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.
There were several Kriegsmarine officers on the aft platform and in the smaller area atop the conning tower. He could tell because they were wearing officer’s brimmed caps and sweaters. The SS asshole was wearing a white shirt and tie.
The officers waved—broad, wide-spread arms—but not one saluted.
When von Wachtstein was past the submarine, he dumped the flaps and shoved the throttle to full emergency power. The Storch quickly gained speed and altitude . . . Like a goosed stork, he thought with a grin, imagining Schmidt’s pucker factor reflex to the maneuver.
As soon as he could, he turned and dropped back to the surface of the sea.
Now the Kriegsmarine battle flag was gone, as were all the men but one— an officer, on the conning tower, who waved a final time, then disappeared into the boat as the U-405 began to submerge.
Thirty seconds later, the submarine was gone.
Von Wachtstein turned the nose of the Storch due west.
After crossing the coastline, he flew low and slow enough over the trucks so that he could signal with an upraised thumb that they’d made the rendezvous with U-405. Then he flew for several kilometers over the beach and finally flew several kilometers inland.
There were three dirt roads leading from a paved road to where the trucks sat on the rise overlooking the beach. Each road had been blocked by a truck and soldiers. These men were in uniform, not in the blue workman coveralls that all the others wore beside the beach.
When he returned to the landing strip, as he was landing, he saw two things he hadn’t seen on his flyovers. One was a large four-door sedan, which had to be the American Packard in which Sturmbannführer Erich Raschner and Fregattenkapitän Karl Boltitz had driven from Buenos Aires. The other was that there were now two machine guns and their crews—in uniform, not blue coveralls—in position so they could cover the beach.
He recognized the model of the machine guns.
I didn’t know the Argentines had Maschinengewehr 34s; I thought they were still using World War I Maxims.
And why are some of these mountain troops in uniform, and the rest in blue coveralls?
Okay. Civilians in coveralls with Maschinengewehr 34s would really make people, like the local authorities, curious.
This way Herr/Oberst Schmidt can get away with saying he’s running some sort of repel-the-invaders field exercise.
But, that being the case, why the coveralls on the others?
Then he saw where he was relative to the ground, made the necessary corrections to his flight path, and softly set down the Storch.
[FIVE]
Near Necochea Buenos Aires Province, Argentina 1705 23 July 1943
“I thought I made it clear that your role in this was to fly along the beach,” Standartenführer Cranz said when von Wachtstein walked up to him.
“Sir, I landed for several reasons, among them being that I thought the Herr Standartenführer would want confirmation from Herr Schmidt that we made rendezvous—”
“Quite right.”
“—and that we saw nothing out of the ordinary. And I thought Herr Schmidt wanted to be here—”
“Very well.”
“—and I wanted to top off my tanks, and I thought you might have further orders for me, Herr Standartenführer.”
“Only those that I gave you earlier: to maintain an alert observation and to return to the field the moment you see the rubber boats leave the submarine.”
“Jawohl, Herr Standartenführer. Sir, am I permitted to make a suggestion?”
Cranz made an impatient gesture for him to go on.
“Sir, if you flew with me, you would be much better able to see what’s going on than you can from here.”
Cranz considered that for a full fifteen seconds—which seemed longer—in the process looking at Schmidt and almost visibly deciding that he had survived the flight without permanent damage, then said, “Good thinking, von Wachtstein. What was it you said, ‘top off’ your tanks?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Well, then, do that immediately. We’re running out of time.”
There’re possibly three reasons you agreed to go along with me:
One, you may be worrying that if I’m up there by myself, I’ll get on the radio and tell somebody what’s happening;
And/or, two, if something does go wrong, we’ll be already in the air and can just go back to Buenos Aires, leaving you out of the mess, and leaving Raschner and Boltitz to sort things out;
And/or, three, you’ll now be able to tell Himmler that you personally risked your life by flying over the actual landing of the special cargo.
At seventeen forty-five, von Wachtstein, flying five hundred meters offshore and two hundred meters off the surface of the sea, saw what he thought was the periscope of U-405 slicing through the water. He looked at the beach and saw the flashes of light Boltitz was sending with his signal lamp.
A minute or so later, U-405 surfaced, then slowly turned toward the beach.
Von Wachtstein saw that the battle ensign was again flying from the platform aft of the bridge.
Men began to appear on the deck forward of the conning tower, struggling to get something up and out from inside the submarine.
And then rubber boats took shape, apparently inflated with some sort of air tank. First one, then a second, then a third.
At the sub’s stern, there was the bubbling of water as the propellers were reversed. And then she stopped. Seamen put the rubber boats over the side.
Five men in black Schutzstaffel uniforms appeared on the deck. Two of them made their way carefully down the hull of the submarine, using a rope. Then a wooden crate appeared on the deck.
That’s the special cargo. God only knows how much money is in that box!
With great effort, the crate was very carefully lowered into the rubber boat. When it was in place, two men—both officers, one navy and one SS—followed it into the boat. The navy officer went to the stern of the rubber boat and jerked the starter rope of a small outboard motor. When the motor started, the boat turned away from the submarine and headed for the shore.
Von Wachtstein looked over his shoulder and saw that Cranz had a Zeiss 35mm camera to his eye.
Good God!
“I took these myself, Herr Reichsprotektor, while I was risking my life by flying overhead.”
“When would you like me to land, Herr Standartenführer?”
“I’ll let you know. I want to take some photos for the reichsprotektor. I’m sure he would like to see them.”
“Would you like me to fly a little lower, Herr Standartenführer?”
“No!” Cranz snapped, then recovered, and added evenly, “This height is perfect for my purposes.”
A minute later, the Storch encountered some turbulence, which caused the Zeiss to bump against Cranz’s face.
He suddenly ordered von Wachtstein, “Okay, return to the shore and land. I will get some shots of the actual landing of the boats.”
There was some more turbulence during the landing, causing the Storch to bounce twice back into the air.
“Sorry about that, Herr Standartenführer,” von Wachtstein said once he’d stopped the Storch and shut down the engine. “The winds coming off the sea . . .”