3 December 1945
En route to Shakhtyorsk, Sakhalin Oblast, USSR
As Peoples had predicted, the weather was bumpy. They flew under a high overcast at ten thousand feet only to look down on a hoary mist obscuring the seascape. It got worse as they approached Sakhalin, with the overcast blotting out the sun and darkening their surroundings.
Small talk had long been exhausted. The Marines kept busy, and Ingram envied that they had something to do. Rifles and pistols clacked as they were fieldstripped, the Marines running the actions. Ammo boxes and field packs were examined and reexamined as they closed on Sakhalin. Time and time again, Sergeant Boland polished his binocular lenses while his radioman fiddled with his equipment, checking frequencies and poring over codebooks.
With darkness falling, Ingram walked to the flight deck. Right now, Berne, the navigator and radioman, was the most important man on the plane. Every hour or so he checked in with Atsugi while updating his navigational plot.
Peoples turned in his seat, “How ya doin’, Todd?”
Ingram said, “Middling to unfair.”
“That means you’re anxious. We’re doin’ just fine, so you don’t have to worry.” Peoples winked and returned to his controls.
“I’ll try.” Ingram leaned over Berne’s shoulder. “How’s it look, Jon?”
Berne fiddled with radio dials. “Eh, win a few, lose a few. Atsugi rogered our sitrep, so we’re okay in that department. But the navigation is for the birds. I haven’t had a fix for the past four hours, and we should be making landfall pretty soon.”
Berne raised his voice, “You get that, Leroy? All dead reckoning. No guarantees.”
Peoples turned slowly in his seat. “DR roger, Jon. So tell me somethin’. We’re still on autopilot. Do you think we should take it off?”
“No, I—”
“Then we’ll go with what you got, Jon.”
Peoples was dead serious. Ingram had to hand it to him. The man was putting his trust in Berne and letting him know it—a real confidence booster. Peoples wasn’t a Bucky Radcliff, but in his own way he had become a good leader.
Berne gave a broad smile. “I appreciate your vote, Leroy. Still, no guarantees.”
Peoples said, “Your recommendation is guarantee enough. Now get busy and give me a time, course, and speed to let down in this muck. Any luck with their tower yet?”
“Nothing yet. I’ve been trying every five minutes. They just don’t answer.”
“Are we transmitting properly?”
“Checking it five ways from Sunday, Leroy. Radios are working all right.”
“What does Atsugi advise?”
“Same as last time,” said Berne. “They say ‘use your own judgment.’ The bad news is that we’re almost out of voice range. When we start down we’ll be on CW for sure.”
“Okey, dokey,” said Peoples.
A moment later Berne said, “In 4 minutes, at 1517, descend to 1,500 feet and maintain present course, speed 135. There should be no obstructions around the field for at least 20 miles.”
“Very good. Mr. Lassiter, if you please?”
“Yes, sir.” Lassiter began calling out the landing checklist.
Hammer rose. “Might as well tell ’em now.” He went to the door and called for everyone to buckle up and prepare for landing. Then he returned and sat. He leaned over and said, “That goes for you, too, Commander.” He nodded to the jump seat.
“Thank you.” Ingram sat and buckled up.
Peoples asked, “Is 1517 still good, Jon?”
“Sure is.”
Peoples counted off on his fingers and then chopped the power. Moments later he eased the yoke forward and said, “Flaps fifteen when I give the word, Mr. Lassiter.”
“Flaps fifteen on your word, sir,” said Lassiter. Soon he reported, “Passing through 5,000 . . . 4,500.”
“Flaps fifteen.”
“Flaps fifteen,” replied Lassiter. He reached down and tweaked the lever. The plane bucked with the lift as the flaps lowered.
“Jon, give Atsugi a sitrep, please,” said Peoples.
“Roger.” Berne twirled dials on his radio equipment. “Lost them on voice. Going to CW.”
“Right,” said Peoples. When the altimeter read 1,500 feet Peoples called, “Okay, speed 135. Gear down.”
“On its way,” said Lassiter, throwing the lever.
“Twenty,” said Lassiter.
