Berlin Encounter Read online

  Rendezvous With Destiny

  Book Four

  Berlin Encounter

  T. Davis Bunn

  © 1995 by T. Davis Bunn

  Published by Bethany House Publishers

  11400 Hampshire Avenue South

  Bloomington, Minnesota 55438

  www.bethanyhouse.com

  Bethany House Publishers is a division of

  Baker Publishing Group, Grand Rapids, Michigan.

  www.bakerpublishinggroup.com

  Ebook edition created 2012

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—for example, electronic, photocopy, recording—without the prior written permission of the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.

  ISBN 978-1-4412-7093-1

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is on file at the Library of Congress, Washington, DC.

  This story is entirely a creation of the author’s imagination. No parallel between any persons, living or dead, is intended.

  Cover illustration by Joe Nordstrom

  This book is dedicated to

  Patricia Bunn

  and

  E. Lee Bunn

  with love

  And to

  Jeff and Lisa Jarema

  With love and heartfelt

  best wishes for a

  joyful life together

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  About the Author

  Books by Davis Bunn

  Chapter One

  The lead plane rocked its wings once, twice, but no voice cut through the radio static. There was too much risk of being overheard to speak unless there was an emergency. And if there was an emergency, they were all goners anyway.

  The big Halifax bomber then lifted its wings toward the moonless night sky, and the pilot of Jake Burnes’s glider jammed back the release catch. There was a loud thunk as the cable jolted from its hook, and a shudder ran through the glider as they caught the tow plane’s parting downdraft. Then the bomber disappeared into the night sky, and the loudest noises were the glider’s creaking frame and the wind.

  Their glider was an enormous British Horsa, designed to transport either a full squad of heavily armed troops or a small tank. Jake glanced behind him, saw that the two trucks and their unmarked bundles were riding steady. Behind the load, all was empty shadows and rushing wind. He turned back to the glider’s narrow windows, squinted out, saw nothing but gathering rain droplets. They were flying through clouds.

  The glider jerked violently. Jake gripped his seat with white-knuckle panic. The plane seesawed, the wooden frame groaning with protest. But nothing gave.

  Jake glanced at the pilot seated next to him. The man remained utterly unconcerned. But Jake took little comfort in the pilot’s calm. He had already learned that glider pilots had their nerves surgically removed during training.

  “Ten minutes,” the man said, his voice a casual high-class British drawl. “Best strap in.”

  They escaped from the clouds, but the droplets only grew larger. This was what the powers that be had wanted, a rainy night with low-lying clouds. That way, though the tow plane’s mighty engines would be heard, spotting would be impossible. Their exact landing point was relatively unimportant because no one would be there to meet them. All they needed was a flat and isolated field.

  Jake squinted through the rain-blurred windscreen, tried hard not to let his fear take over. How the pilot was supposed to find a landing field in these conditions had never been fully explained.

  The Horsa transport glider had been used in various World War II battles, including the D-Day invasion. That had been Jake’s first thought when he heard how his mission was to begin, and the knowledge had stifled his protests a little. His younger brother, his last living relative, had died in the assault on Omaha Beach, and even that minimal connection left Jake feeling a little closer to the family he still sorely missed. The glider was canvas-covered wood with only the most rudimentary of controls, built as cheaply as possible. Which made perfect sense. Transport gliders were seldom used more than once.

  Jake grimaced as another rain-swept gust buffeted their glider. He wished he had protested after all.

  “Here we are,” the pilot shouted over the wind. “Just the ticket.”

  Jake leaned forward and searched as hard as he could, saw only faint patches of shadows. “Shouldn’t we check closer down and make sure?”

  “Nonsense,” the pilot retorted loudly, and nosed the giant glider downward. “That field is level as a cricket pitch. Couldn’t ask for a more delightful spot.”

  Jake saw that further argument was useless. He gripped an overhead guide wire with one hand and his seat with the other, braced his feet, and sent a frantic prayer lofting upward.

  An endless moment of rushing wind and drumming rain and jerking, jouncing downward flight, then shadows coalesced into tight squares that looked far too small to ever catch and safely hold a plane like theirs. Down farther, leveling and pulling back and nosing up and slowing more, and Jake had a sudden notion that he might actually live through this after all.

  Then a tree appeared out of nowhere, reached out great shadow-limbs, and neatly tore off one wing.

  The glider hit the ground almost level, then the remaining wing dug into the earth and wrenched off with the sound of screaming timber and ripping canvas. The plane went into a gentle sideways skid, held upright by the weight of its cargo. The Horsa dug a deep furrow in the boggy soil, as forward progress was gradually braked by whipping through a field of ripening wheat.

  Then they stopped.

  Jake looked over at the pilot, took his first full-sized breath since the nose had pointed downward, and laughed.

