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Once they were in the cockpit, von Wachtstein suggested that while crossing Spain they take advantage of the Constellation’s capabilities to become inconspicuous. The Connie could cruise at twenty thousand feet at better than three hundred miles per hour. At that altitude they would be hard to see from the ground, and even if there were contrails, the natural presumption would be that they were an Allied bomber. Further, von Wachtstein said, the Spanish had no aircraft capable of climbing that high to investigate, and even if they tried, any Spanish aircraft would have trouble catching up with the Connie.

“What the Spaniards have are Luftwaffe rejects,” von Wachtstein said. “Nothing as fast as the Connie.”

You just lucked out again, Cletus Frade.

You put Hansel in the left seat impulsively. And he just showed you it was the right thing to do.

“Let’s do it,” Frade ordered.

On takeoff, they navigated by dead reckoning, flying southeast across Portugal toward Spain while climbing to an altitude of twenty-two thousand feet. The weather was clear, and there were only a few isolated clouds.

They had been airborne just about an hour when von Wachtstein said, “Take a look at three o’clock, Clete. That’s Madrid. Now, let’s see if we can find the Pyrenees.”

“Clete,” von Wachtstein said, “did you ever see pictures, or maybe a newsreel, of crazy Spaniards running away from bulls down a narrow street?”

Clete thought a moment, then said, “Yeah.”

“They do that in Pamplona,” he said, and pointed. “Which means that we’re about to fly over the Pyrenees. The last time I was here, I was flying an Me-210 and the oxygen wasn’t working. So, I had to fly through them. Very interesting experience.”

“Welcome to France,” von Wachtstein announced, pointing downward at the snowcapped Pyrenees mountains. “Now, let’s see if we can find Lyon.”

“God, I hope that isn’t what I think it is,” von Wachtstein said.

“What do you hope it isn’t?”

“Köln. You know, where the aftershave lotion comes from.”

“You mean Cologne.”

“That’s what I said,” von Wachtstein said. “If it is Köln, we’re too far north.” He shoved the yoke forward. “I guess there’s only one way to find out.”

“Please keep in mind this aircraft is not a fighter plane. Try not to tear the wings off.”

“That’s Köln, all right. That’s the cathedral. Christ, the whole city is destroyed!”

“My God!” Clete said, looking at square miles of utter destruction.

“Welcome to the Thousand-Year Reich, Herr Oberstleutnant,” von Wachtstein said.

“It’s hard to believe,” Clete said.

“Well, now that we’ve found the Rhine, I suppose we better go the rest of the way close to the ground.”

“Well, there’s what’s left of Frankfurt am Main,” Peter announced.

“The airport is to the south.”

“That looks as bad as Cologne,” Clete said. “Jesus, there’s hardly a building left standing.” He paused. “There’s one. A great big building.”

“The I.G. Farben building,” von Wachtstein said.

He pointed the Constellation toward it.

Clete saw the altimeter was indicating fifteen hundred feet.

They dropped another five hundred feet before flashing over the huge building that stood unscathed in the rubble.

“You’re going to give our passengers heart failure,” Clete said. “Jesus, there’s an American flag on that building!”