Hardegan watched in horror as it struck the wall of the lock and bounced into the air where it exploded. A wave of burning gasoline poured over the sub, setting the fake walls on fire and sending flaming gas down the stern hatch that had been open to help air the boat out.
Burning gas drenched Hardegen. As his clothes and skin began to singe, he jumped into the water. His crewmen on the wall of the lock grabbed him and dragged him ashore. His hands and face were burned, but the wounds didn’t look serious. They began to hurt and he stifled a scream. What was happening to his beloved U-123?
Black smoke and flames began to pour from the deck hatches and the conning tower. The sub was loaded with torpedoes, diesel fuel, and ammunition for the deck gun and the anti-aircraft guns. They could all start exploding at any time. The sub was doomed. Any possible fire-fighters were on the grass and staring in stunned disbelief.
“Abandon ship,” Hardegen yelled to the few who’d remained on the sub. They needed no prompting. The rest of his crew arrived to help him and the others onto higher ground.
He sent a runner to the other subs telling them to immediately withdraw back to Lake Ontario if they could. He and his crew would try to make it overland to Toronto. The Yanks clearly knew they were there and the next assaults would be by bombers and not Piper Cubs. He turned to the south and saw that the Piper was a dot disappearing in the general direction of upper New York. It seemed to be smoking and Hardegan wondered just how long the brave bastard of a pilot could keep it aloft.
As he thought that, he saw the plane dipping lower and lower. “I hope you can swim,” Hardegan said to no one in particular.
Heinrich Stahl had intended to plan his next operation with his customary efficiency only to find that it really wasn’t necessary. American security was so lax that all he really needed was to plan was his escape.
He’d been disappointed that the attack on the New York Stock Exchange had caused so little excitement. He’d hoped for panic in the streets of New York and that had not happened. It hadn’t even shut down the Exchange. The Jewish capitalists had simply moved their operations to a different location a few blocks away while the old one was cleansed and repaired. The exchange had been closed for only a couple of days. Of course, there would now be heavy security. The horse was out of the barn so now it was time to make sure the door was locked was how he thought an old saying went.
The Jewish controlled American press had even lied about the casualties. He knew for certain from Krenz’s report that there had to be more than eight dead and ten injured and he absolutely knew that the gunmen had not been two lunatics who’d escaped from a nearby asylum. He gave the Americans grudging credit for concocting such a story. Goebels could not have done better.
Reinhard Krenz, the leader of the assault had escaped and was living in a Baltimore hotel under yet another assumed name and false identification. Krenz had showed himself to be resourceful and brave. He would be of great use when the time came for their next attack. Stahl had circled an article in the Baltimore Sun. It said that the intended target would be speaking to a group at the Hay-Adams Hotel in Washington. Even though it would be very close to the White House, he did not think there would be too much in the way of security. Americans were such foolish asses in that regard. Well, perhaps they would pay a price for that.
Chapter Nineteen
Lying naked on a bed with Alicia would normally be an erotic experience with an exciting and passionate conclusion. This day, however, the pain from his broken ribs was almost more than Tom could bear. It didn’t help that Alicia wasn’t quite naked; she was in her bra and panties, and she was trying to re-wrap the bandage around his chest, which hurt like a bandit. It also didn’t help that their little flat was stiflingly hot in the heat of a Washington summer. Both were sweating profusely.
“Does this hurt?” she asked with a smile. Of course it hurt he thought as she continued. “I broke a rib once as a kid when I fell off a horse. I will never forget how much pain it caused and how helpless anyone was to do anything about it.”
“Did anyone shoot the horse?”
“Of course not and, besides, it wasn’t mine. No, I just had to grin and bear it, although I didn’t do much grinning for a couple of weeks.”
Tom groaned. Doctor Crain had re-evaluated Tom’s injuries and pronounced them debilitating but not life-threatening. He’d been given a week off to feel sorry for himself and Crain had taught Alicia how to wrap his chest. Other than that, he’d said, there wasn’t anything that could be done. Crain added that Tom should avoid all contact sports, such as football and hockey, and should also try to stay out of wars.
Alicia had seconded that opinion. She was sick and tired of him getting hurt, and had even broached the idea of him either leaving the army or getting out of a potential combat arm. When he reminded her that there was a war on and that millions of young men didn’t have any choice as to their fate and future, she’d turned away and cried softly, which hadn’t helped matters at all.
“I don’t care if you get another medal or even get promoted to generalissimo. I just want you safe and sound.”
“Which is exactly what I want, but there are so many things that are beyond our control. I don’t like to think we’re just pawns, but I sometimes feel that’s exactly what we are. And so are people like Roosevelt and Marshall. They’re just pawns with bigger offices.”
She got off the bed, took off her bra and stepped out of her panties. Her lithe body shined with sweat. “Crain didn’t specifically say not to do this, but he did say I should watch out for any unusual swellings,” she said as she began to caress him. “Oh, look, there’s one now.”
“Is this going to hurt?” he said, gasping as she aroused him despite his injuries. Lord, she had learned quickly.
“It might, but you’ll never admit it.”
Henry Wallace was fifty-six years old and the thirty-third Vice President of the United States. He had held a number of government positions before being tapped by FDR to be his running mate in the 1940 election. He’d replaced John Nance Garner, who had managed to mightily annoy FDR.
Prior to that, Wallace had served as Secretary of Agriculture. He had, however, offended many who found his views on the Soviet Union to be naive and utopian. Even though the USSR was an American ally, many felt that they and Stalin could not be trusted. Further rumors had developed alleging that he’d dabbled in strange religions in his younger days. As a result, the handwriting had been written large and clear on the wall. Henry A. Wallace would not be FDR’s running mate in the fall of 1944. That dubious honor belonged to Harry Truman, the obscure senator from Missouri. There were real fears that Roosevelt would not live until the next election in 1948 and that Henry Wallace was much too radical to be president should something happen to FDR.
Wallace’s term in office had been boring. His predecessor, John Nance Garner, had compared being vice president to a bucket of warm piss. Wallace would not argue. FDR clearly felt he didn’t need anyone but himself to run the nation. In Wallace’s opinion, the president was both devious and a liar, often pitting people against each other to keep them off balance. Even his most trusted advisors often had no clear idea just what he wanted. Nobody knew that much about Truman either, except that he was not controversial.
Well, he thought, come January twentieth of the New Year he would be free to pursue private activities like the one he’d just attended. He’d been asked to speak to a group of farmers about the future of American corn in the rebuilding of Europe once it was liberated. Of course, that was a long ways down the road. First, the U.S. had to liberate Ontario and that, from all that he could see, was not even beginning.