OSS: Dirty Tricks

By Iain Cross

WWII. A covert intelligence organization called the Office of Strategic Services is created by highly decorated Col. William 'Wild Bill' Donovan in coordination with intrepid British-Canadian Spymaster William Stephenson.

Peter Brandt, an American fighter pilot, flying for the RAF, is shot down behind enemy lines and manages a daring escape with a prize, the beautiful and dangerous SS Obersturmführer, Agnes Hengel.

Peter is recruited by Donovan and Stephenson to lead an OSS mission deep into German territory to sabotage the Nazi war machine and stop the creation of a dangerous new weapon.

The precursor to the CIA, the OSS was responsible for countless wartime intelligence missions, many of them known and many still shrouded in secrecy.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Aquila Media
• Release date: Mar 22, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301515424

Iain Cross

Iain Cross has worked in both government and private sectors, with international experience in various different countries. His formal education includes a study of the history of espionage and statecraft, from both operational and political perspectives.

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OSS: Dirty Tricks

by

Iain Cross

COPYRIGHT

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, incidents and events contained herein are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Other than historical characters, any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

Copyright 2013 by Aquila Media and the Author.

All Rights Reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without express permission of the publisher. The Aquila name and logo is a registered trademark of Aquila Media, Inc.

Smashwords Edition: March 2013

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CHAPTER ONE

Radio noise crackled beneath the pale blue, late autumn sky, inland from the French coast. Voices, music and audible snippets of code cut through the heavy drone of the Spitfire’s engines. Inside the cockpit, with one hand on the dial of the makeshift radio, the other at the stick keeping the airplane steady aloft, Peter Brandt knew he was somewhere he should not be. He had flown far outside his assigned patrol area but he was convinced this was important and he had already accepted whatever consequences would be handed to him if anything went wrong, but he was not alone. A voice cut through the cacophony of signals in his earpiece.

You know, we really shouldn't be here.

It was Peter's wingman, British RAF pilot, Billy Edwards, who had accompanied him on the patrol. He knew the man was less than pleased to be out this far. After a bit of cajoling, the two Spitfires had veered from their assigned course, which already had them skirting close to the edges of German-occupied France. As the leader of the mission, Peter had taken them well within enemy territory, and both he and his wingman knew they were asking for trouble.

Just a second, Peter said, distracted by one of the sounds he had heard on the radio. He banked his plane, heading further inland and away from the coastline, which was already barely visible on the horizon. Edwards followed him and the two of them flew side by side over the gently rolling hills of northern France, the province of Normandy. Peter moved the dial back again and found the frequency. Voices came through, in German. Can you hear that?

Hear what? Edwards sounded agitated. Peter flipped a switch on the radio so it would broadcast the signal he had picked up and transmit across the private, short-range channel between the two aircraft. As they continued inland, the signal grew stronger and the sounds of voices became clearer, speaking in clipped German.

That, Peter said, talking over chatter. The voice of the enemy.

Yes, it's very lovely to hear the enemy talking on my radio. And what are they going on about? Edwards asked.

They’re talking about the two enemy aircraft approaching their airstrip.

Airstrip? Edwards asked, glancing over at him through the glass of his cockpit.

That one, right there. Peter pointed straight ahead.

As they came over a rise, the land opened up into a wide open plain, revealing a large open field with a hard dirt runway and rows of Luftwaffe aircraft. Two German Messerschmitt Bf 109s were already climbing into the air as two more were already rolling down the runway after them.

Twelve o’clock, Peter said. Looks like we're about to make some new friends.

Bloody hell. Why does this sort of thing always happen when I’m on a sortie with you? Billy was definitely not pleased.

Peter nudged his stick and hit the throttle, sending his fighter barreling straight toward the two fighters that had launched and were now trying to gain altitude. He pressed his firing mechanism and unleashed the full fury of the eight machine guns mounted on the wings of his airplane, throwing a barrage of fire toward the oncoming fighters. Edwards opened fire as well, their combined firepower cutting one of the fighters to shreds. It exploded in a cloud of flame and smoke, but the other airplane dodged most of their fire and made it past.

