Final Mission: Zion - A World War 2 Thriller

by Chuck Driskell

  They stopped outside of the Tyroler Inn, already drawing looks from every man within a city block.

  “Are you sure you want to do this?” Gabi asked, suddenly feeling a spate of panic.

  “Yes,” Madeline breathed. She snapped her fingers at a passing man. “Cigarettes, please.” The man almost ripped his jacket as he shoved his hand inside, producing two cigarettes and a light for both women.

  “Might I accompany you both in—”

  “Sorry, but no,” Madeline said with a dismissive wave. The man took a final eyeful of both women before he hurried down the street like a whipped pup.

  The two women giggled, the levity of the brush-off being just the tonic they needed.

  When the moment had passed, Madeline’s painted red lips straightened. “It’s time.”

  “Shall we go?”

  “Lead on.”

  The doorman beamed at the two women, opening the door adjacent to the revolving door and sweeping his gloved hand with a great flourish. The women stepped into the lobby, heading toward the rear of the hotel, as they had been instructed. The music was overpowering in the arched back hallway. People spilled out of the darkened bar. Women stood against the walls, while their suitors leaned close to their ears, trying to convince them to leave and do something their mothers had long ago warned them against. Soldiers stood in groups outside the door, laughing and gesturing wildly with their hands. Drunk, as usual.

  Gabi spun just before entering the bar, whispering, “Gabrielle Hoffman. Gabrielle Hoffman. Gabrielle Hoffman.” She closed her eyes, swallowing several times.

  Madeline gripped her hand. “Will you calm down? This is nothing. We’ll find them, sit with them a while and make sure they get very drunk. And, if need be, we’ll go back to their rooms. It doesn’t mean we have to go through with anything. Remember, the job is keeping them occupied.”

  “Revolting,” Gabi answered, curling her lip.

  Madeline nodded. “Well, I agree, but I’m also ten years older than you. Just wait, this won’t be the last time you have to act fake to occupy a man who vexes you. And sometimes, that man is your own.”

