Road of Bones Read online

  “Bandits! Nine o’clock!”

  “Closing fast. Mick?”

  “I see ’em.”

  Heller’s twin fifties blasted away, along with the waist gunner and Carter on his left cheek gun. I saw tracers flash across our bow and in a split second two Me 109s sped by, one after the other. The bombardier fired at them with his two guns in the chin turret as I cut loose, too late to hit the leading plane, but I swear I hit his wingman, sparks lighting up his fuselage.

  It was exhilarating, I gotta admit.

  “Four more!”

  “Where, dammit?”

  “Ten o’clock high!”

  Machine guns let loose all around us as the Me 109s dove into the formation, twisting and turning, darting between bombers, and scoring hits as they weaved their way in and out of the bomber stream, putting on one helluva show. These guys were good.

  But so were our fighter jockeys, who were too smart to follow the Fritzes into the maelstrom of fire that greeted them. Above us, they circled, waiting to pounce as soon as the Messerschmitts got clear.

  “I think I hit one!” I said, keying my mic and unable to rein in my enthusiasm.

  “We all think we hit ’em. Keep your eyes open. Petey, you okay back there?” That was Heller, the flight engineer and basically the top dog among the enlisted men.

  “Havin’ the time of my life, Mick,” Petey answered. “Here they come again, pair on our six!”

  Guns shattered the air, Petey in the tail position and Mick in the top turret getting a bead on the two fighters. For all the silence you’d expect five miles up, it was blisteringly noisy.

  “I got him, the fucking Nazi bastard, I got him!” Petey was whooping and hollering over the intercom.

  “Jesus, Jesus, Jesus.”

  “He’s smoking,” Carter reported.

  “Spiraling down,” Willis said. “Confirmed kill, Petey.”

  There was a lot of chatter over Petey’s victory, but Willis told the crew to knock it off and stay alert. Good advice. It should have been easy to stay alert between the sharp wind, frigid temps, and Germans trying to kill me, but I felt exhausted. Drained. I leaned against the cold metal, hunched over my weapon, and scanned the sky for more fighters.

  I tried to rub my eyes, but my cheeks were numb, and all I managed to do was knock ice crystals off my eyelids. I caught sight of Sweet Lorraine, sunlight glinting off the aluminum frame. B-17s were arriving unpainted these days, no need for camouflage paint which added unnecessary weight. With contrails streaming behind us, and reflected light from the sun brightly flashing off airframes, we were signaling our presence to anyone within miles.

  There were so many Allied aircraft over Europe these days that stealth was not deemed necessary. But up here, with several of our original number gone, it felt like unnecessary bravado to me.

  I leaned over to Carter and shouted, asking if we were still over Germany.

  “Poland,” he answered, pointing to a smudge on the distant horizon. “Krakow.”

  Kaz had a cousin in Krakow, I think. I’d have to remember to tell him I’d seen the city. And to give him a hard time about his comfortable first-class ride, while Big Mike and I froze our tails off. As the formation droned on, I began to think about all the things I wanted to do once we were on the ground in one piece. Like get warm. Sample some Russian vodka. Catch a killer.

  Simple stuff.

  Enemy fighters left us alone for a while. Carter announced that the Russian front lines should be coming up soon. We were down to twenty thousand feet now, and it was a little easier to make out landmarks below, including the Vistula River, which the Soviet forces were approaching. I spotted several thin plumes of smoke marking the clash of armies. Not much to see at this distance, but if we could spot if from four miles up, there had to be a lot of death and destruction going on at ground level.

  “Friendly territory below,” Carter said over the intercom a few minutes later. Good news too, since we were swarmed by a dozen fighters right away. But they never got close to our ship and scattered as soon as the P-51s engaged.

  “Look alive, boys,” Willis said. “We may have company soon.”

  I shrugged in Carter’s direction. He grabbed my arm and leaned in, pulling down his oxygen mask. “Those guys might be too low on fuel to hit us hard. But they might tail us and radio other squadrons to join in, then attack. Sometimes they follow us right to the base.”

