Black Operations- the Spec-Ops Action Pack

by Eric Meyer

  It was amazing, all this way across enemy territory and we’d come straight to it.

  “Tamara, we have to take the Robe back with us, I’m sorry but those are our orders.”

  She looked shocked. “But, that’s sacrilege, it is a relic of Christ, it belongs to the church.”

  I shook my head. “I doubt that, it’s certain to be a medieval fake, like everything else that came out of Palestine during the time of the crusades.”

  A door opened near the altar and a priest walked through, startling us. The men raised their guns and then lowered them. He gave us a harsh look. He was tall, thin and erect, staring at us from dark, almost black eyes set in a gaunt face. His skin was pale, probably from a lifetime spent in dark churches and chapels, praying, chanting and studying sacred texts, or whatever these religious men did. His hair was tonsured, like a monk’s. An authoritative, commanding figure, except that we possessed the weaponry, not him.

  “Did I hear someone speaking German? What are German soldiers doing here?”

  We were shocked into silence for a few moments. Hachmann recovered first.

  “We have come for the Robe, priest. Don’t make any trouble or you’ll be meeting your God rather earlier than you expected. What are you, the local pastor?”

  The cleric drew himself up and stared angrily at the Gestapo man. “I am Bishop Nikolas Romanova, the guardian of the Robe. I cannot let you remove it.”

  Hachmann actually laughed. “And I am Kriminalinspektor Johannes Hachmann of the Gestapo. The Robe comes with us, whether you like it or not.”

  The bishop walked forward and put his arms over the casket.

  “No, you cannot remove it. I will not permit it, you will have to kill me first.”

  “I can arrange that,” Hachmann sneered as he drew his pistol. Taking it by the barrel, he hit Bishop Romanova over the head, the man staggered, let go of the casket and almost fell to the floor. He was mumbling, “No, please no, do not take it. It is sacrilege.”

  Tamara ran forward, took the Bishop in her arms, and laid him gently down. She looked at Hachmann. “That was an evil sin, striking the Bishop. You’ll be damned to hell for that.”

  The Gestapo man laughed again and turned to the men, ignoring me. “We have to get the Robe out of the casket and put it in one of the backpacks. It’s time to leave, we have what we came for.”

  The Bishop stood up and tried again to protect the casket but Hachmann clubbed him away with the pistol. I was about to protest when there was a rattling noise from the front doors and a voice shouted out in Russian.

  “It is the militia, one of their patrols,” Tamara said. “The cathedral was opened by Stalin after the German invasion, when he thought it would rally the people behind him. But they are very suspicious, the militia makes constant checks to see who is using it.”

  “Damn. We need to find a back way out. Goethe, take the men and look around.”

  He nodded and ran off with two of the troopers. Hachmann looked closely at the casket as the shouting at the door got louder. “It’s locked. I’ll have break it open, we can’t carry the whole thing back with us, it’s far too heavy.”

  He hit the lock repeatedly with his pistol until it shattered. He ripped open the lid and inside I saw what we’d come for, a linen robe in a dirty, off-white color. Bishop Romanova looked stunned, horrified at what was happening. Hachmann lifted the robe out and tossed it casually to Blomberg, who stowed it in his backpack. The banging on the door intensified just as Goethe came back.

  “There’s only one door out, but the militia outside there too, we can hear them.”

  So we were trapped. We’d have to shoot out way out, it was the only way. A violent retreat was the last thing I wanted, a gun battle in the middle of Moscow, but we had no choice. There was no doubt that the militia would call for reinforcements, but I was not going to give in easily. I realized the Bishop was speaking to me.

  “What? What was that?”

  “I can show you a way out.”

  “How?”

  “I know a tunnel that leads out through an underground passage. But there is a condition.”

  “I’ll show you a fucking condition, you bastard, show us where that tunnel is or I’ll blow your fucking brains out,” Hachmann snarled.

  His face was twisted in rage, he took hold of the Bishop’s robe with one hand and screwed his Walther underneath the man’s chin.

  “Either you show us this tunnel or I’ll blow your head off. Where is it?”