  The two women crushed out their cigarettes in an urn before striding to the bar and sauntering inside.

  ~~~

  The children and their caretakers were evacuated first. Just as he had earlier, Neil tried to spot Fern but was unable to make her out from the others. He didn’t think it would be a good idea to single her out—not yet. The children’s excitement was understandably uncontainable. And while a bathing system had been devised by the women, the children were still quite filthy, especially their clothing. It made them all look similar. But other than their incredibly pale skin, the children looked remarkably healthy. As they were loaded onto the train cars and given strict instruction about remaining quiet, the Irish caretaker explained to Neil the many methods they’d employed to combat sickness. Their most important item were Redoxon tablets—synthetic vitamin C. This prevented the children and caretakers from getting scurvy.

  “What did Jacob tell you when he left?” Neil asked.

  “He said he couldn’t risk coming back until it was time to leave. He didn’t want to tip anyone to our position. And he warned us that it could take weeks or even months to arrange the transport.”

  Neil shook his head. “I find it amazing that, after all this time, you stuck with it.”

  The caretaker’s smile was wan. “When the alternative is imprisonment, or death, one finds the fortitude. This isn’t my first time, either. I’ve brought three groups of children out—this will be my fourth. There are always delays so I try not to worry.”

  “But you’ve made it each time?”

  “Never lost one child.”

  “I can’t imagine what you all went through in that tunnel,” Neil remarked.

  “It’s always hardest on the young ones.”

  “How many in this group are what you consider young?”

  “We have twenty-six children under the age of three.”

  Neil whistled. “Any infants?”

  “No, thankfully.”

  “Do you know one child named Fern?”

  “Of course. She’s with us.”

  Neil fought to remain passive. “Is she okay?”

  The woman shrugged. “About like the others, why?”

  “I met her grandparents. We can talk about it later.” He pointed to the train. “Please meet with the other caretakers. I don’t know what to expect tonight, but if we get stopped, you need to make sure everyone hiding behind those crates is absolutely silent. One sneeze, cough or sniffle could put all of us in a prison camp or…”

  She assured him she understood.

  Once the children were dispersed through the boxcars, the weapons had to be loaded. Because the mine cars weren’t motorized, they had to be pushed out. A system was developed, using six of the soldiers to push and pull each loaded car to the midway point of the mine, where the track leveled out and the ice abated. At that point, two of the soldiers would transfer the items to the second mine car, pushing it the rest of the way to the waiting train. Each circuit, including the transfer, took ten minutes. Men switched after every transfer, getting a slight break on the upper half of the circuit. Good Germans they were, the system was quick and efficient.

  Peter stayed with Neil at the train. Neil put him in charge of the loading, telling him to make certain each car was only loaded enough to block the view of the children.

  When the doorways were full, Neil instructed the soldiers to stop loading.

  “What about the remaining weapons?” an older soldier asked.

  Neil shrugged. “Once we cross that border, you can come back and pilfer to your heart’s delight for all I care.”

  Oberst Falkenberg called out to Neil. With a cigarette holder clamped between his sparkling teeth, the German spread a map on the hood of his unmarked staff car. He asked Neil to hold his hand lamp while he traced the route of the train with his finger.

  “There are guard stations here and here, run by the military, which probably won’t take any interest in you,” Falkenberg said. The train’s engineer, who was fully briefed, sauntered up behind them. “The last stop, here,” indicated Falkenberg, at a point on the map at the border, “is the border checkpoint.”

  “And the paperwork you gave me will provide me safe passage?”

  Falkenberg paused. “It should…”

  Neil turned the hand lamp to Falkenberg. “I told you I needed a green light…safe, unobstructed passage all the way to Yugoslavia.”

  “And that’s what I’ve given you. But that checkpoint, which may be benign, is out of my control. Its authority falls under the SS. If they are there and manning it, how am I to prevent a search?”

  “And what do you suggest I do if they stop us?”

  Falkenberg removed the cigarette holder, blowing his smoke away from Neil. “I would stop, show the papers, and then proceed. The papers are in perfect order.”

  “They’ll search the train.”

  “Why?”

  “They just will. Operations like this never run without a hitch,” Neil said, speaking from years of experience.

  “The weapons you’re carrying are being moved by the military for a future operation of great importance,” Falkenberg said, smiling thinly. “Threaten anyone who stops you with upsetting said operation. Tell them that Himmler will personally cut off their balls. And use that false Reichsleiter identification of yours.”

  Neil frowned. “False?”

  “Come now, Dieter,” Falkenberg said with a wink. “It fooled me at first, but not anymore. I did some checking. It’s of no matter, anyway. I’ve been properly remunerated.”

  Neil didn’t respond. He turned to the train’s engineer.

  “Can you help talk us through the border?”

  “I’ve made enough legal crossings that, yes, I feel confident we’ll be okay.”

  “Did they search your train each time?”


  “Rarely.”

  “Well, if they do, just know that things could get very interesting.”

  The engineer pushed his cap back. “Everything’s interesting these days.”

  “How many SS are typically there?”

  “A couple, if any. Sometimes it’s just civilian guards under the SS’s employ.”

  Neil hitched his thumb to the locomotive. “How fast is she?”

  The engineer turned his head and took in the length of the full train. “Pretty weighty load, even though short. We’re lucky because much of our route is downhill, so I think she can make a hundred if we can keep our head’a steam.”

  “A hundred kilometers per hour, meaning about sixty miles an hour?”

  The engineer’s smile widened. “You want a hundred miles an hour, you’re gonna have to go ask Hitler himself.”

  “And what’s the distance to the border?”

  “There’s no straight shot, due to the mountains and hills. But this is a trip I’ve made many times, so I know it well…365 kilometers from where we stand.”

  “So about four hours?” Neil asked.

  “Really depends how quickly we can get up to speed. My old iron horse might do better than the hundred I promised so, if we don’t have to stop, let’s call it three and a half.”

  Neil nodded, checking his watch. The schedule was looking good. Too good. He turned back to the colonel.

  “Oberst Falkenberg, as soon as we’re loaded, we’re moving. Get half of your men aboard those trucks and I’ll take the other half on the train. We’ll rally…” Neil turned the light to the map, running his finger northwest from the border, “…here, at Winkl.”

  “Rally for what?” Falkenberg asked.

  “Do you remember why I’m paying you for your soldiers? There’s a possibility of a firefight. And they damn sure will fight, if need be.”

  Neil turned and walked into the tunnel. He needed to find Doctor Kraabe.

