“Captain, I hear heavy screws from the direction of the American carrier, reported the sonar watch.
The captain looked with surprise at his XO. “How could something like that survive three torpedo hits?” he wondered. He took a breath. “Well, he won’t get away that easy. Increase speed to twenty knots. Let’s go in and finish him off,” he said with confidence.
“Conn, sonar, the target has sped up. I estimate around twenty knots,” Faris reported.
The diving officer looked at his captain. “Pretty sure of himself. He must think he’s all alone out here.”
“Not my problem,” said Jacobs. He hit the bitch box. “Sonar, what would you say his depth is?”
“Captain, making this kind of noise, he’s probably around five hundred feet or less,” said Faris.
“Conn aye.” Jacobs turned to the others. “And I thought our side was dumb. This guy is just as bad.” He hit the bitch box again. “Sonar, when should he be within range?”
“Should be in range in about thirty minutes, Captain.”
“I need to know every move, sonar,” said Jacobs.
“Sonar, aye.”
There was still a ten degree list on the deck, but it made no difference. The aircraft were coming in and there was no other place to go. The Hornets would come in first, followed by the Lightnings. Despite their best efforts, there was still only twenty two knots of wind over the deck. It would just have to do.
The Landing Signal Officer was in position and everything was set. Commander Reiner lined up his aircraft to land. Wheels down, hook extended, flaps full, he slowed the plane as much as he could without losing control. Watching the line of lights to the left of the deck, he called the “ball” and saw he was on track and had a green light. He could tell the ship was much lower in the water than usual. The light remained green. He could see the figures near the lights. One had his hand raised. Reiner was sweating. Landings were harder than sinking ships. No changes. The deck rose to meet him. In an instant, he felt his landing gear slam against the deck and he applied full throttle in case the hook didn’t catch. He was relieved to feet his aircraft jerk to a sudden stop just a few feet from the end of the angled deck. He reduced throttle and the wire was released. Following the instructions from the deck handler, he eased his aircraft to the starboard side and was stopped near the forward part of the island. It was interesting that his aircraft had to taxi uphill, but they had all heard about the torpedo attack. Reaching his spot, he shut of his engines with only about 100 gallons of fuel in his tanks. He popped his canopy as the second from his group came aboard. Thank god for those tankers. They had waited for a while for the ship to get back up to speed and now they were starting to get thirsty again. He shakily unstrapped and heaved himself out of his cockpit. A few steps later and he was on the deck. Unfortunately, debriefing would take a while, but at least he had a carrier to come home to.
Bugayev was crudely shoved into the back of a police van. His hands and feet were in manacles and he was wearing a green prison uniform with no name, only a number. Sliding across the dirty floor of the van, he was followed in by a police guard. The guard locked him onto a ring welded to the side of the van. The doors were slammed shut. Within a few minutes the van and an escort were swiftly making their way out of the city toward Germany.
The decision had been made that Bugayev was too valuable to the allied cause to be left in the Polish capital. He was proof of the Russian efforts to undermine the government and stage riots giving an illusion that ethnic Russians were being harassed. Until the war was over, he was to be a tool of the allied public relations efforts, and then a tool in the war crimes trials that would follow. The chance that the Russians would overrun Warsaw was too great. Bugayev was heading to Berlin.
There were two benches along the sides of the inside of the van. Bugayev eventually got comfortable on his bare metal seat. The guard sat opposite on a cushion. No words were spoken by either man, but both were amazed at the speed the van seemed to be traveling. The road noise echoed through the hollow chamber and the curves tended to sling the men around. Bugayev thought through his predicament. Someone had to have alerted the authorities, but all the men he worked with were there in the room when they had been captured. Somehow, he had to find out what had happened to each man. That would tell him who was responsible. The one or two still free would be the ones he would deal with.
In the air above them, a two plane Russian fighter unit was looking for targets of opportunity. One of the men saw the rapidly moving van with an escort. They even had flashing lights on. Turning towards his wingman, the pilot pointed toward the vehicles and motioned for the other pilot to follow him.
The explosion of the rocket flung the van sideways off the road and it began to tumble through a grain field. The pilot watched in satisfaction as the van seemed to disintegrate. First the hood came off, then the doors. Finally the back doors flew off and the panels of the van separated from the chassis and flopped over, flattening on the ground. Three bodies were seen, unmoving, on the ground near the wreckage. Looking over, he saw that his wingman had neatly dispatched the escort. He chuckled in his mask and motioned for the wingman to form up and follow. There would be more targets.
Bugayev slowly realized that the van was not moving. He felt a breeze on his face. Forcing his eyes open, he saw that one side of the van had covered him. He was lying on the other side. He tried to move and felt the ring he had been chained to had worked loose. A few bends later and it popped from the remains of the van’s body. Bugayev eased his way toward the light. Just a few yards away, the remains of the van were still burning. Looking around, he saw one of the drivers lying motionless in the grass. Moving closer, he saw there was nothing to fear. The man was dead. Rummaging through his pockets, he found the manacle keys. A few minutes later and he was free. He quickly began removing the clothing of a guard roughly his height and weight. People would know the uniform of a prisoner, so the exchange would guarantee him a margin of safety.
Ten minutes later, Bugayev was making his way through the field toward a house in the distance. With luck, he would convince the owner to let the police officer use his car. From there, he would continue his assigned mission. He would also seek his revenge.
“The target has slowed, Captain,” said Faris, making his report to the bridge.
Captain Jacobs looked at his XO. “You think he heard something?” he wondered out loud.
“Assume the worst,” the XO said.
“Diving Officer, slow to five knots. Let’s see if he changes his tactics,” Jacobs said.
The orders were given and carried out. Slowly, the Texas eased to five knots as the men inside listened intently to see of their target was changing course to approach them. After ten minutes Faris made his report. “Sir, it appears the target is still making an approach on the carrier. Listening to the tail, I’m not picking up anything from us,” he said.
“Conn, aye. Keep after him, sonar,” said Jacobs. He looked around the small compartment. “Maybe the captain realized he was making noise. I know I wouldn’t make a mistake like that.” He pushed the button on the bitch box again. “Sonar, how much noise is the guy putting out now?”
“Practically none, Captain. The steam noises were intermittent at best. When she sped up I caught the screw noises, but now, it’s just the steam plant. It almost sounds like somebody took off some insulation somewhere and the sound is a little un-muffled. The closer she gets, the more I can make it out,” said Faris from his seat.