The Airlift

The drab gray cabin vibrated and thrummed, jarring Martin from his murky sleep.

“Hang on back there,” the pilot, Adam, called from the cockpit in a Midwestern accent so thick Martin could imagine a hay stalk bobbing between his lips. “They’re getting a bit feisty on us.”

Pressing his face to the tiny window, Martin saw flashes of light off the port wing.

“The Russians are shooting at us?”

Adam shrugged. “More like around us. Anything they can do to disrupt this airlift short of actually shooting our planes down.”

“Those Soviet gunners must be pretty good to get that close without scoring a hit.”

“Maybe.” Though the pilot kept facing forward, Martin could hear the smile in his voice. “You want my opinion, though, they’re aiming right for us and counting on the fact that their gunners are that poor of shots.”

Martin chuckled.

“I’m more worried about the Yaks,” Adam continued.

“The Yaks?”

“Their fighter aircraft,” he clarified. “They like to try and scare us with aggressive maneuvers. That’s what the manual calls them, anyway. I call them staring contests because you find yourself looking directly into Ivan’s eyeballs.”

“So what do you do?”

“Fly straight at ‘em.” The pilot laughed. “Nobody actually wants a mid-air collision. The Russkies always blink first.”

Outside the plane, a particularly loud thump sent the twin-engine transport skidding to the right. Martin fell from his bench seat to the floor and cursed as his cigarette bounced away into the shadows between the cargo crates.

Only then did he remember he had fallen asleep with a lit cigarette in his hand.

“Goddamn,” Adam shouted. “They’ve finally gotten enough practice, apparently.”

The copilot scrambled from his seat and moved down the cabin, scanning the walls with his flashlight. He also took a few seconds to gaze out the windows at each wing.

“No visible damage,” he called back to the pilot.

Adam gave a thumbs up. “Engines are running normally, too. Nothing bad on the indicators.”

“Damn lucky,” Martin said.

The copilot nodded. “The old girl already has enough scars from the last war.”

“Europe?”

The man’s gray face creased with his smirk, no doubt amused by the combination of Martin’s British accent and the question. “Nope, Asia.”

He started to walk back to the cockpit and then turned back around. “There was a war outside of your little corner, you know.”

Martin did not look up from his current task of fishing out his cigarette pack. “Oh, I know. I was on one of the islands the day after that war began.”

The copilot’s eyebrow rose. “No shit. As a soldier?”

“Just a man on vacation, as it were.” Martin fought the grimace as he looked from the two smokes remaining in his pack to the expectant look on his gray-faced colleague. “Didn’t matter much to the Japs when they came storming ashore.”

Finally, Martin gave in and handed over his second-to-last cigarette. The copilot lessened his anguish by saving him the trouble of hunting for his lighter. Slightly.

The American’s amusement had melted into genuine interest. “You shoot any?”

Martin grinned, letting his first drag seep out between his teeth. “A few.” He held out his hand. “Liam Withers,” he said, using the fake name on his diplomatic papers.

The gray man smiled as he shook “Liam’s” hand. “Oscar. We’re brothers in arms, Liam. I was on Guadalcanal. Flying for the Army Air Corps.”

“Oh? Score some air to airs?”

Oscar settled into the bench seat across from Martin, chuckling deeply. “Nah. The P-400s they gave us to fly were so bad not even the Soviets wanted them. Each time the Japanese came to bomb Henderson, they’d scramble us so we could run for it and wouldn’t be caught on the ground, they said. Get us useless Army pilots out of the way, more like.”

The copilot shrugged his narrow shoulders. “Still, the P-400s were good enough when the enemy couldn’t shoot back or run away. I got more than a few Japanese kills when we strafed their troops and broke the back of their assault on the airfield.”

Martin looked around the drab cabin, noting the lessening vibrations. “So how did you end up flying cargo?”

Another shrug. “We’re not fighting a war anymore, and it’s not like I got any air-to-air kills to my name in the glorious Cactus Air Force. Transport flying was one of the few occupations left after Hirohito waved the white flag.”

Their plane turned sharply to the right, and Oscar scrambled to his feet a second later. “Stay here, Liam. I’ll see what’s going on.”

