Read Online 1945 by William R. Forstchen, Newt Gingrich, Albert S. Hanser - Free Book Online
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all the time in the world, Martel."
Jim sighed and lowered his head.
"On May seventh you met with Wilhelm von Metz and gave him design specifications for the new Midway-class carrier, in particular details related to the armored decking and below-the-waterline armor belting."
"We've gone through this a hundred times already, and you know it's a crock. My initial contact report clearly shows I was ordered to do so through Naval Intelligence to justify von Metz's contact with me to his superiors. The information had been compromised here in the States. My guess is through a construction worker." He paused. "You guys must have messed up."
Grierson ignored the dig. "What about the tracking specifications for the Mark 23 acoustical torpedo?"
"Nothing. I've told you that a hundred times!" Martel didn't add that some years ago for an entirely different application he had invented and his father had patented the basic feedback mechanism without which the device would not be practicable.
"The meeting with von Metz on June nineteenth, the fusing systems on the same torpedo?"
"We never met on June nineteenth."
"Are you certain? My records say you did."
"Bullshit."
"I heard you say it, Martel," Brubaker interjected. "June nineteenth."
"You're wrong—hell no, you're not wrong; you're lying. We never met on June nineteenth, and I never said we met on June nineteenth."
"Cut the crap, Martel."
Suddenly some internal gauge in Martel redlined.
"Maybe you sons of bitches would like to know where I was on December fifteenth, 1943.I was fifteen thousand feet over Leyte Gulf. A Zero slipped onto my six and put three rounds into my engine and one into my seat-back. I flew that aircraft back two hundred miles with seven rivets in my back and the oil pressure dropping every minute. That's what I was doing, you son of a bitch, and it's a goddamned good thing that the crash boat was there because even if my back hadn't cracked on impact, I'd lost too much blood to climb out of the cockpit. Where were you that day, you slinking stay-at-home bastards?" He glared at Grierson. "Making time with your secretary?" He shifted his burning gaze to Brubaker. "Trying to make a date with Rosie the Riveter so you could trick her into saying the wrong thing in bed and toss her in the slammer? Where were you, you lying shits, while I was out taking bullets for my country?" Martel slumped back in his chair, eyeing his enemies with wary contempt.
For a moment there was silence. Grierson's face was a study in outrage overlaid with amazement. Brubaker was the first to speak. "Nobody's saying you didn't fight Japs pretty good, Martel. But what about your buddies, the Germans? Hell, as far as I'm concerned, you are a German. Are they paying you, Martel, or are you doing it out of pure patriotism?"
This time it was lieutenant Commander James Mannheim Martel who lunged from his chair, and it was a measure of the effect of six weeks' sleep deprivation on his fighter-pilot reflexes that Brubaker managed to lurch an involuntary step backward before Martel's fist passed through the space his face had occupied a split second before.
Curiously, Grierson shoved himself between the pair not as a fellow cop, but with the attitude of someone separating arguing peers who had passed over the edge of violence. Martel just stood there panting. Brubaker had the look of a junkyard dog being baited from beyond a fence.
"Enough!" Grierson shouted. "Martel, Bru, ease off, will you?"
"Chief, please let me squeeze him. He'll talk."
"Maybe later, Bru. Not now." Then, speaking low so that Martel couldn't hear, he added, "We aren't authorized. " He turned back to Martel, who spoke before Grierson could.
"Know one thing, Grierson. Now or later, if you have one of your thugs lay a hand on me, you better kill me, because by God I'll take it personal, and I won't be down forever. Ever been in combat, Grierson? I've killed thirty men or more." He nodded at Grierson's shoulder
Jim sighed and lowered his head.
"On May seventh you met with Wilhelm von Metz and gave him design specifications for the new Midway-class carrier, in particular details related to the armored decking and below-the-waterline armor belting."
"We've gone through this a hundred times already, and you know it's a crock. My initial contact report clearly shows I was ordered to do so through Naval Intelligence to justify von Metz's contact with me to his superiors. The information had been compromised here in the States. My guess is through a construction worker." He paused. "You guys must have messed up."
Grierson ignored the dig. "What about the tracking specifications for the Mark 23 acoustical torpedo?"
"Nothing. I've told you that a hundred times!" Martel didn't add that some years ago for an entirely different application he had invented and his father had patented the basic feedback mechanism without which the device would not be practicable.
"The meeting with von Metz on June nineteenth, the fusing systems on the same torpedo?"
"We never met on June nineteenth."
"Are you certain? My records say you did."
"Bullshit."
"I heard you say it, Martel," Brubaker interjected. "June nineteenth."
"You're wrong—hell no, you're not wrong; you're lying. We never met on June nineteenth, and I never said we met on June nineteenth."
"Cut the crap, Martel."
Suddenly some internal gauge in Martel redlined.
"Maybe you sons of bitches would like to know where I was on December fifteenth, 1943.I was fifteen thousand feet over Leyte Gulf. A Zero slipped onto my six and put three rounds into my engine and one into my seat-back. I flew that aircraft back two hundred miles with seven rivets in my back and the oil pressure dropping every minute. That's what I was doing, you son of a bitch, and it's a goddamned good thing that the crash boat was there because even if my back hadn't cracked on impact, I'd lost too much blood to climb out of the cockpit. Where were you that day, you slinking stay-at-home bastards?" He glared at Grierson. "Making time with your secretary?" He shifted his burning gaze to Brubaker. "Trying to make a date with Rosie the Riveter so you could trick her into saying the wrong thing in bed and toss her in the slammer? Where were you, you lying shits, while I was out taking bullets for my country?" Martel slumped back in his chair, eyeing his enemies with wary contempt.
For a moment there was silence. Grierson's face was a study in outrage overlaid with amazement. Brubaker was the first to speak. "Nobody's saying you didn't fight Japs pretty good, Martel. But what about your buddies, the Germans? Hell, as far as I'm concerned, you are a German. Are they paying you, Martel, or are you doing it out of pure patriotism?"
This time it was lieutenant Commander James Mannheim Martel who lunged from his chair, and it was a measure of the effect of six weeks' sleep deprivation on his fighter-pilot reflexes that Brubaker managed to lurch an involuntary step backward before Martel's fist passed through the space his face had occupied a split second before.
Curiously, Grierson shoved himself between the pair not as a fellow cop, but with the attitude of someone separating arguing peers who had passed over the edge of violence. Martel just stood there panting. Brubaker had the look of a junkyard dog being baited from beyond a fence.
"Enough!" Grierson shouted. "Martel, Bru, ease off, will you?"
"Chief, please let me squeeze him. He'll talk."
"Maybe later, Bru. Not now." Then, speaking low so that Martel couldn't hear, he added, "We aren't authorized. " He turned back to Martel, who spoke before Grierson could.
"Know one thing, Grierson. Now or later, if you have one of your thugs lay a hand on me, you better kill me, because by God I'll take it personal, and I won't be down forever. Ever been in combat, Grierson? I've killed thirty men or more." He nodded at Grierson's shoulder
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