Armageddon_ A Novel of Berlin - Leon Uris [292]
At Y 80, crews of the 333d Troop Carrier Squadron of Wiesbaden’s 7150th Composite Wing were in the Operations briefing room.
In the Center corridor aircraft of the 40th Troop Carrier Squadron headed back to the joint base at Celle.
In Berlin, ships of Navy VR 6 were being unloaded at Tempelhof.
Nick checked the cargo, came forward. “Every time I look at all this coal, all I can think of is I’m sure glad we don’t have to carry the ashes out of Berlin.”
Scott didn’t hear him. He was trying to face up to a rejection by Hilde. He flirted with the idea of telling her he loved her, even throw out a hint of marriage ... but he knew she would see right through the scheme.
“We’re picking up ice,” Stan said.
This, Scott heard. “Wet the props down.”
Stan adjusted the rheostat that sent a stream of isopropyl alcohol along each propeller blade. When an inch of ice formed on the leading edge of the wings Scott ordered the de-icer boots turned on. Chunks of ice flaked off into the air stream as the boots inflated and deflated.
The engines groaned under the new load until the plane burst on top into the sun at 5200 feet.
Their eyes burned with the sudden light. They fished about for their sunglasses. Below them lay a solid carpet of clouds.
Stan called Tempelhof. The weather was clear to Berlin. As they continued down the corridor the clouds below them scattered and they could see the ground. Today it held a mantle of new snow.
The magnificent cycle continued all around them:
at Rhein/Main the crews were at planeside making their checks;
at Fuhlsbuttel flour was loaded into British Dakotas and on the taxiways;
at Lübeck, newsprint in the new five-hundred-pound rolls was loaded on trailers to be carried out to the craft;
at Schleswigland, garrison supplies for the French and British had been cleared to take off.
Scott’s bloc from Rhein/Main was now under control of Tempelhof Radars. Stan and Nick began the prelanding preparations.
Berlin burst below them, never failing to stun the eye. Chains of lakes and canals interwoven with the stubbed forests. And then mile after mile of gutted-out shells.
Tempelhof Airways slowed the bloc to 140 mph, brought them to 2000 feet. As Scott turned over the Tempelhof Range Beacon, the other bloc, which had flown in down the Northern corridor from Fassberg, had landed at Tegel and were already unloaded and in taxi position to take off.
Scott turned left over the Tempelhof Range. At Wedding Beacon over the French Sector he made his downwind leg to 1500 feet.
“Tempelhof to Big Easy One, use caution. Cross winds fifteen knots gusting to twenty-five knots, west to east. Braking action poor.”
Nick grunted. There was always a kicker to landing in Germany.
“Blowers.”
“Low.”
“Auto pilot”
“Off.”
Flaps were set to 10 degrees.
“Booster pumps.”
“High.”
“Landing gear.”
The wheels groaned out of their prison, thumped down, locked.
“Flaps.”
Scott set them full down. The bird lowered, chopped at the sudden bursts of wind shooting up from the ruins. The blitz of high-intensity lights in the St. Thomas graveyard led them to the runway. Scott’s angle of descent dropped the ship below the level of the four- and five-story apartment houses on both sides of the cemetery.
A Russian spy in an apartment checked off his Skymaster as number 104 to land since midnight. This figure would be checked out against figures received at the Air Safety Center.
A hundred little parachutes billowed from the back door. Cold, numb children ran from rubble piles as the candy bars floated into the cemetery.
The Skymaster was put down deftly two feet after the beginning of the runway in the dead center, giving the full length to nurse it down the slippery steel planking. A FOLLOW ME jeep picked Scott up, led him to the west aprons.
Six seconds after Scott cut engines, a ten-ton trailer was backed to the door of his craft. The first German laborer, bone-thin and ragged, went to the pilot’s cabin. Scott gave him a