and
rear views. Almost as good as having the real item.’
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Hollander unwound the string on the envelope’s flap and removed a
photograph. It was an enlargement of a small medallion, a star with six
points.
It was the Star of David.
In the center of the face was the scrolled flow of a Hebrew inscription. On
the back was the bas-relief of a knife with a streak of lightning
intersecting the blade.
‘The Hebrew spells out the name of a prophet named Haggai; he’s the symbol
of an organization of Jewish fanatics operating out of Palestine. They call
themselves the Haganah. Their business, they claim, is vengeance – two
thousand years’ worth. We anticipate quite a bit of trouble from them in
the years to come; they’ve made that clear, I’m afraid.’
‘But you say it was welded to the bottom main strut of the rear cabin.’
‘In such a way as to escape damage from all but a direct explosion. Your
aircraft was blown up by the Haganah.’
Hollander sat down staring at the photograph. He looked up at the British
commander. ‘Why? For God’s sake, why?’
‘I can’t answer that.’
‘Neither can Fairfax. I don’t think they even want to acknowledge it. They
want it buried.’
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14
DECEMBER 27,1943 WASHINGTON, D.C.
When the words came over his intercom in the soft, compensating voice of the
WAC lieutenant who was his secretary, Swanson knew it was no routine
communication.
‘Fairfax on line one, sir. It’s Colonel Pace. He says to interrupt you.’
Since delivering David Spaulding’s file, the Fairfax commander had been
reluctant to call personally. He hadn’t spoken of his reluctance, he simply
relegated messages to subordinates. And since they all concerned the
progress of getting Spaulding out of Portugal, Pace’s point was clear: he
would expedite but not personally acknowledge his participation.
Edmund Pace was still not satisfied with the murky ‘highest priority’
explanations regarding his man in Lisbon. He would follow orders
once-removed.
‘General, there’s a radio emergency from Lajes Field in Terceira,’said Pace
urgently.
‘What the hell does that mean? WhereT
‘Azores. 7be B-17 carrier with Spaulding on it was sabotaged. Blown up on
takeoff.’
‘Jesus I’
‘May I suggest you come out here, sirT
‘Is Spaulding deadT
‘Preliminary reports indicate negative, but I don’t want to guarantee
anything. Everything’s unclear. I wanted to wait till 1
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had further confirmations but I can’t now. An unexpected development.
Please, come out, general.’
‘On my way. Get the information on Spaulding!’
Swanson gathered the papers on his desk – the information from Kendall –
that had -to be clipped together, sealed in a thin metal box and locked in
a file cabinet with two combinations and a key.
If there was ever a reason for total security, it was symbolized by those
papers.
He spun the two combination wheels, turned the key and then thought for a
second that he might reverse the process and take the papers with him….
No, that was unsound. They were safer in the cabinet. A file cabinet
riveted to the floor was better than a cloth pocket on a man who walked in
the street and drove in automobiles. A file cabinet could not have
accidents; was not subject to the frailties of a tired,
fifty-three-year-old brigadier.
He saluted the guard on duty at the entrance and walked rapidly down the
steps to the curb. His driver was waiting, alerted by the WAC secretary,
whose efficiency overcame her continuous attempts to be more than an
efficient secretary to him. He knew that one day when the pressures became
too much, he’d ask her in, lock the door and hump the ass off her on the
brown leather couch.
Why was he thinking about his secretary? He didn’t give a goddamn about the
WAC lieutenant who sat so protectively outside his office door.