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“No, sir. But I think I had best see about refueling the Storch.”
“Can Schmidt’s men handle that?”
“I’d rather do it myself, sir.”
“Speaking of Schmidt, is there any reason Schmidt could not go with you when you go to signal the U-405?”
Afraid you might get your feet wet, Herr Standartenführer?
“No, sir.”
“I think his splendid work setting this up has earned him that privilege,” Cranz said.
“Yes, sir. So do I.”
[FOUR]
38 Degrees 26 Minutes South Latitude 58 Degrees 59 Minutes West Longitude Off Necochea, Buenos Aires Province, Argentina 1625 23 July 1943
Herr Erich Schmidt had become visibly nervous when he could no longer look over his shoulder and see the landmass that was Argentina, but not nearly as nervous as Standartenführer Karl Cranz had looked when von Wachtstein had descended rapidly on their way to Necochea.
Von Wachtstein almost regretted telling him, “No, sir. There are no life preservers on the aircraft. When the standartenführer told me we were not going to fly over the River Plate, I removed them.”
And Cranz saw me take them out.
Which is more than likely—likely, hell!—OBVIOUSLY the reason he rewarded Schmidt with the privilege of going out to meet the U-405.
Right after takeoff, von Wachtstein had done the navigation in his head.
Course: Due east. Altitude: 1,000 meters should do it. Length of flight: Winds off the ocean at probably 20 kilometers, indicated airspeed of 150, so that’s 150 minus the 20-kph headwind, or 130. And 130 into 21 kilometers is—what?—hell, call it a fifth of an hour.
Twelve minutes into the flight by the elapsed-time clock mounted above the windscreen, he started to examine the surface of the ocean.
No whitecaps, just rolling seas.
Wait, there’s a whitecap . . . no, that’s not a whitecap.
The rushing wave he’d spotted grew larger and whiter, then turned into a pole racing across the sea.
A sub periscope.
Goddamn! There she is, Lindbergh!
You get the Luftwaffe Prize For Dumb Luck Dead-Reckoning Navigation.
"There she is, sir,” von Wachtstein said, banking the Storch to give Schmidt a better look.
The periscope was now visibly atop a submarine’s conning tower. Then a deck-mounted cannon broke through the waves. People appeared in the conning tower. One of them pointed at the Storch. Another ran aft of the conning tower to a sort of iron-pipe railed platform.
Von Wachtstein saw a flag appear as the U-405 came completely to the surface.
Not the swastika flag.
That’s the Kriegsmarine battle ensign—what Langsdorff arranged to fall on when he shot himself.
He picked up a little altitude, then made a steep descending turn and flew back to the submarine. He lowered flaps, flying as slowly as he could and as close to the waves as he dared.
I’ll be a sonofabitch . . . that’s an SS uniform on the guy giving that stupid fucking Nazi salute.