  ~~~

  A hazy veil of smoke hung stagnant inside the bar. The music was so loud a person could barely hear herself think. Gabi and Madeline brushed off the attendant at the front. Though she was shaking with nerves, Gabi poked out her lips and blinked her eyes slowly, doing her best sultry Marlene Dietrich impression. As they walked to the bar, Madeline perused the room, noticing with satisfaction that nearly every set of male eyes was looking their way. They perched on the bar’s high swivel chairs, turning to face the crowd. Madeline curled her finger at the bartender, ordering champagne for Gabi, a vodka and tonic for herself.

  Playing for the crowd, Madeline instructed Gabi to lean into her ear, tell her something, and then laugh. Gabi said, “We look like brainless tarts.” Madeline giggled, genuinely, leaning her head back as she got into the spirit of things. The high chair had caused her dress to ride up to mid-thigh. Gabi placed her right hand on Madeline’s leg, still laughing, rubbing upward to the hem of the dress. Madeline rubbed the back of Gabi’s neck and glanced back into the crowd, predictably seeing a gaggle of German officers leering at them, their tongues exposed, leaving them panting like a pack of overheated dogs.

  The drinks arrived and Madeline toasted the evening loudly, guzzling her drink before smacking the tumbler on the bar and ordering another. When she turned back around, standing before her was a tall man in a German officer’s white tunic. At Jakey’s insistence, Madeline had studied the German insignia after the Anschluss, correctly identifying this man as a major in the regular Heer—the German Army.

  Madeline arched her eyebrows at the man. She gauged his age to be about her own. He had a long, narrow face and deep-set brown eyes. His hair was neatly parted and freshly barbered, and his scent was that of sandalwood soap. She could tell he was the type of man who found himself far more charming and attractive than did anyone else.

  The man took both of their hands, bowed, and kissed each. “Good evening, my sweethearts,” he said, using the tone of local gentry who had come to nobly claim the tax that was owed to him. “My name is Karl Lollar. I’m from Stuttgart and I am most honored to meet you both.”

  The women looked at one another and laughed.

  Karl tried to smile, but it was obvious he was being laughed at, not with. He blinked several times. “Might I inquire as to what’s so funny?”

  Madeline continued to stare into Gabi’s hazel eyes. Gabi nodded. Madeline turned to the man. “Karl,” she said, using her lacquered nail to press his shoulder backward, “I’m afraid our date might not like you trying to pick us up.”

  Karl swiveled his head back and forth, taking on a stilted expression that belied his efforts to remain good-natured. “Well, unless your date is Rudolf Hess, then I’m not too concerned. In fact, I’m quite adept at boxing, and grappling.”

  “Oh, really, Karl Lollar from Stuttgart?” Gabi asked, setting off another round of sniggering.

  Karl’s mouth tightened. He tugged at his collar. “Why don’t you tell me who he is, so I can have a proper talk with him? Perhaps outside.”

  “Would you?” Madeline asked. “Because we cannot seem to find him.”

  Karl’s good nature evaporated. “His name,” he commanded.

  “You really want to know?” Madeline asked.

  “Indeed.”

  “Anton Aying,” Gabi answered, ending the suspense. “Standartenführer Anton Aying, of the Schutzstaffel.”

  It appeared, within a second of hearing the name, that Karl Lollar of Stuttgart needed to sit on the toilet. His face became splotchy, his breathing ragged. He stammered through something akin to, “I see…I now understand.”