With the others, Ingram looked out the window. It was nearly pitch black; he couldn’t see a thing.
Peoples said, “Try Shakhtyorsk again and keep working it.”
Berne gave an eye-roll. “Yes, sir.”
“We’ve been here before, Commander,” said Peoples. “You cain’t trust these bastards, remember?”
“How can I forget,” said Ingram.
“What do you recommend, Mr. Berne?” asked Peoples.
“Pucker up and be ready for anything,” said Berne.
“Descending to five hundred feet,” said Peoples calmly, again pulling back the power.
The cockpit became quiet with the engines at idle. Ingram and Hammer traded glances as they realized Peoples was acting as if he were riding a bicycle down Main Street.
Hammer mopped his forehead with a handkerchief. “Shit, we don’t have an altimeter setting.”
Ingram pulled his strap tighter. He knew that the C-54, in poor visibility, could fly into the ground without the proper altimeter information provided by the tower.
Lassiter said, “I wonder if—”
“Mr. Lassiter, please!”
“Yes, sir. Sorry, sir.”
Ingram knew how they felt, and he envied them as he did the Marines; they all had something to do. All he could do was hang on and pray and think of Helen.
“Five hundred feet,” called Lassiter.
Peoples pulled back on the yoke and eased in some throttle. “Runway three-four?” he asked.
Berne said, “Affirmative, three-four. And according to this we should be on top right now.”
“Going to 250 feet,” said Peoples, leaning forward, peering at black cotton.
Suddenly, wisps of gray shot past and they saw the ground. “Hey!” said Lassiter. “There. Ten o’clock.”
Indeed, Berne had planted them on their downwind approach to the airport. Over their left shoulders they spotted the runway. Slick with moisture, it glistened in the dimming light.
Peoples called over his shoulder, “Son of a gun, Jon. Fine job. Damned fine job.”
Berne fairly beamed. “All part of the service, Leroy. You’ll get my bill.”
“Except, where the hell’s the lights? There’s no lights at all,” said Hammer.
“Yeah, no beacon,” said Lassiter. “How’s that for diplomacy?”
Ingram caught something at the edge of his vision. He looked aft and spotted a long, narrow shape off the coast. The Soviet cruiser. The Admiral Volshkov. Barely visible, she was anchored about a thousand yards offshore.
Peoples saw it, too. “There’s your German cruiser.”
“Strange,” said Ingram.
“What?” asked Peoples.
“She’s not showing lights either. Anchor lights are required. Especially in peacetime. Even our ships in Japan show lights now. What the hell’s going on? No beacon, no lights. Nothing.” He swept a hand toward the horizon. “And I don’t see the Maxwell.”
“Would she have her lights on?”
“Don’t see any reason why she wouldn’t. Tubby White knows the drill.”
“You still want to go in?” asked Peoples.
Ingram thought it over. “We’ve come this far. Might as well.”
“I smell a skunk.” Peoples turned the C-54 onto the base leg.
“Do we have a choice?”
“Don’t think so. But I’m glad we have them jarheads,” said Peoples. He eased yoke and rudder and put the C-54 on final approach.
“I’ll say. They’ll be the first ones out,” said Ingram.
“Okay, final checks, if you please, Mr. Lassiter.”
“Jon, what about the Commies?” asked Lassiter. “Anything yet?”
“Nothing,” said Berne. “Hold on. Sending a sitrep. Whoops! Now what? A long one coming in. Whoa. Priority. For Mr. Ingram’s eyes only. Amazing.” Berne bent over his code key and tapped with his left hand while writing the message on a blank pad with his right.
“What’s amazing, Jon?” demanded Peoples.
“It’s . . . top priority . . . top secret, and . . .” Berne twirled his pencil trying to keep up. “. . . Never seen anything like it. Damn thing’s in plain English.”
“Get it down, Jon,” said Peoples.
“Doin’ my best.”
Peoples eased off some power and called, “Full flaps.”
“Coming down,” said Lassiter.
Peoples barked, “Landing lights. You got landing lights?”
