Beneath Still Waters

Brandt thought about it for a moment and then shrugged. “I’ve survived so far. I don’t know if that makes me a good pilot or just a lucky one.”

The remark was flirting dangerously close to disaster, for to speak ill of the war was tantamount to treason in the eyes of many Party officials, but Brandt found that he just didn’t care anymore. The Führer asked him a question; he gave a truthful answer. If that was a treasonous response, so be it.

Hitler watched him closely for several seconds and then laughed quietly. “Skilled or lucky, either one will do, I suppose.”

He stood and leaned over the map. “We are here,” he said, pointing.

Brandt stepped closer so that he could see.

“Your destination is here,” Hitler continued, moving his finger to the southeast. “You will refuel here, here and here. Crews are already in place, ready to service the aircraft in case you run into difficulty along the way.”

Difficulty. An interesting way to describe running headlong into a hornet’s nest of Allied aircraft. But then again, according to headquarters, we are actually winning this war, Brandt thought.

His feelings aside, he had to admit that the route had been well planned; the refueling stops were close to the range of his aircraft but not dangerously so and as a result he would have some extra fuel to maneuver with. Given that the Allies were pushing north out of Italy and Greece, he had no doubt that he was going to need it. It would have been safer to go northwest across territory controlled by the Soviets, given the state of their air force at present, but that would have meant refueling in enemy territory, which was clearly out of the question. No, southwest it would have to be, over the Alps and through Romania, then into Greece and Turkey. Once he was past the Turks, it would be smooth sailing from that point forward.

You can do this, he told himself. A little skill, a little luck, and you’ll be free of this place, this war, once and for all.

“Any cargo?”

“Fifteen hundred pounds of supplies and this,” Hitler said, passing him a leather satchel as he spoke. “You are to deliver both to General Giesler upon your arrival at your destination, is that understood?”

“Yes, my Führer.”

The fifteen hundred pounds would bring the weight of his loaded aircraft to just over thirty thousand pounds, but that was still a few thousand pounds below his maximum takeoff weight. It was no different from carrying a full complement of 500-pound bombs, really. It would cost him some speed and maneuverability in the air, but he was going to have to live with that.

“Will there be any fighter escorts to help me break the Allied lines?” Brandt asked.

“No,” Hitler told him. “I believe a single aircraft has a greater chance of breaking through undetected than a full squadron. Crews are loading your plane now, and you will leave as soon as possible.”

He came around the table to stand in front of Brandt, eye to eye.

“I cannot stress enough the importance of your mission, Major. It is not an exaggeration to say that the future of the Reich is in your hands. You must not fail or all we have worked for will be lost!”

For just a split second Brandt was tempted to speak the truth, that everyone but the madman in front of him already knew that they had lost, that it had all been in vain, but he squashed that notion before he could give voice to it and commit suicide by doing so. Instead, he simply clamped his heels together and threw out another salute.

“Heil Hitler!”

That seemed to satisfy the other man, who grunted an acknowledgment and turned away to study the map once more.

Brandt took that as a dismissal and headed for the door, where he was met once again by his SS escorts, who walked him back to his quarters.

* * *

BRANDT STOOD AT the edge of the makeshift runway and watched with satisfaction as the mechanics swarmed over his aircraft, preparing it for the flight to come. With parts being in such scarce supply over the past few months, he was normally concerned about letting men unfamiliar to him near the plane, but given that he was on a mission for Hitler himself, he was confident that his beloved Junkers was getting the best care possible.

He and that aircraft had been together for the past four years, and he had begun to think of it more as a companion than a vehicle. They had seen each other through some hairy moments and even hairier missions, and the Junkers had become a talisman to him; as long as he was behind the controls of that aircraft, he’d live to fight another day. If he was going to survive the flight to come, he was going to need her to be in top shape.

The sound of an approaching train drew his attention, and he turned to watch a locomotive pull into the station a hundred yards away. No sooner had it stopped than a work team slipped out of one of the cars and quickly began unloading large wooden crates onto a waiting truck. The crates were heavy; it took four men to carry one of them. Brandt could see more of the same stacked in the car they were unloading, and he wondered just what they contained.

Looks like you are going to find out, he thought, as the truck pulled away from the train and headed directly for the crew waiting by the bomb-bay doors underneath each wing.

Intrigued, Brandt wandered over.

As he drew closer, he could see black lettering stamped on the side of each box.

Magyar Nemzeti Bank.

He knew enough Hungarian to be able to translate.

Hungarian National Bank.

Hitler’s words came back to him. “The future of the Reich is in your hands.”

Now he understood. The fifteen hundred extra pounds of weight he would be carrying was most likely gold and silver bullion looted from the Hungarian national treasury and was no doubt designed to fund whatever operation General Giesler was putting together halfway around the world.

If it is, you could buy your way to freedom with it, a voice spoke up in the back of his mind. Just fly right over Allied lines and deliver yourself, the plane and its cargo into their hands in exchange for your freedom.

It wasn’t a bad idea, provided the crates actually did contain treasure looted from the bank.

There was only one way to find out.

As Brandt approached, he called out to the crew chief. “Bring me a pry bar. I want to know what’s in those crates before they’re put aboard my aircraft.”

The crew chief turned to comply, but a voice from inside the aircraft stopped him.

“I’m afraid that’s not possible, Major.”

Brandt looked up into the interior of his aircraft to find the same SS officer he’d dealt with earlier, Major Adler, looking down at him from inside the bay.

“The crates are to remain sealed. Orders.” The officer smiled as he said it, as if he knew it was going to cause issues for Brandt and he was waiting for the inevitable confrontation.

Brandt wasn’t going to give him one. He knew that he could always open one of the crates at the first refueling stop if need be, far from Major Adler’s prying eyes, and if he discovered it to be the treasure he suspected it was, he could decide what to do with it from there. A fortune in gold and silver could set him up very nicely for the rest of his life in quite a few countries. He gave a smile of his own, trying to look reassuring in the process. “Of course, Major. Orders. Now the crew and I have a lot to do to get ready for takeoff, so if you wouldn’t mind, please get out of my aircraft.”

Another smile.

“I’m afraid I can’t do that.”

Brandt paused, a sudden suspicion forming. “And why not, Major?”

“Because I’m going with you, of course,” Adler said.

Chapter 2 (#ulink_06b34a5f-6998-506a-87f3-a0d456d544cd)

Honestly, he should have seen it coming; he knew that. With a plane full of treasure and Hitler’s personal papers in hand, he shouldn’t have expected to make the trip alone. It would have been too easy to do exactly what he’d been thinking of doing, turning over the plane and its cargo to the Allies. An ordinary soldier wouldn’t have worked as a guard, for he might have been convinced to abandon his post given the failing war effort, Brandt knew.

But an officer of the Waffen SS, the most fanatical of all Nazi units? That was the perfect choice. Brandt had no doubt that Adler would carry out his orders to the letter no matter what was happening on the home front, and nothing Brandt could say to him was going to change that. Especially since their orders had been hand delivered by Hitler.

Best make the most of it, he’d thought to himself and set out to do just that.