Well, we've certainly stirred up the proverbial hornet’s nest, Edwards said but, despite his reservations, he followed Peter’s lead and they opened fire on the two fighters on the runway, disabling them both.

I knew they were up to something around here, Peter said. I just didn't think there'd be this many of them.

It's the Germans. It's what they do; they build things, lots of things, with lots of guns, Edwards said, his sarcasm patently clear. I did remind you this was supposed to be a reconnaissance mission?

Yeah, Peter said. I think you mentioned that a couple times.

The German fighter that had made it into the air had circled around and was now in pursuit as Peter and his wingman veered away from the airstrip below.

Our friend, as you call him, is back, Edwards told him. I say we get out of here while we can.

If we don't shut down that runway, we're going to have a pack of them on our tail all the way home, Peter said, glancing over his shoulder at the enemy fighter, then back at the airbase below as it came back into view. See if you can keep that guy busy. Since we're here anyway, we might as well say hello.

You know, there's such a thing as commitment and then there's being committed. If we make it back to base, I'm going to recommend the latter for you.

Edwards banked and pulled away. Peter adjusted his throttle, increased his airspeed and aimed his fighter directly toward the airfield below. In the time it had taken him to circle around, two more 109s had made it down the runway and were now climbing into the sky. The enemy fighter was also still on his tail and it opened fire. Peter dropped the nose of his airplane and dodged the stream of gunfire from behind.

The enemy fire stopped as the Messerschmitt veered away, now under fire from Edwards, who had managed to get behind him. Peter continued forward, opening fire on two more fighters that were now rolling down the runway. He hit them both with a blast from his guns and they both erupted into balls of flame. Peter continued forward and unleashed a barrage at the line of fighter planes that sat on the ground next to the runway. Several of them caught fire and Peter saw the pilots who had been running to their airplanes scatter and dive to the ground as his Spitfire's eight machine guns ripped angry pathways along the rough ground around them.

He banked hard, turning away from the airstrip, satisfied that it would at least be a little while before the enemy could send up any more fighters. Peter felt the Spitfire shudder as a large hole ripped through the thin metal of his wing. Heavy gunfire erupted from the far end of the runway as artillery pounded through the air. Peter quickly changed his trajectory, thinning his profile to the heavy gun on the ground.

He saw several German soldiers manning a heavy anti-aircraft gun, swiveling it around, trying to get a bead on him. The heavy rounds punched a couple more holes in the fuselage of his aircraft, but luckily nothing crucial was hit. Still, it was not a good idea to continue getting knocked around by heavy artillery. Peter knew if he turned away, he would present them with a much bigger target, but he was already in too close, so he angled straight for them instead and opened fire, his weapons spitting the deadly fire that gave the Spitfire its name. The soldiers dove for cover as Peter's guns peppered the weapon with a flurry of rounds.

Now frighteningly close to the airbase, Peter could see the extent of the operation the Germans had built in the French countryside. The heavy rounds no longer firing at him, he banked and saw a large hangar ahead, and glimpsed more aircraft inside it in various stages of assembly. He also noticed another anti-aircraft gun, much larger than the one he had just disabled. It was one of the feared 'Acht-Acht' guns, the eighty-eight millimeter high-velocity cannons that were becoming more and more popular with German defense. Thankfully it looked as though the men on the ground were still in the process of setting up the powerful weapon but Peter knew he did not want to test his luck against it.

Gunfire rattled the right wing of his fighter and Peter jerked his Spitfire around and glanced over his shoulder. One of the two Messerschmitt fighters that had managed to launch was now dogging his tail. Peter fired a blast of rounds at the hangar in front of him and angled his guns toward the heavy anti-aircraft weapon, hoping he could at least do a little bit of damage on his way past. He held his attack and pounded the machinery then, at the last second, he veered away and hit the throttle, racing away from the airbase with the Messerschmitt close on his tail. Peter put his fighter into a tight, fast, turn, shaking loose his pursuer then he began to climb.

