Bloodstorm- a Dane and Bones Origin Story

by David Wood

  BLOODSTORM

  A Dane and Bones Origin Story

  David Wood and Sean Ellis

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Bloodstorm- A Dane and Bones Origin Story (Dane Maddock Origins, #10)

  PROLOGUE

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  TEN

  ELEVEN

  TWELVE

  THIRTEEN

  FOURTEEN

  FIFTEEN

  SIXTEEN

  SEVENTEEN

  EIGHTEEN

  NINETEEN

  TWENTY

  TWENTY-ONE

  TWENTY-TWO

  TWENTY-THREE

  TWENTY-FOUR

  TWENTY-FIVE

  TWENTY-SIX

  EPILOGUE

  BOOKS and SERIES by David Wood

  BOOKS and SERIES by SEAN ELLIS

  Twelve years ago, the novel Dourado, by David Wood, introduced the world to the treasure-hunting duo of Dane Maddock and ‘Bones’ Bonebrake—former Navy SEALs on a quest to discover the strangest treasures of the ancient world. Over the course of more than twenty novels, you’ve lived their adventures, from the beginning of their career as elite commandos, to their battle against the worldwide conspiracy known as the Dominion.

  Now, the time has come to tell the story of Dane and Bones’ final, shocking mission as Navy SEALs.

  THERE WILL BE BLOOD....

  While still mourning a great personal loss, Maddock and Bones are sent undercover to Moscow to assist an old acquaintance, Navy Intelligence officer Zara Leopov. Leopov is orchestrating the defection of a Russian archivist who has discovered a crucial clue concerning the fate of a high-ranking Nazi official who went missing at the end of World War II, a man who may have carried with him the most sacred relic of the Third Reich.

  The search to discover the truth, will take Dane and Bones around the world, and throw back the curtain on a conspiracy born in the early hours of the Cold War—a shadow government that is manipulating the global powers, driving them headlong into the storm.

  Praise for David Wood and Sean Ellis!

  “Bloodstorm takes us back to the beginning, weaving treasure-hunting SEALS Dane and Bones into a globe-spanning clash with Russian mobsters and the lost supernatural power of the Third Reich. If you like ancient artifacts, Nazi gold, and empire-ending conspiracies delivered like a punch to the teeth, you'll love Wood and Ellis' latest addition to the Dane Maddock universe."—Taylor Zajonc, award winning author of The Maw

  “Dane and Bones. Together they're unstoppable. Rip roaring action from start to finish. Wit and humor throughout. Just one question - how soon until the next one? Because I can't wait.”-Graham Brown, author of Shadows of the Midnight Sun

  “What an adventure! A great read that provides lots of action, and thoughtful insight as well, into strange realms that are sometimes best left unexplored.” -Paul Kemprecos, author of Cool Blue Tomb and the NUMA Files

  “Ellis and Wood are a partnership forged in the fires of Hell. Books don’t burn hotter than this!” -Steven Savile, author of the Ogmios thrillers

  Bloodstorm- ©2019 by David Wood

  The Dane Maddock Adventures™

  All rights reserved

  Published by Adrenaline Press

  www.adrenaline.press

  Adrenaline Press is an imprint of Gryphonwood Press

  www.gryphonwoodpress.com

  This is a work of fiction. All characters are products of the authors’ imaginations or are used fictitiously.

  PROLOGUE

  May, 1945 Flensburg, Germany

  Most of them wore civilian clothes, as if they already knew how this night would end, but the man who had called for the meeting was attired in his customary dress uniform, replete with the distinctive and unique wreathed oak-leaf insignia on the gorget patches at his collar, the badge that marked him as the senior commander of the Schutzstaffel. In fact, he no longer held that office. For the crime of trying to save Germany from utter annihilation, he had been branded a traitor and stripped of his rank. Moreover, the SS itself was no more. The men assembled in the room with him—all that remained of the senior leadership of the organization—were now the most wanted men in Germany. Tomorrow, they would disperse, assume new identities, attempt to lose themselves amidst the rank and file of the defeated army. He would become “Unterfeldwebel Heinrich Hitzinger, formerly of the Special Armored Company attached to the Secret Field Police” demobilized and released from duty a week earlier—but tonight, for one last time, he would stand before them as Reichsführer Heinrich Himmler.