  “If you shoot me you’ll never find out,” the man gasped.

  “He’s right, Hachmann, leave him alone. We’ve no choice but to deal with him, if you shoot him we’re going nowhere.”

  The Gestapo man stopped and seemed to calm down. “Alright, what’s the condition?”

  “I go with the Robe. I have to protect it, wherever you take it, I go too.”

  “This is insane,” Hachmann snarled. “I’ll kill the bastard.”

  “Then you kill us all Hachmann. We have to take him with us, otherwise we’re trapped.”

  A calculating look came into his eyes. “Very well, we’ll take him.”

  “All the way, Hachmann. A deal is a deal, you don’t get out of here and then shoot him when we’re clear.”

  His shoulders slumped, he looked defeated. “It’s a deal.” But before I looked away, I saw the look of hate he gave me. It was clear that he hadn’t fully backed down, he would need to be watched closely. I had little doubt he’d try and shoot me again.

  “Quick, this way,” the priest shouted.

  He darted out of the door at the side of the altar, the one he’d used to enter the Cathedral. It was the priest’s robing room, at the back of the room was a large closet, where the robes were stored. He took a heavy cloak from a peg, opened the doors and pulled a lever at the back of the dark recess. A door in the back of the closet opened, revealing a short passage with a set of stone steps at the end.

  “Follow me, the last man through must make sure to close the doors otherwise they will pursue us.”

  We followed Bishop Romanova, he lit a candle and ran down the stone steps and along a narrow tunnel. The tunnel was very long, it must have been two hundred meters. When we got to the end there were more stone steps, he climbed them and opened a heavy, wooden door. We were in a small warehouse, from somewhere near I could hear water lapping.

  “This is a building we used to use as a store for the monastery attached to the cathedral, it has been disused since the communists came,” the Bishop said. “Be careful, the Moscow River runs alongside. The boats used to put in here with supplies.”

  “Do you have a boat?” I asked him.

  For the first time he smiled. “We do, yes indeed, a flat bottomed craft that was used for barrels of wine and foodstuffs. It is old but it be good enough for a short journey.”

  He led us to the water’s edge, the boat was pulled up out of the water. She was about ten meters long, with a shallow draft, little more than a floating platform for carrying goods but if it floated, it would get us out of here. I turned to the men.

  “Alright, let’s get her into the water and we can get away from here.”

  The men slid the boat off the bank and into the water. It looked dark and ominous.

  “We can only follow the river for the first kilometer,” Bishop Romanova said. “They have a boom downriver that controls all of the traffic up and down.”

  I nodded. “It’ll do. We’ll clear the immediate area and then worry about the next step afterwards.”

  He went to climb into the boat. Hachmann was behind him with his pistol out, pointing at the priest.

  “That’s far enough, Bishop. You’re not coming any further.”

  “Hachmann, we made a deal with him, he got us out of the cathedral, we can’t renege now.”

  “No? Just watch me.”

  Blomberg stepped up behind him, his PPSh ready to fire. “Stand down, Kriminalinspektor Hachmann, you’re not going
to shoot anyone, least of all the Bishop.”

  “Rottenfuhrer, how dare you threaten a Gestapo officer, lower your weapon. Berlin will hear of this, it is mutiny.”

  “Put it down, Hachmann,” I said firmly. “We’re a long way from Berlin.”

  He lowered his aim and Blomberg took the pistol out of his fingers. I nodded at Bishop Romanova.

  “Get into the boat, we need to push off.”

  “Please, be careful of the Robe.”

  He climbed into the boat, I got in and nodded to Hachmann to climb aboard. The rest of the men piled in with Tamara and we cast off into the river. There were four paddles, but the river was fast flowing, all we needed to do was control the direction of the craft, the current took us in the right direction. We watched the dark shapes of Moscow's towering apartment blocks go past us, all too soon the Bishop told us to steer for the bank.

  “We’re nearly at the boom, we have to stop before we get there.”