  “So, not Rudolf Hess,” Madeline said, thoroughly enjoying the experience of having a German Army officer teetering on soiling his uniform in her presence, “but would you like to box and grapple with Anton? If so, we’ll tell him that Karl Lollar, of Stuttgart—a major in the Heer—would like to step outside with him.”

  Karl shook his head to the stops as fresh springs of sweat appeared on his neck. He dug into his pocket, producing twenty reichsmarks, placing them on the counter, careful not to touch either woman. “Please don’t tell him that, and do accept my apologies. Perhaps this will pay for your next few rounds.” He smiled politely, nervously, before turning to leave. He stopped. “Shall I retrieve the honorable Standartenführer for you?”

  Madeline eyed him, smoke from her cigarette wrapping around her head like a white ribbon. “Karl?”

  “Yes?”

  “Just leave.”

  Major Karl Lollar, of Stuttgart, scurried back to his table, shaking his head to the rest of the men sitting with him, mouthing “nein” over and over again. They were all majors or captains and, after witnessing their comrade’s hasty retreat, each man turned to gawk. Eventually someone at the table managed to get the story from Karl. Upon hearing the name Anton Aying, each man spun around to concentrate on their libation.

  Gabi sipped her champagne and leaned close to Madeline. “This is almost fun.”

  Madeline’s smile dissolved. “Almost.”

  The girls sat in silence until they finished their drinks, occasionally catching each other’s eye. A melancholy seemed to descend over Madeline.

  “Smile,” Gabi said.

  “I know, I know. Sorry.”

  “What were you thinking about?” Gabi asked, crushing out a cigarette.

  “Take a guess.”

  “He’d be proud of you.”

  It took a moment, but suddenly Madeline brightened at Gabi’s suggestion. “Yeah, he would. He’d let me have it for being a fool, but he would be proud of me.”

  “I agree.”

  “Are you ready to do this?”

  Gabi nodded. “I am.”

  “Are you sure you’re up to it?”

  “We’re going to find out, aren’t we?”

  “I want Aying,” Madeline said. “No matter what, I want Aying.” She turned, motioning to the bartender who almost knocked over his partner to get to her.

  “Do you know Standart
enführer Aying?”

  “Of course,” the bartender yelled in return.

  “Please tell me he’s still here.”

  He pointed across the bar to the back corner. “Over there.”

  Madeline slumped in relief. “Still with the American?”

  “The last I saw he was. They’re pretty juiced up, if you know what I mean.”

  Madeline pushed Karl Lollar’s money to the bartender, winking at him. “We have no more use for this money.”

  As they pushed their way through the crowded bar, Gabi leaned into Madeline’s ear. “I hope, after tonight, I never see another uniform again.”

  “Me, too,” Madeline answered flatly. “Me, too.”

  They reached the rear table, spotting the SS Standartenführer and the ferret-faced American facing outward in the round booth. From the table next to the booth, a junior SS man stood, blocking their way with two meaty hands.

  “We’re here to see the Standartenführer,” Madeline said, leaning around the bodyguard like an inflamed fan of a movie star.

  “Yes, and his friend,” Gabi added, mimicking Madeline’s eagerness.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE

  IT WAS NEARLY MIDNIGHT. The caretakers and children had been instructed and reassured—then the weapon crates were moved to hide their presence in each boxcar. Neil directed the engineer and Peter to climb up on the engine and to await his arrival before they were to leave. Neil then walked to the rear of the train, a traditional caboose, stationing Doctor Kraabe there with four of Falkenberg’s soldiers. Neil armed Kraabe from the cache of weapons, giving him a Mauser MG-34 machine gun after making sure the action worked and the firing pin was installed. Speaking more to the soldiers than Kraabe, he told them to be watchful, in the event they were covertly pursued.

  “You can probably go through a thousand rounds a minute with that Swiss cheese maker but, if you do, you’ll burn up the barrel,” Neil said, not caring if the soldiers already knew this. “I don’t think it will, but if something untoward does happen, use those rounds judiciously. A few bursts from that Mauser will go a long way.”