  When the last of them had filed into the small office, he rose and greeted them with a defiant salute. The gesture seemed to catch them off guard. One and all, they returned the salute, almost reflexively, only to lower their arms quickly, guiltily. He allowed them their moment of shame.

  “My brothers,” he said by way of preamble. “This is a difficult time. Grand Admiral Dönitz has made his plans, and they do not include us. So be it. We will write our own destiny.”

  He knew how empty the words must sound to the men; he could scarcely draw up the courage to speak them. But he knew something they did not. He knew—he believed with every fiber of his being—that they could succeed.

  He circled around to the front of the desk and bent over the glass-topped presentation case. He opened it, took out the carefully folded piece of red cloth within, and then slowly, reverently, unfolded it and spread it out across the front of the desk, careful not to let it touch the floor. Even before he was finished, he heard a gasp of recognition from behind him; they all knew what it was.

  When he had finished, he turned to them again. “You have heard that our Führer is dead by his own hand. I swear to you, this is a lie, spread by our enemies, to weaken our resolve and break our spirit.”

  He let the declaration hang in the air, watching their reactions to this revelation. There was doubt, but there was also hope. He seized on that. “The seeds of our return have already been sown. For a time, we will rest. Lick our wounds. Gather our army together again. The tide will turn, my brothers. The Americans already know that Stalin is a far greater threat to their dominance, and soon they will come to us and beg us to join a new alliance.

  “Until such time, however, we must go into hiding. Do not attempt to contact your loved ones; the hunters will be watching them closely. Dönitz has supplied us with forged identity papers.” He gestured to a stack of paybooks on the desktop. “Burn your uniforms. Sink yourselves in the Wehrmacht.”

  He paused a beat, sensing that the spell of his initial pronouncement was already beginning to fade. These men were survivors, driven more by self-interest than fealty to the Führer. “But never forget,” he went on. “You have sworn an undying oath.”

  He snapped to attention, the click of his heels striking together sounding like a gavel in the quiet room, and then pivoted to face the draped flag with its distinctive emblem—a black swastika imposed upon a circle of white. He reached out with his left hand, gripping the fabric, and snapped his right arm out again in an impassioned salute, and then repeated the words he had spoken for the first time so many years ago, before this very flag: “I vow to you, Adolf Hitler, as Führer and chancellor of the German Reich, loyalty and bravery.”

  As the first few syllables were uttered, other voices joined him. They all remembered the words—the loyalty oath taken by every officer of the Schutzstaffel. Soon, everybody in the room was speaking as with one voice.
“I vow to you and to the leaders that you set for me, absolute allegiance until death. So help me God.”

  Himmler then added a final, “Sieg, Heil!” before dropping his arm. When he turned to face the men again, he saw that some were openly weeping.

  The moment reminded him of the last time he had presided over a ceremony like this, just seven months earlier—the induction of the Volkssturm militia—the army of old men and boys raised up to defend Berlin against the advancing Russian and American forces. Many had wept then, too, caught up in the moment.

  Most of them were dead now.

  “The Führer lives, my brothers,” he went on. “And while he lives, your oath remains. We will never stop fighting for Germany. Now, go. This very night. Begin your new lives, while you secretly begin building the army of resistance, until our Führer chooses to reveal himself. I promise, you will not have long to wait. The Ancient One will protect us, and will not let us perish.” That final blessing was a delicate matter; he knew that few of the men present here shared his unique belief system. But if his desperate plan was to work, it would take more than just a momentary burst of zeal. He would need to possess them, heart and soul, and for that, he would need more than just the power of his former office.