The airplane labored as he forced it higher and he hit the fuel booster on the Spitfire, giving it an extra few horsepower, and pulled away from the enemy plane. He banked hard and, a few moments later, came around behind him. The German fighter tried to evade but Peter already had him targeted. He punched his guns and perforated his wings and fuselage. Black smoke trailed from the Messerschmitt as it angled toward the ground and, for a moment, Peter could not tell whether the German pilot was trying to escape or was on his way to meet the ground. His question was answered when the fighter smashed into the field below and erupted into flame.

Peter headed for Edwards, and found him on the tail of the second German fighter.

Haven't you finished with that guy yet? Peter asked.

Do you mean the one that was shooting up your tail? Edwards asked between machine gun blasts. That fellow's done. I'm onto the next one.

Edwards hit the enemy plane with another flurry of rounds and Peter saw the German fighter begin to stream smoke as its pilot veered away, trying too late to make a run for it, as the airplane had already caught fire and, a few moments later, it went spiraling toward the ground.

Nice shooting, Peter said.

Yes, fantastic. Now can we please get out of here? Peter could tell from the agitation in his voice that Edwards was clearly not enjoying himself. Did I mention that our orders were to scout the coastline? Oh yes, that's right, I have mentioned it, several times now.

There wasn't anything happening on the coast, Peter replied as tracer bullets shot past his window, followed by a volley of machine gun fire. Several rounds connecting and cracking the glass and Peter put his Spitfire into a roll. He looked over his shoulder and saw another enemy fighter dogging him. He also caught a glimpse of the airstrip and saw that the ground crews had managed to clear enough of the runway to begin launching fighters again. And there's plenty of action right here.

Excellent, Edwards said. Well, I'm running out of ammunition, and if we get shot down, there will be no one to report what we've learned.

Well just don't get shot down, then, Peter told him.

You know, I'm really starting to think it might be time to reconsider our friendship, Edwards said as he banked away, evading gunfire from the fighter that was targeting them both.

Peter banked hard then evened out and reduced the throttle and hit his flaps, slowing his fighter abruptly. Not anticipating the sudden drop in velocity, the Luftwaffe pilot hurtled past him. Peter throttled up and dropped his nose and started gaining speed again. In a few short moments he was on the German pilot’s tail. Peter took his shot, using up nearly the rest of his ammo and the tail of the enemy aircraft disintegrated under the heavy fire. Smoke appeared where a round connected with a fuel line. Losing power, with tail rudder and elevators useless, the enemy fighter began to spiral. Peter saw the German pilot open his canopy and leap from the burning fighter. A parachute opened a few moments later and what had become a flying deathtrap fell from the sky and hit the ground, a flaming wreck.

Peter caught up to Edwards and took up a position just behind him and to the right, surveying the damage to the man's aircraft; it was riddled with holes but otherwise appeared to be intact.

All right, I'm almost out of ammo. How are you doing? Peter asked.

A few rounds left and a few knocks in the old bird but she’ll hold together, Edwards told him, his casual tone covering his rattled nerves. Now can we get the bloody hell out of here?

Yeah, think that’s probably a really good idea, Peter said, flipping the switch to listen to the German radio chatter.

They sound pretty upset, Edwards commented.

You bet they are, Peter said with a laugh. We just made a real mess of their airbase.

Let’s be accurate here, Edwards said. You made a mess of their airfield and I am on a reconnaissance mission with a lunatic. Peter did not answer. Edwards slowed his airplane back to fly beside Peter's Spitfire so he could get a better look at him and he could see the American pilot hunched over his gages. Is everything all right?

Nope. I’m losing oil pressure. Peter tapped his instruments and, a moment later a rush of black smoke began to stream from the right side of the Spitfire's engine. Over the radio he could hear more German voices. No, it looks like I might be in a little trouble, and now it sounds like they're sending up more fighters.

Edwards rolled overtop of Peter's fighter and checked out the side of the troubled airplane.

Bad news. Your engine might be on fire, Edwards told him.

That is excellent news, Peter replied as wafts of smoke began to filter into the cockpit.

We're still a few miles from the coast but I don't think your airplane is going to make it much further. It’s a terrible thing to say, but shouldn’t you try to land somewhere?

It wasn't the most appealing idea especially since the smoke he was trailing would give away his position, but the idea of ending his life in a ball of fire did not sound like much fun either. Peter saw what looked like even ground up ahead and he tried to lower his