  “Don’t the Russians escort you in?” I shouted.

  “Hell, we’ll be lucky if they don’t fire on us. Trigger-happy bastards.”

  With that reassuring notion, I went back to my gun. We left the smoke-shrouded front lines behind, and soon Carter told us the Soviet border was coming up. Now we were over the Ukraine, one of the many republics of the USSR. All I really knew about it was that it was a big place filled with dead bodies, two of which got us sent here.

  “Bandits dead ahead!”

  “One o’clock high!”

  “Here they come, diving low.”

  I saw the German fighters. There were a lot of them, and they seemed to be coming straight at me.

  Silver Mustangs chased the fighters, a mix of Me 109s and Focke-Wulf 190s. Some of the Germans broke away and got tangled in dogfights with the P-51s, but the bulk of them kept coming in a frontal attack.

  A dangerous tactic, but one that paid dividends if they took out the pilot and copilot. Then there was nothing to do but bail out. I watched the tracers zipping ahead of the fighters, hitting Forts as the fighters dove and darted to not give us a steady target.

  A burst of flame, and a Fort fell from formation, trailing fire and smoke. The fighters were on us. I aimed at the closest one, but he dove and rolled, coming up beneath my gun’s arc, firing as he turned away from our aircraft, his wingman following.

  I sprayed the air with fire, hoping to at least distract their aim. I sighed with relief as they passed to our right, then shook it off and readied myself for another attack. A pair of Fw 190s swooped from above, hammering away with their 20mm cannon. I followed the two of them, hoping to score a hit, but my tracers fell short.

  They broke right, headed straight for Sweet Lorraine. I saw she’d already been hit, the nose cone shattered and the chin turret silent. Cannon fire raked the cockpit before the Fw 190s pulled up and raced away, leaving the Fortress shattered and wobbling in midair.

  Big Mike.

  Where was he? If they’d stashed him up front, he was a dead man.

  “Sweet Lorraine is going down,” Heller said. “They got Franks and Schwarz for sure.”

  No pilot, no copilot, no hope.

  The Fortress slowed and lost altitude, heading nose down. It vanished beneath our wing, and I keyed my microphone.

  “Parachutes. Do you see ’chutes? How many?”

  “None.”

  “Wait, here they come.” That was the ball turret gunner, who’d have the best view. “One. Two. Three and four. One more. Oh shit. Jesus, Jesus, Jesus.”

  “She’s going into a spin,” Petey said. “No one else is getting out.”

  Five parachutes. A ten-man crew plus Big Mike. I didn’t like the odds, not one damn bit.

  I felt sick.

  I slumped against the gun, resting my head against the chilled plexiglass.

  “What’s our position?” I managed to croak into the throat mic.

  “Thirty miles northwest of Kozova, Ukraine,” Carter answered.

  “We’ll radio the coordinates, Boyle,” Willis said.

  “Will our people send out aircraft?” I asked. “Or ask the Russians to send out a patrol?”

  “No. It doesn’t work that way out here,” Willis said. “God help them, they’re on their own. Now keep your eyes peeled, dammit. This is no time to slack off.”

  I tried to focus, tried to watch for tiny speck
s in the sky ready to turn deadly. It was all a blur of contrails and memories. Meeting Big Mike in Sicily. All the times he got me out of a tough jam. His Detroit cop stories. How he could wind senior brass around his oversized pinky and scrounge whatever was needed to keep them happy.

  Could he really be dead?

  I couldn’t imagine it. He was Big Mike.

  Larger than life.

  He wasn’t dead.

  Jesus, Jesus, Jesus.

  Chapter Four

  “Hold your fire! Hold your fire!”

  “Yaks, two o’clock low.”

  “Skipper, maybe we oughta give ’em a warning shot, uh?”

  “Hold your fire and shut up.”

  “What the hell is happening?” I asked.

  “Russian fighters,” Willis said. “They’re known to shoot first and not answer any questions later.”