“Oh, I’m in no rush back here,” Martin said, letting the jitters melt away despite the plane now veering to the left as he drew deeply on his cigarette.

“What’s up?” he heard Oscar yell as the man scrambled past crates straining against their straps. “Command made it clear that we don’t deviate from the established flight paths.”

“This crazy fucker shot a burst across our nose!” Adam replied, his corn-fed voice an octave higher. “What was I supposed to do, let him hit us?”

Oscar leaned forward in his seat, scanning to all sides. “Where is he?”

“He buzzed by, but he’ll be back, bet my last hog.”

As the plane settled back into normal flight, Martin took advantage of the pilots’ preoccupation with survival to get to work.

He rose to his feet, clamping his cigarette between his teeth as he felt along the wood tops of the nearest crates. It was a subtle engraving that his fingers sought. Three notches, innocuous enough that anyone who might even notice them would assume they were from wear and tear. Such is the life of a box.

Of course, Martin thought with a smirk, the weight might have tipped the workers off if all the crates weren’t overloaded.

All but one box was packed to the brim with gold. Solid gold bars. All to fund the burgeoning Soviet counterespionage network taking shape in West Berlin.

Meanwhile, the Firm had discovered a cash cow in smuggling families seeking to escape the Communist movements swallowing Eastern Europe into West Berlin.

One of the Soviet spy ring’s main goals, besides stealing secrets from the Western powers, was to put the kibosh on the smuggling operation. Naturally, the Firm did not appreciate the Russians’ existing attempts to interfere in its business, much less what the agents might achieve with millions in stolen gold to bolster them.

In fact, Martin had already been to West Berlin once in the past year to take care of an informant. The job had gone sideways, and he had ended up shooting his way out of the apartment block. In the process, his bullets had found the top-ranking member of the East Berlin NKVD bureau.

Shoot one sole official in their secret police, and they put a price on your head.

Fortunately, Martin had no plan to set foot in West Berlin, no matter that that was exactly where this plane would be landing.

Martin’s fingers passed over the three tally marks on a crate two-thirds his own height at the back of the plane. He recalled his job description:

The Russians are using the current Berlin Airlift crisis as a smokescreen to transport a shipment of gold discovered in a hidden Nazi bunker to ratchet their meddling up several notches. Our sources inside the Kremlin indicate it will be transported aboard a U.S. Army air transport. Ensure it never reaches its destination.

The fate of the gold is inconsequential to us so long as it stays out of Soviet hands.

Rising voices drew Martin’s attention back to the cockpit.

“Radio command and let them know we’ve been fired at,” Adam snapped.

After a moment, he looked over to Oscar. “The hell’s taking so long?”

Oscar met his gaze with a furrowed brow. “I’m not getting anything on the radio. I think it’s dead.”

Adam threw up his hands. “When did that happen?”

Martin smiled to himself. When I snipped the commo wire after takeoff.

He turned back to the box with three notches on the lid, removing a short pry bar from his jacket’s inner pocket. The second nail had started to give way when the unmistakable clack of a bullet being chambered drew his eyes up.

Oscar and Adam had left the cockpit and now faced Martin with pistols drawn.

“That’s far enough, Mr. Williams,” Adam said, his voice level and devoid of any Midwestern charm.

Martin cocked his head. “It’s Withers, actually.”

“Give it up,” Oscar growled next to Adam. “We know exactly who you are, Martin.”

Bloody hell, these West Berlin jobs are getting to be a real pain.

Despite his current circumstance, Martin gave a half smile as he dropped the pry bar. “I guess you know exactly what’s in these boxes, then?”

Adam nodded. “Who do you think hired us?”

Martin looked at Oscar. “So all that earlier, Guadalcanal and the Pacific, that was made up?”

Oscar shook his head. “No, I really did fight. Believed in that stuff back then. We all did. But then I came back home to find my family struggling to make it in the same poor neighborhood. Nothing really changes. Except now we had a few less neighbors on our block. The rich profit while the poor fight.”

“Don’t tell me...” Martin rolled his eyes.

Oscar continued, ignoring his reaction. “We’re the same, Martin. We both work for bad people and do worse things. But that doesn’t mean our motives aren’t good.”