  He struck his heels together once more, and then allowed his posture to relax. He let go of the flag, circled around to the other side of the desk, and sank into the chair, saying nothing as the men filed by, collecting their new identity papers before leaving the room. After a minute or two, all were gone, save for his aides, Werner Grothmann and Heinz Macher. He sighed wearily—the ceremony had taken its toll on him in ways the two men couldn’t imagine—but then he managed a smile and stood up again.

  “A rousing speech, Heinrich.”

  The voice belonged to neither of his aides, but it was a familiar one. Himmler looked up quickly and found the man standing in the doorway through which the others had just exited. The man, who wore a black trench coat over a charcoal gray suit, was small but exuded a gravity that made him seem much larger. His name was also Heinrich—Heinrich Müller—and until just a few days ago, he had been the head of the Secret State Police—the Geheime Staatspolizei, or as it was commonly abbreviated, Gestapo. Grothmann and Macher had both whirled to face the newcomer but froze as soon as they recognized him.

  Müller regarded Himmler with eyes that were the color of steel, and just us hard, but it was the Luger Parabellum pistol held casually in his right hand, that gave him command of the room. The gun was not aimed at anyone in particular, but the mere fact of its presence was ominous.

  Himmler took a deep breath and leaned over his desk, supporting himself on outstretched arms. The top edge of the flag was just inches away from his fingertips, and he was acutely aware of its proximity, even as he met the other man’s stare. “I did not realize that you had escaped Berlin.”

  Müller raised his left hand, palm facing upward in a gesture that seemed to say—Well, here I am—and then shot a sidelong glance at Grothmann.

  Himmler immediately grasped the unspoken request. “Werner, Heinz. Wait for me outside.”

  Though their concern was evident, the two men snapped to attention and briskly exited the room.

  “What do you want, Heinrich?” Himmler asked, doing his best to project authority.

  “What do I want? The same as any man, I think. To live. To survive.”

  “And so you come to me, asking for protection?”

  Müller spat out a harsh laugh. “You? You are no one, Heinrich. You are worse than no one. A traitor and a coward. That worm Fegelein told me how you tried to sue for peace against the Führer’s explicit orders.”

  Himmler’s lips twitched into a smile. “We both know of your skill in getting a man to tell you whatever it is you want to hear.”

  “No skill was required. He was drunk. He vomited on the floor. It was disgusting.”

  Himmler inclined his head. “So, I have been convicted on the testimony of a drunkard?”

  Müller waggled the gun back and forth. “You did what you did. Perhaps it was even the right thing to do, but you were deluding yourself to think that they would have made peace with you. Men like you and I are beyond forgiveness.”

  “We shall see. When the turmoil of the moment subsides, the Americans will realize that their true enemy was always Stalin, and I think they will forgive a great many things.” He leaned forward a little more, adjusting the position of his hands so that they were in contact with the flag. “So, if I am less than nothing, why are you here?”

  “It’s simple really,” Müller replied. The gun was now pointing forward, pointing at Himmler. “The Americans and Russians are hunting us. Me, you, Gebhardt, Olendorf, and all the other members of your little army of resistance. But I think they will want you most of all. So I intend to give you to them. You will be my ticket to a new life.”

  Himmler curled his fingers into claws, pulling the scarlet cloth into his grip. “Who is the coward, now? You call me a traitor, but I name you a deserter. An oathbreaker.”

  Müller laughed. “My oath died in the Führerbunker.”

  “The Führer lives,” hissed Himmler.

  “I doubt that very much,” Müller countered. “I was there.”

  “Did you see his body?” asked Himmler, knowing full well what the answer would be.

  Müller frowned. “I saw what was left after they were burned.”

  “All part of the Führer’s plan.”

  Müller waved his hand, dismissively. “Even if what you say is true, I have no intention of dying for a lost cause, nor will I ever let the Russians get their hands on me.”