  The pilot, a jaunty ace with sunburned cheeks and a sidewise grin, replied, “I think that went rather well.”

  Jake unclenched his death’s grip. “At least we’re alive.”

  “Precisely.” The pilot snapped his belt, stood, stretched his back, said, “I suppose we’d best be moving along, then.”

  “Right behind you.”

  Even though it was early June, the rain that sluiced through the two great gaping holes in the fuselage was bitterly cold. Jake kept his flight jacket zipped up tight to his collar as he set his shoulder alongside the pilot’s and strained to open the loading door. But their landing had knocked the portal off its hinges and jammed it tight. Jake heaved with all his might and strained until he felt he was about to blow a gasket, but the door did not budge.

  Finally the pilot leaned back and took a gasping breath. “Rather a bother, that.”

  “What about—” Jake stopped, tensed, and listened. For a moment, all he heard was the sound of rain drumming on taut canvas. Then there it was again. Voices shouting from a distance.

  The pilot hissed, “Is that German?”

  “Can’t tell.” He strained, listened further, said, “Maybe. Maybe not. Could be Russian.”

  “Then it is time, as they
say, to scarper.” The pilot leaped for the rear truck. “Only one shot here,” he said. “If your motor doesn’t catch, you come in with me. I’ll do likewise.”

  Jake nodded, climbing aboard the front truck. Just what he liked in a jam, to find his back watched by a man who knew how to think on his feet. He found the starter button, pumped the gas pedal, turned, and when the pilot gave him a thumbs up, he fired the engine.

  The motor whirred, grumbled, and roared to life.

  Even above the pair of racing engines, Jake could hear voices rising to shouts of alarm. He gave no time to thought, however. No time. He raced his engine once more, unsure what the pilot had in mind, but at this point ready for anything.

  The pilot revved his motor to full bore, then jammed his truck into reverse and rammed it straight through the back of the plane.

  Without a moment for caution, Jake followed suit.

  There was a rending, scraping shriek, then a moment of sailing through air, then a squishy thud. Tires spun, engine roared, wheels found purchase and propelled the vehicle in a tight circle. In reverse. At a pace far too fast for driving through a field of wheat at two o’clock in the morning.

  Jake braked, shouted at the gears when he could not find first, looked up in time to see the second great truck come barreling out of the night headed straight for his door. The pilot managed to spin his vehicle out of range at the very last moment, sent a cheery “Beg your pardon” across the distance, and disappeared into the field.

  Jake revved his engine and followed suit.

  Only to find himself plowing straight through a squad of soldiers.

  He would have been hard put to say who was more startled, he at the sight of these armed men appearing out of nowhere, or they at the vision of a roaring truck parting the wheat and barreling down on them without lights. Rifles were tossed to the heavens as soldiers dived in every conceivable direction. Jake jammed the pedal to the floor and kept right on going.

  The field gave way to a rutted road which he found and lost and found again, in the meantime dismantling the corner of what, given the squawks of protest his passage caused, he could only assume was a chicken coop. He did not stop to investigate.

  It was only when he was a good hour down the road that Jake finally decided it was time to put on his lights, slow down, and try to find out exactly where he was.

  Chapter Two

  “Sit down, Colonel.” The hard-eyed gentleman with whom Jake met two weeks before his departure had worn civilian clothes with the ease of a courtier. “I understand you speak German.”

  Jake took the offered chair, knew immediately that he was dealing with one of the new types. Quentin Helmsley was a man who had not served in the war, who knew how to fire a gun because he had studied a book and practiced at a firing range. “Some.”

  “Records I have here say it’s more than that.”

  “What records would those be?”

  The man simply patted the closed folder under his hands. “Three and a half years of German at college before signing up, just one semester shy of a degree, isn’t that right? Then your operations at the Badenburg garrison after the war’s end showed near fluency. Quite impressive, I must say, your initiative to stop the cholera epidemic. Understand you’re finally to receive a medal for that one. Rightly so.”

  If Jake’s months of training had taught him anything, it was that these nonmilitary types treated information like jewels, to be treasured and displayed only at the right moment. “Showed fluency according to whom?”

  The man ignored his question. “I take it you have been following the news lately, Colonel?”

  “Some.” Force fed, more like. Jake’s recent training had been haphazard in many respects, but not in this one. Daily seminars, each led by masters in the field of international assessment, focused on teaching a select few to see the globe as a continually evolving entity. Political trends and economic interactions and military power flowed like the wind, sometimes quiet and stable, other times raging with hurricane force. Jake was being taught to read these earthly elements like a weatherman watched the sky, predicting where the next tempest would erupt, being there to observe and prepare. The greatest threat now facing them was of Soviet domination in Eastern Europe. The wartime alliance with Russia had collapsed into mutual suspicion, and the world’s balance of power was shifting dramatically.

