Code Name: Infamy (Aviator Book 4) Read Online Free
Author: Leland Shanle
us—”
“Spike!” Irish began to come unhinged.
“Okay, okay. A little bird has informed me that in a few short hours Germany will formally surrender, and—”
“And if they don’t?” demanded Irish.
“Then we’re screwed! Since we’re in German uniforms, we’ll all be shot as spies. Quite ironic don’t you think, Irish?”
Irish turned all the way around in the co-pilot seat to face the smiling OSS Agent. “I never did like you, Spike. You know that, don’t you?”
At zero four hundred, five minutes out from the Ohrdruf Airfield, Irish flipped on a red light in the cabin. At the end of the cabin the jump-master rose and shouted over the din of flight.
“Airborne, stand up.” All twenty-two rangers got to their feet.
“Hook up.” Each paratrooper hooked the static line of his chute to the overhead steel cable running the length of the cabin. Pulling on the hooks closed the eyelet; each man then slid a cotter pin into a hole to lock it.
“Check equipment.” They checked the gear of the man in front of them; the last two troopers reversed, ensuring all were checked.
“Stand in the door.” Lieutenant John Koch, a young yet battle-hardened officer, stood in the door and watched for a green light. After what seemed like a long time, the light on the aft bulkhead next to the open door switched from red to green.
“Go, go, go!” The twenty-two men plunged silently into the night in the pike position. Static lines fed out until they ripped the cover off of the T-10 parachutes. Opening shock as always was a jolt, especially with combat gear. Koch checked his canopy more out of habit than need; it didn’t matter because they were too low for a backup chute. It either worked or failed.
In the moonlight he could see the field coming up to him—a perfect drop. So far so good, he thought, but it will be a miracle if we survive this. Sensing the trees were taller than his altitude, he assumed the PLF position: feet and knees together, elbows in, hands in fists in front of his face. Dropping rapidly, the T-10 was designed to get a paratrooper on the ground quickly, not comfortably. Koch hit on the balls of his feet, instantly twisted his hips, and hit on his primary contact points just like he had been trained: feet, calves, thighs, and then small of the back. Rolling to his feet, he pulled the safety pin out of his harness attach point, rotated it to the release position, and then slapped it. All of the straps released together.
He dropped to one knee while pulling the MP-40 submachine gun out of its carry case. Waiting for movement or noise, Koch remained motionless. Satisfied it had been a stealthy drop, he gathered his chute and harness, stuffing them in a canvas bag and tossing it over his back. Now mobile, Koch moved quickly to his objective, the terminal building.
Shadows configured in the same way moved with him. He checked on a second group moving toward a large hangar that was being led by his platoon sergeant. A third group was checking the perimeter; he didn’t bother to try to see them in the dark. Creeping close to the terminal, Koch shed the weight of his USA parachute bag and peered through a window. He counted three German soldiers. Checking his watch he waited until the phosphorous hands showed ten elapsed minutes. On the second, he slung his weapon and kicked open the door. Four of his men followed; he heard the front doors of the terminal kick open as he yelled.
“Achtung!”
Seeing the SS Storm Trooper uniforms, the orderly fainted, and the other two jumped to attention. Koch’s men quickly secured the building while he stared down the German soldiers.
“Herr Leutnant, kommen sie.”
Koch looked up at his corporal. Even after two years of combat with him, he had never seen anything like the expression on his face now. Two sleepy mechanics were pushed in the side door by his platoon sergeant. Koch made eye contact and nodded toward the lounge door, outside of which the
“Spike!” Irish began to come unhinged.
“Okay, okay. A little bird has informed me that in a few short hours Germany will formally surrender, and—”
“And if they don’t?” demanded Irish.
“Then we’re screwed! Since we’re in German uniforms, we’ll all be shot as spies. Quite ironic don’t you think, Irish?”
Irish turned all the way around in the co-pilot seat to face the smiling OSS Agent. “I never did like you, Spike. You know that, don’t you?”
At zero four hundred, five minutes out from the Ohrdruf Airfield, Irish flipped on a red light in the cabin. At the end of the cabin the jump-master rose and shouted over the din of flight.
“Airborne, stand up.” All twenty-two rangers got to their feet.
“Hook up.” Each paratrooper hooked the static line of his chute to the overhead steel cable running the length of the cabin. Pulling on the hooks closed the eyelet; each man then slid a cotter pin into a hole to lock it.
“Check equipment.” They checked the gear of the man in front of them; the last two troopers reversed, ensuring all were checked.
“Stand in the door.” Lieutenant John Koch, a young yet battle-hardened officer, stood in the door and watched for a green light. After what seemed like a long time, the light on the aft bulkhead next to the open door switched from red to green.
“Go, go, go!” The twenty-two men plunged silently into the night in the pike position. Static lines fed out until they ripped the cover off of the T-10 parachutes. Opening shock as always was a jolt, especially with combat gear. Koch checked his canopy more out of habit than need; it didn’t matter because they were too low for a backup chute. It either worked or failed.
In the moonlight he could see the field coming up to him—a perfect drop. So far so good, he thought, but it will be a miracle if we survive this. Sensing the trees were taller than his altitude, he assumed the PLF position: feet and knees together, elbows in, hands in fists in front of his face. Dropping rapidly, the T-10 was designed to get a paratrooper on the ground quickly, not comfortably. Koch hit on the balls of his feet, instantly twisted his hips, and hit on his primary contact points just like he had been trained: feet, calves, thighs, and then small of the back. Rolling to his feet, he pulled the safety pin out of his harness attach point, rotated it to the release position, and then slapped it. All of the straps released together.
He dropped to one knee while pulling the MP-40 submachine gun out of its carry case. Waiting for movement or noise, Koch remained motionless. Satisfied it had been a stealthy drop, he gathered his chute and harness, stuffing them in a canvas bag and tossing it over his back. Now mobile, Koch moved quickly to his objective, the terminal building.
Shadows configured in the same way moved with him. He checked on a second group moving toward a large hangar that was being led by his platoon sergeant. A third group was checking the perimeter; he didn’t bother to try to see them in the dark. Creeping close to the terminal, Koch shed the weight of his USA parachute bag and peered through a window. He counted three German soldiers. Checking his watch he waited until the phosphorous hands showed ten elapsed minutes. On the second, he slung his weapon and kicked open the door. Four of his men followed; he heard the front doors of the terminal kick open as he yelled.
“Achtung!”
Seeing the SS Storm Trooper uniforms, the orderly fainted, and the other two jumped to attention. Koch’s men quickly secured the building while he stared down the German soldiers.
“Herr Leutnant, kommen sie.”
Koch looked up at his corporal. Even after two years of combat with him, he had never seen anything like the expression on his face now. Two sleepy mechanics were pushed in the side door by his platoon sergeant. Koch made eye contact and nodded toward the lounge door, outside of which the
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