Adam chuckled beside him. “Only real difference is we’re not dumb enough to work alone, Mr. Williams.”

Martin was almost tempted to correct him. Instead, he borrowed the words of a former job. “Lesson learned.”

He showed his empty palms and raised his hands.

Adam and Oscar glanced at each other before looking back to Martin. “Gotta say, Martin,” Oscar said as he crossed the space between them. “I’m a bit disappointed. No gun? No last-ditch attempt to overpower us? Your reputation had me excited.”

“Not this time,” Martin said as Oscar approached, handgun still leveled at Martin’s stomach while he pulled out a pair of handcuffs.

Then the lid Martin had started to pry loose flew backward with a mighty crash.

“Not from me, anyways,” Martin finished with a broad smile, hands still raised.

Of the two, Oscar was the first to react as two arms appeared from the now open crate and wrapped around his torso. He squeezed the trigger, but the vice he found himself in had shifted his aim and the bullet traveled harmlessly through the fuselage.

The high-pitched whine of atmosphere filtering through the tiny opening combined with Oscar’s scream as the box man wrestled him to the ground. Martin dove as Adam fired at him, responding by wrenching Oscar’s wrist up and forcing his finger to squeeze off two more rounds in Adam’s general direction.

The bullets lodged themselves in the gold-packed crates as Adam took cover. Meanwhile, box man had wrestled Oscar’s gun away and pressed it to his forehead.

“Wait,” Martin said, placing his hand on the barrel. “Not him. He’s all right.”

Box man tipped the thumb of his free hand back to his point of entry. “You know there’s only two parachutes in there, yes?”

Martin nodded. “Still, let’s give him a fighting chance.”

Box man shrugged. “Suit yourself.”

He followed up by pistol whipping the American mercenary into unconsciousness.

Martin peeked around the corner of one crate and shouted up the cabin, “What was that about working alone, Yank?”

Adam sounded oddly conciliatory. “I stand corrected on that point, Mr. Williams. Still pretty foolish not to bring a gun with you, though your improvisation is commendable.”

Martin shrugged. “Guns are dangerous on planes.”

“Speaking of dangerous,” box man said beside him as he aimed Oscar’s gun toward the cockpit. “You could have poked a few more airholes in that crate. It took all my will not to pass out in there, and from the looks of it, your goose would have been cooked.”

Martin smiled. “Sorry, Malcolm, but too many holes would have aroused suspicions. Stolen Nazi gold doesn’t need to breathe, after all.”

Malcolm scowled. “This is the last time I help out with one of your assignments.”

“If you two are quite finished,” Adam’s voice drew both of their gazes forward again, “it’s time to end this.”

They found Adam had scrambled up to the cockpit and retaken his seat. Martin could not keep his eyebrow from breaking away from the rest of his face as he noted the American had pressed the barrel of his own gun to his temple.

“What the hell is this?”

“Neither of you are pilots,” Adam said, grinning. “I’m holding all the cards right now if you actually want to get this gold back on the ground.”

Martin chuckled, which made Adam’s brow furrow. “Who said anything about getting it on the ground?”

“How else would you steal it?”

“We’re not here to steal it.”

“Well, not all of it, anyways,” Malcolm cut in.

Martin looked over. “You know this stuff is cursed, right? They made some of these gold bars by extracting fillings of prisoners and melting it down.”

Malcolm shrugged. “That’s the difference between you and me, Martin.”

“What, principles?”

Adam coughed. Martin saw he had lowered the gun slightly. “Sorry to interrupt, but if you’re not after the gold, then what are you two doing here?”

“Oh, we’re after the gold, but—”

Martin’s words were drowned out by several gunshots close to his ear. Adam’s head exploded in a spray of red that coated the plane’s windscreen.

Malcolm caught Martin’s annoyed look. “What?”

“I wasn’t finished yet.”

“What does it matter? He was going to die one way or the other.”

“I was supposed to hit the dramatic reveal and then shoot him. That’s the proper way of these things.”

Malcolm shrugged as he holstered Oscar’s gun and retrieved Martin’s pry bar from the floor. Martin watched as he proceeded to lever open one of the crates and start stuffing his jacket with gold bars. “That’s the difference between you and I, Martin. I don’t worry about aesthetics when I kill a man.”