  The men paddled into the bank and we went ashore. Blomberg tied the boat up, it seemed a shame to just let it float away. We walked away on foot, heading west. I realized we were less than a kilometer from the Kremlin. From Josef Stalin, Dictator of the Soviet Union, executioner of millions and the sworn enemy of every German that drew breath. We walked even faster.

  Fortunately, it was the middle of the night, the streets were empty. We hurried along until we came to a militia checkpoint. They had stopped a truck, the two soldiers were chatting to the driver. We hid in the doorway of a department store, out of sight of the soldiers.

  “We could use that truck,” I told them. “It’ll get us away from here.”

  “It would be handy, but how the hell are we going to manage to take it?” Goethe asked.

  I smiled. “We look like Soviet soldiers, we’ll just walk right up to them and ask them to let us have it.”

  They all looked puzzled. “At knifepoint of course,” I continued. “But don’t kill the driver, he’s a civilian.”

  “We can hardly let him go,” Goethe objected.

  “That’s true. We’ll have to take him with us, we can tie him up. If he’s lucky, he may get his truck back afterwards. Keep the knives out of sight until the last possible moment. Hachmann, stay here with Tamara and the Bishop.”

  He looked sullen and angry still, but he nodded his agreement.

  “And Hachmann.” He looked up. “If any harm comes to either of them, you’re on your own. Clear?”

  He just stared at me.

  “Right, let’s go, square up, you’re Red Army soldiers. Quick march.”

  We went out into the street and marched briskly up to the checkpoint. The militiamen looked at us without interest, Moscow was a city where millions of soldiers marched through. They turned their attention back to the driver, until we stopped next to them. One of them said something to me, I’d no idea what it was, but the men were ready, two knives flashed and both militiamen pitched to the ground with blood pouring out of their throats. The driver stood frozen in terror, he was an overweight man of about fifty years old, balding and unshaven. He stank of body odor, cabbage, tobacco and vodka. The smell of Russia. Hachmann came up with Romanova and Tamara.

  “Tell the driver he’s nothing to fear, but he’s coming with us. We’re borrowing his truck.”

  She spoke rapidly in Russian. He relaxed, but only slightly.

  “Brenner, get Tamara and Hachmann into the truck and watch them. Bishop, you stay here, I need you. Goethe, get the rest of the men to find somewhere to hide these bodies. Hurry up, before someone comes along.”

  They dragged the bodies away and tossed them over a low wall, it would have to do for now. Snow was falling again and it would soon hide the bloodstains.

  “Bishop, I need you to travel in the front of the truck. We’ll borrow the driver’s coat for you, you can interpret for us if we are stopped. You’ll have to pretend to be the driver’s supervisor.”

  He looked angry. “I prefer to travel with the Robe.”

  “If we get stopped by NKVD or militia you won’t travel anywhere. You can trust me, we made a deal, I’ll be sure to keep it.”

  “But if the authorities find out what that I am actively helping you it will look bad for the church.”

  I lost patience then. “For God’s sake, man. We’re in the middle of an enemy capital, we’ll be lucky if we get out with our lives.”

  “It’s your enemy, German, not mine.”

  “Since when have the communists been friends with the church? I thought they were your enemies too.”

  He was still for a moment. Then he nodded. “I will do it.”

  Five minutes later, we were driving carefully through the snow-covered streets of Moscow. The driver had objected when I demanded that he gave us his coat, but I handed him Romanova’s heavy cloak to wear instead. The night was bitterly cold, he didn’t argue. Romanova seemed to know where all of the checkpoints were and he was able to guide us around and away from them. I asked him about such specialist knowledge of police procedures for a priest, but he just shrugged.

  “Sometimes it is necessary. Our duties are many and varied.”

  We reached the outskirts of Moscow, a sign on the road said Vnukovo.

  “We are heading in the right direction,” Romanova said. “Eventually this will lead us to the road for Smolensk.”

  We traveled for another few kilometers when the engine started to cough. Wasser stopped and went to look under the engine cover. He came back and said one word. “Petrol.”