  Three Yak-9 fighters swooped through the formation, big red stars clear and bright against their dull green camouflaged fuselages. They didn’t shoot, but they did seem reckless, flying too damn close to our wing and diving under the B-17 in front of us.

  The formation had descended, those Forts with wounded aboard given priority for landing. My priority was to get to Bull Dawson and make sure he mounted a rescue mission to bring in Big Mike. He knew him and was a general to boot. He was sure to have some leverage around here. The Bull I’d known got things done.

  Finally, it was the Banshee Bandit’s turn to land. We thumped down on the steel matting laid out over a dirt runway, and I got my first close look at the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics. All I saw was a muddy field and a row of bombed out buildings on the far side. We taxied and followed the directions from ground crew in jeeps, a mix of Americans and Russians, as far as I could tell from the dirty uniforms. We passed rows of B-17s and B-24 Liberators, along with a few C-47 transport aircraft. They all seemed crammed together with no attempt at camouflage. Aircraft were usually dispersed and at least draped with netting to hide them.

  “What gives?” I said, finally able to speak normally without the oxygen mask strapped to my face.

  “Rules,” Carter said. “The Russkies love their rules. We have to stay close to the assigned runway. Makes no sense to bunch up all those aircraft, but that’s how things work here. Meaning mainly, they don’t.”

  We clambered down from the Fort, shedding wool-lined jackets, gloves, and heavy pants. Jeeps pulled up to the Fortresses lined up in a row, and crews began to pile in for the debriefing, toting their duffels. A few yards away, Russian soldiers were in a line, rifles sporting two-foot bayonets on their shoulders and their faces draped with scowls.

  I savored the solid ground, even though it didn’t seem like friendly territory. It was earth and I was upright, which was enough to be thankful for. I prayed Big Mike was on his feet as well.

  Another jeep drove up, this one at high speed, with a Russian at the wheel. A lady Russian attired in an olive green uniform. She slammed on the brakes and jumped out. Up close I noticed her light blue shoulder boards matched her eyes.

  “Captain William Boyle!” she shouted. I raised my hand and she gave me a snappy salute. “I am Lieutenant Maiya Akilina. Leave your bag, our men will take care of it. You are to come with me.”

  “Where to?” I asked, returned her salute.

  “Don’t waste your breath asking questions,” Willis said as he got into a jeep. “Maiya’s one of General Ilia Belov’s interpreters. He’s the base commander, for the Russians, anyway. He’s a man of many demands and few answers.”

  “Captain Boyle, please hurry,” she said. I tossed the rest of my cold-weather gear into Willis’s jeep and got in next to Maiya.

  “Your English is very good,” I said.

  “I have had much practice here, Captain, since no Americans have bothered to learn Russian,” she said, gunning the engine and executing a turn that sent ground crew scattering. “A very big mistake, if you do not mind my saying.”

  “Well, I never thought I’d pay your country a visit,” I said, holding onto my forage cap as she accelerated. Sandy-colored hair flew back from under her service cap, and she smiled, her cheekbones riding high.

  “And I never thought I would be able to practice my English with you Americans. It is so different from the English I learned at school. What’s buzzin’, cuzzin?”

  “What’s cozy, Rosie?” I answered, and she laughed.

  “I do not know what all the phrases mean, but I do enjoy Mister Cab Calloway,” Maiya said. “They play his records in the officers’ club.”

  “Where are you taking me?” I asked.

  “General Belov wishes to greet you,” she said. “It is an honor.”

  “Coffee would also be an honor,” I said. “It’s been a tough day. Tell me, how do I go about organizing a search party? Some of our guys had to bail out near Kozova.”

  “The Red Army will find them, do not worry,” she said, taking a turn onto a road that once had been lined with buildings, some four stories high. All ruined now, bombed, burned, and blackened. “This was a major air base before the Germans came. A city unto itself. They destroyed everything when they left.”

  “Yeah, they’re big on destruction. But shouldn’t we alert the troops in the Kozova area?”

  “You may ask General Belov,” she said. “But foreigners are not allowed to roam about the country. The Red Army will apprehend them.”