  Himmler stared at the man accusingly. Despite his well-earned reputation for ruthlessness and an unflinching dedication to following orders, Müller had never been a true believer, refusing to join the Nazi Party until forced to do so as a matter of survival. He had once even disparaged Hitler himself, calling him “an immigrant unemployed house painter” and “an Austrian draft-dodger.”

  Yet somehow, it had been Müller, not Himmler, standing beside the Führer at the end.

  Himmler tightened his grip on the flag, as if he might somehow squeeze his will into it. “Heinrich, listen to me. This is not the end. It is only a temporary setback. We need only survive the next few weeks, perhaps only days.”

  “I intend to. By any means necessary.”

  “What if I offered you something more than just survival?”

  Müller chuckled. “I would say that you have no power to offer anything of the sort.”

  “We planned for this, Heinrich. You know we did. A fortune in gold was hidden away. I can tell you where to find it. And we have friends. Allies all over the world who will give us sanctuary. There is an Unterseeboote convoy assembling in Norway. In two days, it will depart for Argentina, where our friends have promised refuge.”

  “If that were true, why do you and the others slink away in the night to hide among the Wehrmacht?”

  “You know my intention. I mean to be a part of the New Germany. But you... If I am not mistaken, you have no such ambition.”

  The gun remained motionless, its barrel a black maw waiting to devour the former Reichsführer. For a moment, Himmler believed he had failed, but then Müller prompted, “Tell me more about this secret convoy.”

  Himmler hesitated. Did he dare trust this man? Was he offering Müller an even fatter prize—information about the convoy, which he might trade to the Allies, in exchange for amnesty? “I will tell you everything, but first, I would ask something of you.”

  Müller frowned. “Your life is not payment enough?”

  “I would only ask that you reaffirm your allegiance. Swear the oath again. Is that such a difficult thing?”

  Müller held his gaze a moment, then his eyes flicked down to the flag. “I was wondering what became of that. How did you convince Jakob to part with it?”

  Sturmbannführer Jakob Grimminger was the standard bearer of the SS, entrusted
with guardianship of the Nazi Party’s most revered relic.

  “His permission was not required.”

  Müller’s stare returned to him after a moment. “No,” he said, with a tone of finality. “I have already fulfilled my oath. I am finished with your crusade.” He waved the gun as if to indicate that he would hear no more talk of oaths. “This convoy—where is it?”

  Himmler frowned, though the response was not completely unexpected. “The boats are hiding off the shore of Holsenöy. It is an island near Bergen. They surface at night to take on supplies and refugees.”

  A gleam of avarice appeared in Müller’s eyes, but then he lowered the pistol, concealing it in the folds of his trench coat, and inclined his head. “Very good. Now, you will take me there.”

  “I am not ready to leave Germany.”

  “I don’t care,” snapped Müller. “For all I know, you’re trying to send me off on a wild goose hunt.”

  “The convoy is real.”

  “For your sake, I hope so.”

  Himmler pursed his lips together, but then nodded in compliance. “Very well.”

  He circled around the desk and began gathering in the flag, patiently folding it until the swastika was hidden beneath scarlet that was stained splotches of darker crimson. He placed it inside the presentation case, and then put the wooden box in a larger satchel.

  “You should bury that somewhere,” Müller said in a flat voice. “If we are caught with it, I do not think they will believe that you are just a soldier from the ranks.”

  “I will not leave it behind,” Himmler replied, resolutely. “This is our future.”

  “You are a fool.” Müller stepped forward and took the satchel with a brusque sweep of his hand. “But if it is so important to you, I will look after it until we reach the convoy. But know that I will not die for a piece of cloth, any more than I will die for what it represents. I will throw it into a privy rather than be caught with it.”

  Though the thought was absolutely shocking, Himmler hid his dismay. It pained him to be separated from the flag, even if it was still within arm’s reach, but for the present, he would have to accept the former Gestapo leader’s terms. If anyone could evade the Allied soldiers roaming the countryside and keep them all safe, it was Heinrich Müller.