  We were out of fuel with a hundred kilometers to travel. There was nothing else for it but to continue on foot. We abandoned the truck exactly where it was and marched on. Soon we reached a small village, there were no lights showing, no people moving. There were perhaps ten isbas, cold and stark even though the snow gave them a certain charm, hiding the worst of their squalor and misery. There was also a motorcycle and sidecar. Wasser went to inspect it.

  “It looks ok, the engine is still slightly warm so it obviously runs. There’s fuel in the tank too.”

  “It’s useless, Wasser, it’s too small to take us all,” I pointed out.

  Hachmann walked up to me. “I could ride the motorcycle and scout ahead for another truck, I’ll need a Russian speaker with me. When I find one I’ll drive it back here.”

  Why was he suddenly being so cooperative? I wasn’t sure if it was the right thing to do to let him out of my sight, except that we had the Robe. He wouldn’t go far without it. I had to ask Tamara to go with him, she was the only option. Bishop Romanova would not leave the vicinity of the Robe, that was certain. She wasn’t happy, but I persuaded her that she would be safe. As long as we had the Robe, Hachmann would be very careful. If he ever got his hands on the Robe, it would be different. We needed another truck, it was a risk, but on balance, I decided to agree to it. We pushed the motorcycle two hundred meters away, just outside of the cluster of isbas, Hachmann climbed on, started the engine and Tamara got into the sidecar.

  “Stay on this road, Hachmann, we’ll keep marching until we meet you. Make sure you do come back, I might get an idea about disposing of the Robe otherwise.”

  He smiled, it was a cruel expression. “I doubt that, Roth.”

  He put the machine into gear and roared away along the track. I had a sudden thought.

  “Blomberg, let’s take a look at that Robe.”

  He took off his pack and pulled out the contents. Old books and newspapers. Damn! Hachmann had somehow swapped the contents. Now he’d got away on the motorcycle and he had Tamara with him too. I resolved to find him somehow, whatever it took. If he laid a finger on Tamara or hurt her in any way, I’d kill him. But the first step would be to catch up with him.

  “March on. Keep an eye on that driver, don’t let him get away.”

  We marched through the night, the temperature seemed to be dropping by the minute. We all felt the effects of fatigue caused by the cold, we were walking more slowly, several times the men tripped
and stumbled. Bishop Romanova was particularly troubled and I had to assign two men to help him, one either side to keep him upright. The snow had eased but it started to fall again heavily and I briefly considered seeking shelter, but we needed to make as much progress as possible. So we pressed on, a shambling group of walking zombies putting one foot in front of the other. We ran into the checkpoint without even seeing it, two militiamen armed with Mosin Nagant rifles manning a barrier across the road.

  “Stoi!”

  We knew what that meant so we stopped. They weren’t overly suspicious at first, they spoke in rapid Russian, asking for our papers. Romanova, the only Russian speaker was almost comatose and didn’t even understand what was happening. We were all holding weapons, our PPShs but we were all so cold that I doubted our ability to shoot the Russians before they shot us. Then the militiamen started to look suspicious when we didn’t answer, one of them, a sergeant, shouted at us. To gain time I took off my pack and started to rummage inside it, as if looking for the papers. Then their patience ran out and they became suspicious, they pointed their rifles directly at us and my men pointed their PPShs back at them. We stood facing each other, frozen in indecision. The impasse was broken by the sound of a truck engine coming towards us. I had no doubt it would be a truck carrying troops, our luck had run out. Should I order them to shoot the militiamen and then turn on the truck? Or would it announce to the newcomers that we were the enemy? So far, the Russians were still in doubt, they didn’t understand who we were. The Soviet Union was a vast place with people from a number of different Socialist Republics, perhaps they thought we were from one of the distant countries that formed a part of the Soviet empire. Through the thick snow I could see the truck stop and two men got out of the cab, one was armed with a PPSh. A militiaman turned to him and shouted something. The newcomer raised his sub machinegun and I tensed, there were four Russians now, we had to hit them fast. I was about to order the men to open fire when a hail of bullets cut through the snow, both militiamen fell dead. I looked in astonishment as Hachmann walked forward.

  “I’ve got the truck, we need to get out of here.”