  “You are one of the highest ranking officers we are bringing in at this point,” the gentleman said, switching gears. It was another action Jake had observed, this desire to keep their quarry off balance at all times. It did not matter that he and Jake were on the same side. The nature of the business required reactions that were so ingrained as to be automatic. This was one of the things that bothered Jake most about his training. He liked his reflexes just the way they were.

  “There is some debate as to whether our man in Paris made an error in offering you an administrative post. You see, we prefer to bring our top men up from within.”

  Administrative. Jake kept his face impassive, but grimaced internally. You chain me to a desk, bub, and I’m out of here.

  “You were scheduled to return to Washington for six months of local, shall we say, orientation. We have been wondering if you might be willing to put this off for a bit of field duty.” The man straightened, as though preparing for an argument. “Strictly off the record, Colonel, a successful stint in the field would improve your position considerably with the boys back home.”

  Jake hid his growing interest. “So what do they call the action I saw before you offered me this job?”

  “Independent field action.” His face showed a flicker of distaste. “Quite successful, such as it was. This has swayed many in your favor. But not all.”

  Including you, Jake thought, his feelings hardening to genuine dislike.

  “A stint as a field operative under standard supervision would mean a great deal to the fence-sitters, I assure you.”

  “Sounds reasonable,” Jake said, trying to put a reluctant note to his voice. In truth, the thought of spending six months playing trained seal for the bigwigs back in Washington held about as much appeal as brushing his teeth with battery acid.

  They were seated in a grand country estate in the county of Surrey, some thirty miles outside London. Through the tall window behind the man’s desk, Jake had a fine view of rolling countryside, the green broken only by a single church steeple poking through distant trees. During most of the war, the country estate had served as a U.S. command post. After D-Day it had been left more or less empty. Now it saw duty as a training-and-admin center for Allied operatives engaged in the infant science of intelligence gathering. The manor house itself was huge, with two wings containing fifty bedrooms each, and a central portion longer than a football field. The Americans had been assigned two floors in the west wing and used hardly half the space.

  Jake found it comforting to observe that work here seemed to proceed in the same haphazard way as it had in the army, making progress almost despite itself. NATO was now up and running, at least on paper, and as part of this show of unity, operatives were now being trained jointly. At least, that was what was supposed to be happening. In truth, Jake saw little of his counterparts from other nations except in class, and clearly some of them had been given strict orders to keep all other nationals at arm’s length. They treated a simple hello as a threat to national security.

  Jake did not mind keeping his distance. Although the majority of his fellow trainees were only a few years younger than he, most had missed the war. He found almost all of them, including the Americans, naive and overly serious. Their eager earnestness left him feeling like some crusty, battle-weary soldier. He had stopped wearing his uniform. The display of medals tended to halt traffic in the halls.

  His teachers came from every country in western Europe; this was the primary reason that Jake relished his time here. They were older and had seen duty of one sort or another, many transferring from frontline service to inte
lligence and back again several times. They treated Jake as an equal and opened their vast stores of wisdom to him without reserve.

  Idly Jake fingered the invitation in his pocket and allowed his mind to wander away from this frosty fellow and his maneuverings. The invitation had arrived that morning, engraved and embossed with a floral design, requesting the honor of his presence and that of his wife Sally at the Marseille wedding of Major Pierre Servais and Mademoiselle Jasmyn Coltrane. Jake already knew of the upcoming nuptials, of course, since he was to be best man. Sally had pasted stars around the date on their calendar at home, a not-too-subtle reminder that under no circumstances was Jake to let his new responsibilities come between him and his friends.

  One excellent aspect of this new duty was being able to see his wife at work as well as at home. He and Sally had been married just over a year now, but a glimpse of her in the grand hallways still caused something to catch in his throat.

  After heartrending months of separation, a breathless reunion, and a romantic engagement in Paris, they had returned to Karlsruhe—where Jake was commander of the U.S. garrison—for the wedding. From there they had expected a quick move to England for Jake’s new intelligence position. But the transfer had not been as swift as planned, for the army had proved most reluctant to release him from his command. Jake had only caught faint wisps of the smoke, but it appeared that the battle had raged all the way back to the Pentagon before a final broadside from War Department level had cleared him for action.

  Sally had found an excellent posting right there within NATO Intelligence headquarters, working for the top British administrator. A husband and wife working within the same operation was certainly not standard operating procedure, but Sally’s top-secret clearance and her experience with general staff made her a prize beyond measure. They had rented a small country cottage five miles from the base and filled every nook and gable with the joy of their newfound love.

  Jake’s attention returned to the man behind the desk when he realized he was being asked a question. Quentin Helmsley had recently arrived from Washington. The senior staff either treated him with great respect or quiet disdain, depending on what they thought of the power he represented. He was asking, “By any chance, Colonel, have you traveled the region of Mecklenburg-Vorpommern?”