“Sorry.” Lassiter threw a switch and the haze before them became opaque. But now they could make out the numerals 34 painted at the runway’s threshold.
They were five hundred feet from the runway when Berne said, “Got it.” Then, “Jeez.” He keyed his acknowledgment as the plane flashed over the threshold.
Peoples chopped throttles and the C-54 began to flare.
Berne reached over and handed the message to Ingram. “Best you look at it now, Commander.”
“In a minute.” Ingram snatched it away and jammed it in his pocket just as the C-54 touched.
“Holy shit! Damned thing is still there,” said Peoples.
A glance toward the runway’s end told the story. The wrecked M-16 halftrack was still in the middle of the runway, about three quarters of the way down.
The C-54 bounced and then held. “Flaps up now, Mr. Lassiter.”
“Got it,” said Lassiter, yanking the lever up.
With some lift gone, the plane settled on its mains; then the nose came down. Peoples began a delicate dance on the brake pedals, knowing the C-54 could easily go into a skid on the slick surface; maybe even a ground loop.
“Come on,” he urged. The dark gray hulk of the M-16 grew larger in the windshield. “Git your butt down.”
One hundred yards to go: the C-54 was still moving, its nose dipping as Peoples stood on the brakes.
“Yeaggh!” Peoples yelled. “Cut the damned power. Everything off. All master switches!” He yanked back the mixture and throttles.
Lassiter flipped off magnetos. Hammer frantically flipped off fuel switches and everything else he could find.
“Brace yourselves!” yelled Peoples.
The C-54 drew to a halt ten feet from the half-track—so close they couldn’t see it below the nose.
“Shit!” said Hammer.
Lassiter whacked Peoples on the back. “Great job, Skipper.”
Peoples said, “Aw right, aw right. We need power. Hammer, reengage master switches and start number two immediately.”
“Yes, sir.” Hammer flipped switches. Soon he and Lassiter were spinning the port inboard engine. Immediately, it burst back into life. The cabin lights and instrument panel blossomed as the generator came back online.
“Welcome to Karafuto, lads,” said Hammer.
“Sakhalin, you jerk,” said Berne. “We mustn’t insult our comrades.”
Peoples opened the cockpit window and stuck his head out. “Brrrr. It’s cold out there.”
“See anybody?” asked Ingram.
“No, sir.” He slid the window shut.
Ingram’s left hand was shaking. So was his right. He flexed his fingers, making them work. Then he unbuckled, leaned forward, and said, “Good landing, Leroy.”
“Almost crapped my pants,” Peoples said. His left hand was shaking, too. He saw Ingram flexing his fingers and grinned. “They say any landing you walk away from is a good landing,” he said. “Trouble is, we haven’t walked away yet.”
“I’ll go with that,” said Ingram. “Time to get going. I want to get the Marines on the ground ASAP.”
“Makes sense to me,” said Peoples.
Ingram walked aft and found the Marines on their feet, checking their gear, ready to disembark. He looked about the cabin but couldn’t find Colin Blinde.
Squeezing past two Marines, Boland said, “If you’re looking for that civilian, he’s already gone. Pulled a ladder and scrambled out the hatch the minute we stopped.”
Indeed, the hatch was open. Cold wind ripped at them from the near-darkness.
“He say anything?”
“No, just skedaddled.”
“Okay.” Ingram said, “Get your men on the ground, Gunny. They have parkas?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good. Tell them this was not a nice welcome and to be ready for anything. Set up a perimeter around us. And that means live ammo.”
Boland stared at Ingram for two seconds. “Who are the bad guys?”
Good question. “Anyone who threatens us. Outside, right under the nose, you’ll find a burned-out M-16 half-track that we took out on our last visit here. The Russians promised peaceful terms this time, but they haven’t moved the half-track. No lights, no welcome, no nothing. It’s a boondoggle. So don’t trust anyone right now. Check passwords carefully.”
“Will do, Commander.”
Ingram spun, looking forward. Berne and Peoples were right there. “We need to turn this airplane around and get ready for an immediate departure. How do we—”
Berne grabbed him and hissed, “First, you have to read the damned message, Commander.”