“I was hoping you’d arrive early again today. I’m glad to see you, Flugkapitän.” She walked over to the entrance where I was shaking the dust from my boots.
“Well, that’s a turn of events for you,” I said, immediately regretting the words. I shook my head at my own tongue. “Forgive me, what can I do for you, Flugkapitän Mueller?”
“I was hoping for a private word in your office,” she said, her tone low.
She stood straight, almost at attention, as she made her request. Whatever the matter was, it was important, at least to her interests. I led her to my small corner of the complex and motioned for her to take the seat opposite mine.
I leaned back in my chair and threaded my fingers in anticipation of what she might possibly want to discuss.
“Johanna,” she said, using my given name for perhaps the first time in our acquaintance. It sounded absolutely strange coming from her lips. “This war has been exacting an enormous toll on Germany. On all of us. I fear that the path to victory has been growing ever narrower and that we cannot sustain a series of drawn-out battles long enough to reach that objective. If Germany is to win, we must strike definitively. Hit as many key military targets as possible in a short period of time—less than twenty-four hours if it can be managed. It would have to be perfectly choreographed, and there would be no room for error.”
She wasn’t wrong. If Germany had any chance of winning, we would have to end the war soon. It was merely a question of numbers. We might have technology that was the envy of the world. We might have the keenest strategic minds on the planet. But America and Russia still had men. A seemingly endless supply of them. “Very well, Louisa,” I said, her name sounding equally awkward on my own tongue. “I’m not sure why you’re bringing this up to me of all people. I’m an engineer and test pilot. If you have suggestions for strategy, take them to command.”
She had the ear of Hitler himself. How I could be of any use to her I didn’t know.
“Well, first, I will need your expertise to make sure the bombsights on our aircraft are as close to perfect as we can make them. That’s something I cannot do. For another, your dive-bombing techniques are the best in the Luftwaffe. I want you to train an elite force of men for this mission. And most important, your support will be imperative in getting this plan approved. You have more clout than you realize, and an endorsement from you could mean the difference in getting this plan off the ground—excuse the pun—or not.”
“So, what precisely do you have in mind?” I asked, an ache forming at the top of my gut. She wouldn’t be hedging if the plan were a simple one.
“There would be no room for error,” she repeated from her earlier speech. “We would coordinate an attack against all the key military targets—all of them—in short order. We would have an elite team of volunteer bombers who would ensure that their targets are destroyed. It would create such pandemonium that the Allies and Russians would be paralyzed. Once they’re weakened to such a degree, victory just might be within reach again.”
“An ambitious plan,” I said, thinking the upper echelon would be enthusiastic to hear the specifics. “But how would you ensure that each run is successful? Even the best bombers miss their targets at times.”
“If the pilot flies his plane into the target, there will be much less room for error. The only way the pilots would fail is if they’re shot down before they reach their objective. In which case we could send several planes at once to ensure that at least one is able to complete the mission.”
I sat, unable to do more than blink at what she was suggesting.
“I know it sounds horrific, Johanna. But it would be a sacrifice for the fatherland. These men would give their lives to save thousands, if not millions, more. We wouldn’t recruit madmen or radicals. We would find good and true patriots willing to give everything in Germany’s hour of need. The same sacrifice every soldier is prepared to make.”
“You’re just providing them with a great deal more certainty on the subject.”
“You think I’m a monster, don’t you?” she asked.
“I think you’re pragmatic,” I said diplomatically. “Ruthlessly so.”
“All that matters is a German victory, Johanna. And I’m willing to fly with these men myself if command will approve the plan.”
There was sincerity in the icy pools of her blue eyes. She meant to give her life in service to Germany, and I admired her commitment to the cause she held so dear, even if I didn’t share her ideals. I’d become quite adept at doing my work while pushing aside its aims. I loved my country and her people, but I hardly recognized either.
“I will only say this, Louisa. I won’t speak against it. And if the orders fall on my desk, I will follow them. I can promise you no more.”
“That may be enough,” she said, drawing her lips in a firm line. It wasn’t the endorsement she wanted, but she didn’t have to count me as an adversary. She extended her hand and I shook it firmly. She exited to the complex, which was finally beginning to show signs of life.
I wondered if I shouldn’t have taken a stronger stance with Louisa. Endorsed her plan or condemned it. But the decision was now in the hands of others, and being absolved of responsibility offered me more comfort than I ought to have admitted.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
VIGIL
BETH
May 20, 2007
San Diego, California
“Dad, please wake up,” I muttered, perhaps for the millionth time in the space of an hour. Kimberly’s call had come at three in the morning. I’d dashed out the door in my pajamas and flip-flops. Greg dozed in the large comfortable chair in the corner, but I pulled up one of the flimsy plastic numbers next to Dad’s bed and held his hand, careful not to disturb the alarming number of tubes and wires that seemed to be attached to every inch of exposed skin. The whirring, buzzing, and beeping of the machines kept tabs on more bodily functions than I could name.
“You should try to get some sleep, Beth,” Greg mumbled from the chair. I looked over at him and regretted my hasty decision to text him that Dad was in the hospital. My judgment at three in the morning wasn’t as sound as it usually was. In my groggy state, I thought he’d want to be present for the ex-father-in-law that he’d held in such regard. He’d come without complaint, but it was clear from his demeanor that he didn’t see much point in being here when Dad was unresponsive.
“I can’t,” I said. “Not while he’s like this.”
He sighed and adjusted his position. Within three minutes he’d resumed the deep, even breathing of restful sleep. It was all I could do not to throw a pillow at his head.
Dad had pressed his call button in the night, and the night nurse had found him unresponsive just a few seconds later. The doctors said his blood sugar was dangerously low and spouted on further about other test results that meant little to me.
Around seven, a doctor entered and looked at Dad’s chart. He shook his head, replaced the chart in the slot, and examined a few of the monitors Dad was strapped to.
“He’s stable for now,” was all he said, and turned to leave, never having made eye contact with us.