Martin grumbled to himself about respect and honor as he moved forward to the cockpit and pushed Adam’s body forward. His torso pressed the yoke down, and the plane started to tip toward Earth.

Picking his way back up the tilting cabin, Martin went to retrieve one of the parachutes from Malcolm’s crate.

Instead, he found an empty box. He looked up to find Malcolm with one parachute strapped on and the other in his hands. Martin also found he stood between him and the rear door where they would be jumping in a moment’s time.

“You know, Martin,” he said casually despite the vibrations growing beneath their feet. “It strikes me that someday soon, one of us will be sent to kill the other.”

“What, then?” Martin replied equally calm. “You want to get a head start by leaving me to die?”

Malcolm appeared to debate it for a moment and then shook his head, tossing Martin the parachute harness. “Can’t blame a man for planning for the future, can you?”

Martin shook his head, pondering how their exchange may have gone if he had ended up with Oscar’s gun instead of Malcolm. He’s probably right that the next time we see each other will be through the sights of rifles.

The previous threat apparently forgotten, Malcolm instead waited until Martin had fully strapped up and then held the door open for him.

“After you,” he shouted over the howling wind.

I always hate this part. Martin ignored the ache in his knees as he backed up to the opposite end of the cabin and then ran forward. Fast enough that he couldn’t change his mind.

Then one foot found nothing but air beneath it, followed by the other.

The air shrieked past Martin’s ears. He narrowed his eyelids against the vicious wind, keeping them the size of slits as he searched for the parachute cord and losing his battle to ignore the rising bile in his stomach.

Where are you, you bastard?

Then his left hand found the rip cord and he pulled as hard as he could.

A moment later, he was jerked upright as the parachute spread and caught the air.

Taking several breaths to calm his galloping heart, Martin then took in his new surroundings. To the left, the stricken plane continued sinking toward the ground a few thousand feet below.

Above it, a single-engine fighter followed the descent. The Russian’s probably reporting all this back to command. They’ll probably be overjoyed that the American plane crashed without them having to fire a shot.

Well, a shot that hit it, anyways.

Thirty seconds later, a great commotion of shredding and crumpling metal reached his ears. Then the glow of igniting fuel lit up the gathering twilight.

“How do you think the German farmer who finds what’s left of that cargo will react?” Malcolm’s voice came from above.

Martin twisted in his harness, catching sight of his colleague behind and to the left. Despite having jumped after Martin, the man was descending at a much faster rate. Weighed down by all that tooth gold, Martin concluded.

“He’ll probably say ‘Look, Helga, finally the riches Hitler promised us!’”

“Maybe,” Malcolm said as he floated past Martin. “Or maybe he’ll embrace his new identity as an East German and surrender it to the commissars in the name of the revolution.”

Martin chuckled. “Either way, it will stay out of the West Berlin spy ring’s hands.”

The East German remark reminded Martin that they were descending into the Eastern Bloc. Enemy territory.

Still, he had no doubt they would slip back into West Germany in short order. Martin was already growing tired of this new Europe and the political machinations of East and West. Even the Firm, whose only goal was money and power, could not help but be drawn into the chess match in its own ways. This mission was only the latest example.

I need a break from all of this, Martin decided. Somewhere a little less tense. Not having a price on my head would be plus as well. Maybe I’ll ask for a transfer to Korea. After four decades of Japanese occupation, they won’t have the appetite for war anymore.

~~~

Follow Martin on another adventure as a chance encounter on the New York Subway threatens to upend his entire world view. However, he regains his focus by keeping his eye on the money—and the greedy broker he's been sent after for stealing it in...

The Complete* Martin Williams Collection

1. Sinking Prospects (1912)
2. For King and Country (1916) — print exclusive
3. Black Thursday (1929)
4. The Lindbergh Job (1932)
5. A View to Die For (1936)
6. The Rising Sun (1941)
7. Run for the Border (1943)
8. Down on Main Street (1946)
9. The Airlift (1948) — you are here
10. Into the Valley of Death (1951) — print exclusive
11. Epilogue: Retirement — print exclusive

*When paired with A Bloody Business, the official Martin Williams novel: