Masks of Ash

by Adrian J. Smith

  He barely noticed leaving the cutting and walking up the steep hill. Felix took them to a natural cave and squeezed through passage after passage. He never hesitated, taking them left, then right, then left again. Milo snapped out of his daze when he heard his feet crunching on something new. Felix had led him inside the mountain and into an abandoned tunnel, complete with a 1940s-era train. The engine was still there, and about twenty boxcars. Felix lit a lantern. In the light, Milo’s gaze fell on the cars. There were NAZI symbols stamped on each one: an eagle with a swastika clutched in its talons. Milo let out a low whistle. He had heard rumors of these trains. In the last months of the war, with the Allies fast approaching, the Nazis had scrambled to move all the pillaged gold and art out of Germany. A lot made it. A lot didn’t.

  Milo rapped his knuckles on the side of the wooden crate. The dull thud told him that the contents were still inside. “Why haven’t you taken the contents?”

  “It’s blood gold. One day I’ll report it, when I know it will reach the right hands.” Felix kicked a crate. The thump reverberated off the rock walls.

  Milo heard another sound. One he knew all too well. A round being chambered ready for use. He turned to see Klara aiming her pistol directly at his face.

  Milo staggered back and raised his hands. “What are you doing?”

  Klara said nothing, just glared at him.

  “You can drop the pretense,” Felix said.

  “What pretense?” Milo spluttered out. He weighed up the odds on whether he could reach his gun and fire it before Klara managed to shoot him. He put them at thirty percent. Not bad.

  Felix nodded to Klara. In a flash, she jerked the pistol to one side and shot Milo in the left leg. Burning pain lanced up his spine and hammered the inside of his skull. He collapsed onto his butt and clamped his hand over the wound. She had a good aim. The bullet had hit the fleshy part of his thigh. Not a fatal shot. They had been clever, waiting until they were inside the tunnel so the noise of the pistol shot would not be detected.

  Fighting against the agony, he stared at Felix. “Why are you doing this?”

  “You can stop it, Feldwebel. We know who you are. What was the plan? Help me free these women, learn the route and inform your superiors?”

  Milo sighed. For eighteen months he had lived in fear. The fear of being discovered. “How did you know?”

  “I’ve been doing this a long time. Do you think you’re the first Stasi agent to try and take me down?”

  “No. I didn’t think about it. I had orders.”

  “And all that talk of your sister? Do you really want that?”

  “At first, no.” Milo shifted his weight so he could better attend to the wound. He took the kerchief that he had used to cover his mouth and made a tourniquet. The blood flow decreased. “I guess you can say I had an epiphany.”

  “Standing in that mass grave?” Felix said.

  “Before my parents died, my sister and I would sneak into the attic and listen to Western rock-’n-roll music. T-Rex and David Bowie were my favorites, and some of the heavier music. Black Sabbath and Deep Purple. I admired the guitar-playing skills of Ritchie Blackmore. I dreamed of learning the guitar like him, of making music,” Milo said. “We learned they were playing a concert in West Berlin and I wished I could go. I envied the freedom the youth of the West had, and I questioned our State. I never wanted to be Stasi; I had no choice. These last eighteen months have shown me that if people like you are willing to die protecting our freedoms, then I do have a choice.”

  Felix threw Milo a small medical kit. “I can’t let you come with us, but I will spare your life. Go back to you superiors. Tell them whatever you want. We have closed our operation. Tonight was the last run. I couldn’t leave my daughters here any longer.” He pulled Milo to his feet and grasped his shoulder. “Every human deserves to be free. I’ve seen too much death and hatred. I thought the world would change after the war ended, but it hasn’t. Maybe it never will.”

  Crack!

  Klara’s head exploded in a mess of brains, skull and tissue. Klara toppled over with a thud. Felix dived under the nearest boxcar, his three daughters following suit.

  Milo turned, shielding his escape. He held up his hands and shouted as loud as his could, “Huaptabteilung Eight agent. Stand down.”

  Shadows moved in the semi-darkness, morphing into figures. Soldiers ran past, and Milo tackled one, earning a vicious kick to the face. He was handcuffed, his arms wrenched behind his back, adding more pain to the bullet hole in his leg. Milo glanced down at what was left of Klara, moments before his own world faded away.

  ***

  Milo jolted awake and took stock of his surroundings. Concrete floor, and walls with peeling gray-green paint. The chill of the cement seeped into his body. No wonder he was shivering. From the pounding in his head and his high temperature, he suspected a fever. His left thigh throbbed for some reason. He shifted his weight and checked himself over. His thighs were covered in purple bruises. The left had a bullet wound. The bullet had been removed, but there was no dressing. He gave the wound a gentle squeeze and winced as pus oozed out.

  Milo had no idea how much time had passed. Or where he was. That he was in a Stasi prison was obvious; he had been a guest of the secret police before. Most East Germans had, always on some trumped-up charge. Standing up, he shuffled over to the door and peered out the open metal flap. A guard stood beyond, staring at him.

  “You’re awake. Good.”

  The guard slammed the flap closed, plunging the cell into darkness. Milo calmed his racing heart and tried not to think about what could have possibly gone wrong. Yes, he had let his target escape, but surely he would be debriefed first.

  More time passed. Maybe hours, maybe only minutes. With no way of judging time, his circadian rhythm had fled.

  The flap in the door banged open, allowing light back into the room. A face appeared, there was a grunt, and Milo’s cell was unlocked. Ice-cold water was thrown onto him, and he flinched at the sudden chill. For a second the sensation was pleasant, soothing his fever. Rough hands lifted him off the floor and a sack was placed over his head.

  Milo listened intently as they dragged him down a long corridor. Howls of agony echoed from every direction. Meaty thumps of fists hitting flesh. The crackling of electricity. The stench of urine, blood and feces hanging in the air. Milo bit his tongue, forcing down bile that threatened to force its way out.

  The guards pulled him into a room and tied him to a hard metal chair and, once again, left him.

  More time passed. Long, excruciating hours or days.

  Water was poured down his throat, and at one stage a man – who he assumed was a doctor because of his white coat and stethoscope – injected him with something.

  Time slid by once more.

  He was given food, and when he opened his eyes after another fitful sleep, Major Licht was sitting in front of him, smoking a Cuban cigar.

  “I’m disappointed in you, Feldwebel Ragalla,” Licht said, blowing the sweet-smelling smoke into Milo’s face. “Eighteen months with nothing to show for your efforts. Plus, you aided his escape.”

  Milo remained silent. If Licht wanted him to speak, he would have asked him a question.

  “Sad. I had high hopes for you, Milo.”

  Licht stood and uncuffed Milo’s hands. His arms fell limply to his sides. He tried to raise them, but they wouldn’t respond to his commands.

  Licht stood over him, glaring. He slammed his fist into the side of Milo’s head. The last thing he saw before blacking out again was Major Licht’s feet as he walked out of the room.

  Milo’s existence became round after round of torture and misery. Some days he would be left in darkness. Others, he would be beaten with heavy sticks. Sometimes, he was taken outside and tied to a stake. Men would line up in a firing squad, take aim, and fire, purposely missing him.

  Weeks passed, then months.

  He never got to know any of the guards; they ch
anged constantly. One day, after hours of waterboarding, the guards put a sack over Milo’s head and took him to the yard. They tied him to the stake like he’d been before. They removed the bag and laughed as they stomped away.

  Milo blinked at the bright summer sun. He closed his eyes, reveling in the warmth of the sun’s rays on his scabbed, pus-filled skin. A fleeting shadow swung across his eyes. He sensed movement. He opened his eyes.

  He recognized her immediately; she was wearing her favorite dress. The light blue one with edelweiss flowers. Eva. Her long blonde hair hung loose, and her hands were tied behind her back. Her neck was at an unnatural angle. They had hanged her, and now made Milo watch as she rotted in the summer sun.

  He sobbed, letting out everything he had held back in his short life. He sobbed for the injustice. For the guilt. And for her life that had been stolen away.

  Milo had no recollection of how long they left him out there with his sister. After that, the torture continued. Another day, another torturer. On and on.

  ***

  His cell door clanged open and Milo was dragged into another room. Instead of the normal brutish sadist, a well-dressed man in an expensive suit sat on the only chair.

  “Hello, Milo. Would you like all this pain to stop?”

  Milo nodded. He had broken the day he saw Eva swinging in the wind. Admitting his failings meant nothing to him.

  “I’ve read your file,” the mystery man continued. “It’s an interesting read. Tell me something. Are you tired of the way the world is?”

  Milo blinked. Confusion clouded his fragile mind. It was an odd question for a Stasi officer – if that was what he was – to ask.

  Felix’s words from that fateful night shouted in his mind. “Everyone has the right to choose.”

  Milo grimaced and looked the mystery man in the eyes. “Yes. For a long time now.”

  “Good. And what if I offered you a way to help make it better?”

  “If it means getting out of this place, then yes.”

  “It does.”

  “Sign me up,”

  The well-dressed man smiled again and gestured to someone behind him. A woman dressed in gray, with thin, bony features, stepped forward. “This is Alba. She will get you healthy. We have a long journey ahead.”

  Milo’s head swam. Was this a new form of psychological torture? Was he dreaming? “Are you serious?”

  “I’m always serious, Herr Ragalla.” The mystery man held out a hand. Milo lifted his and they shook hands. “Victor Offenheim.”

  Offenheim broke the grasp, pivoted, and walked from the room.

  Alba took Milo to a different part of the prison. It was new and modern. Red carpets covered the floors. The paint was bright, the air fresh.

  Milo smiled when he saw the single bed in his new room. A real bed with pillows, sheets and blankets.

  He didn’t care if it was a dream anymore. He just wanted to be free.

  I made my choice, Felix.

  One

  Makushin Bay, Aleutian Islands

  The storm outside had subsided, but not the turmoil in Ryan’s heart. Questions remained. Doubts and pain. Had it been enough? The Nameless had gambled it all on a maybe. Sacrificing an LK3 satellite to destroy the OPIS satellite, praying it was responsible for the transmission of the deadly instructions.

  The Nameless may have saved North America. But Europe, Asia, the rest of the world were still unknown, and this caused him pain. Ryan had family and friends scattered throughout the world. He needed them to be safe too.

  Ryan Connors cast his gaze out over the gray ocean. Whitecaps whipped up by the chill northerly wind danced and darted. He leant back against the stone cairn and placed a hand on the rough, chipped rock. Perhaps someone had built it as a memorial, or just as a marker. He thought of it as a starting point. Somewhere to pick up the pieces of their shattered lives. A place for new beginnings. America was safe. Now, they had to stop OPIS from continuing their plans.

  His radio crackled to life.

  “Ryan. Cal. Zanzi and the director are alive,” Sofia said.

  Cal squeezed his hand. Everything was in that touch. Their fear, their anxieties.

  “Confirmed?” Ryan said.

  “By Avondale. He saw them with his own eyes. Munroe’s been trying to contact us. So has the Nimitz. We need you inside.”

  “On our way,” Ryan said. He slipped the radio back inside his jacket and jumped up. With one last look at the cairn on the hill, he took Cal by the hand and trudged back down, leaving his guilt behind.

  Booth was waiting as they hustled inside the former NSA spy station. He handed Ryan a headset. “Avondale on line one.”

  “Avondale. Glad you’re okay, buddy.”

  “Thank you. Same for you guys. I’ll fill you in. Zanzi and the director are alive and were on their way to me. I’m afraid to tell you they met some trouble. I lost track of them in the industrial area by the railway. Lots of vehicles driving in and out. I’m sorry. I think they may have been captured.”

  Ryan clenched his jaw. Maybe they weren’t so lucky.

  “How long ago was that?”

  “Nearly an hour. Black Skulls are everywhere, masquerading as FEMA and the National Guard. There’s a helicopter in the area too. Good news is that we stopped wave two in Central America and the Caribbean as well. South America, I’m unsure of at this point. I’ll have a full report in an hour or two.”

  They had hope. A faint hope, but something, nonetheless.

  “Thanks, Avondale. Do me a favor?”

  “Anything, sir.”

  “Update me as soon as you have news on Zanzi.”

  “Definitely. I’m patching you through to Munroe now. One moment.”

  As he waited, Ryan looked at The Nameless. Dark shadows that he was sure were mirrored on his own face sat under all their eyes. But the melancholy of an hour ago, when they’d had no news, had been replaced by joy. At least, a little. Satisfaction that their efforts hadn’t been in vain. Sofia grasped his shoulder. Zanzi was like a daughter to her; she would be feeling his uncertainty. Empathizing. Like he had when she’d broken the news of Keiko’s disappearance. Now, Ryan was more determined than ever to get back to Portland as soon as possible. The thought of losing another child shook him to the very core of his soul.

  “Is this Connors?” Munroe’s gruff voice boomed through Ryan’s headset.

  “Speaking.”

  “Good. Omstead told me what you guys did. Do you think it worked?”

  “We’re not one hundred percent sure, but we certainly stopped it in America.”

  “I doubted Omstead, but she provided me with intel to prove that President Ward is involved in all this. I suspect that you have a plan on how to stop all of this?”

  “Yes sir. An idea, at least. We’ll need your help, of course.”

  “I’ve talked to Captain Richmond of the USS Nimitz. He’s still wondering what happened to Colonel Dudek and his men. Plus, they have a couple of foreign ships buzzing around.”

  “Colonel Dudek and his men revealed themselves to be working for OPIS and nearly killed us. We only just managed to subdue and kill them. It was a close call.”

  “Dudek worked for this OPIS too?” Munroe muttered, and cursed. The sounds of furniture being kicked echoed over the airwaves.

  “General, I was informed that OPIS has tentacles that run deep into the halls of power. They have agents planted everywhere. We must move forward with extreme caution. We don’t know who we can trust.”

  “I’ve known Richmond for close to forty years. Sound Navy man. Played against him in the annual football match. He loves this country as much as I do.”

  “With all respect, sir, Dudek said something similar. That he was doing what he did to save America. Bring it forward. To stop the unworthy sucking at its teat. Something like that.”

  “Sounds like a lot of Fascist garbage to me. Listen, Connors. I trust Richmond with my life. Get on board. Get home.”

  M
unroe ended the transmission, his voice replaced by dead silence. Ryan pushed back his chair and blew out a breath. The turmoil had returned. Never had he been so uncertain about who to trust. He didn’t need to explain what had been said. Sofia had played the conversation through loudspeakers.

  “Thoughts?” he said.

  He had his own, of course. His sense of duty told him to trust Munroe and Richmond. The Nameless were two hundred kilometers from Dutch Harbor. The private jet they had used to escape from Japan had been destroyed. Perhaps they could find another plane? Perhaps they could make it the three thousand kilometers, as the crow flies, to Seattle? Offenheim and his Black Skulls were going to attempt to stop them, of that much Ryan was certain.

  “I vote we get on the Nimitz,” Booth said. “A nice cruise down the Canadian coastline sounds good.”

  Allie nodded. “Agreed. I might be able to find us a plane, but it would be nice to have some Navy power at our disposal.

  “Cal, Sofia?” Ryan asked.

  “Nimitz,” they both said.

  “All right. It’s agreed. Captain Richmond is going to want answers about Dudek and his men. Be honest. Sofia, contact them and arrange extraction. Tidy everything away. Get topside. They’re going to want their soldiers back.”

  “Even Dudek?” Booth said.

  “I don’t like it either,” Ryan said. “Allie, I want you out of sight in case things go south. Take one of the rifles and cover us.”

  “You think they will?” Allie asked. “Go south?”

  “No. But I’ve learnt the hard way, over the years, that it’s better to play it safe.”

  The Nameless dispersed and set about their tasks. Food containers were disposed of. Blankets folded. Weapons and ammunition checked and loaded. Forty minutes later, they were back amongst the destroyed satellite dishes and radio masts.

  The UH-60 Black Hawk rumbled out of the low clouds. It circled the NSA station several times, flying lower with each pass, guns trained on The Nameless, before bumping to the ground a short distance from the damaged Seahawk.

  “Stay alert, everyone, until we know they’re friendlies.”