  “You mean rescue,” I said, as she took a corner without slowing.

  “You may ask General Belov,” she repeated. “There are spies everywhere. Germans in our uniforms. Polish bandits, fascist Ukrainians. It is dangerous.”

  She pulled up in front of a row of wooden buildings. Recently built, some of them with the planks still unpainted, they ran along a road facing a tall apartment building with soot-stained gaping windows and a caved-in roof, blackened timbers jutting out at odd angles.

  “Your barracks are at the end of the street,” Maiya said as she got out of the jeep, smoothing down the folds of her uniform and taking a deep breath. “This is the joint US-Soviet operations center.”

  “Is Belov a tough boss?”

  “You may ask General Belov,” she said. She took the four steps onto a wide porch and opened the door, holding it for me. I had to admit, that was a pretty useful line.

  I went in, Maiya on my heels. She guided me past a nest of desks where Russian and American clerks sat, working telephones and typewriters. Then to an office with General Dawson on the nameplate. She knocked and ushered me in.

  “I will inform General Belov you are here,” she said, turning on the heel of her black boot.

  “Billy, it’s good to see you,” Bull Dawson said, stepping out from behind his desk to shake my hand. “Welcome to Station 559.”

  “Not exactly pleased to be here, General, but at least I arrived in one piece. Can’t say the same for Big Mike. His plane was shot down. Five parachutes.” The room felt hot. Sweat soaked my back and I reached for a chair to steady myself. Then I shivered, as if the ice-cold sky was still with me.

  “Christ,” Bull said, guiding me to the chair. “Have a seat. You sure you’re not hurt?”

  “I’m okay,” I said. “Just bone tired. What can we do about Big Mike? We gotta find him.”

  “Hang on,” Bull said, and grabbed the phone. He ordered sandwiches and coffee to be brought in, along with a Major Black. “Let’s get some grub into you first.”

  “Who’s Black, General?”

  “OSS. He’s here as part of joint operations between the OSS and the NKVD. He understands how they think better than most. I figured he could help. So, you don’t know for sure if Big Mike was one of the five?”

  “He was,” I said, avoiding the other possibility. “But the question is, what are you going to do about our five guys lost out there?”

  “Where, exa
ctly?”

  “Northwest of Kozova. Carter, the navigator on the Banshee Bandit, said he’d radioed in the coordinates.”

  “That’s almost five hundred miles west of here,” Bull said, leaning back in his chair and pointing to a map on the wall. “There’s a lot of Soviet ground out there. The good news is they didn’t bail out over German-held territory.”

  “That’s what passes for good news around here,” said a US Army major holding the door open for a corporal bearing a plate of sandwiches and a pot of coffee.

  “Billy, this is Preston Black. He’s with the OSS Mission. He works closely with the NKVD and I thought he could give you advice on working with them,” Bull said.

  “I’m working with the NKVD?” I said, nodding my thanks to the corporal and grabbing a bacon sandwich.

  “It’s inescapable,” Black said. “Assume every Russian you speak with will report the conversation back to an NKVD officer. They’re the ones with the blue bands on their caps. But their influence is everywhere.”

  “What about the Russian cop I’m working with?” I asked, getting the words out around a mouthful.

  “Whatever uniform he shows up in, assume he’s NKVD, and that his primary goal is to pin these murders on an American and extract something from us as well. It could be propaganda points, war materials, or control over the targets we bomb,” Black said.

  “He’s not here yet? Christ, I made it here from England in record time and lost Big Mike along the way. I thought this was a rush job,” I said. I was mad, but not mad enough to spill the coffee, hot, strong, and bitter, just like the news I was getting.

  “Welcome to the Soviet Union,” Bull said. “These people can be generous, fun-loving, and helpful. Until they’re not. It’s hot and cold with them.”

  “It all comes down to Moscow and the NKVD. If your average Russian knows that Joe Stalin and his boys approve of something, they’ll move heaven and earth to make it happen. If they’re uncertain about it, they’ll promise the moon while they stall and do nothing.”