Final Mission: Zion - A World War 2 Thriller

by Chuck Driskell

  Thomas coughed, a deep, throaty cough, the pistol never wavering. “I take it Madeline was in there?”

  Gabi nodded, wanting to cry but not able to muster the emotion.

  He nodded soberly, his eyes still locked on Aying. “My truck is out back. Take it and drive it as fast as it will go. You remember where?”

  Gabi’s face twitched as she thought about her confession downstairs, minutes earlier. She hitched her thumb to Aying. “He knows, Thomas.”

  Thomas’ eyes flicked to Gabi before going back to Aying. He nodded knowingly. “Just go, Gabi. I’ve got him now.”

  After walking a short distance she stopped. She turned back to Anton Aying, his eyes blazing fury. Gabi matched the electric look in a long glare before she turned to Thomas, brushing his stubbly cheek with the back of her hand. She lingered a moment before nodding her thanks and running barefoot down the hallway. The elevator arrived with two hotel officials and the attendant. Their faces registered appropriate shock when they saw Thomas holding a gun on Standartenführer Anton Aying. Gabi hurried into the elevator, telling the three men that Thomas was a policeman and to take her down immediately.

  She gave them a rushed, purposefully confused version of the events that had occurred, repeatedly telling the shift manager that the old man was with the polizei, and that he had the situation now under control. In the lobby, the manager ordered her to stay put. Despite their yells of protest, Gabi rushed from the hotel, finding Thomas’ Opel Blitz just past the rear awning.

  It wasn’t much different than her mother’s old Adler. Gabi ground the gears before wheeling the Opel into a U-turn, speeding through the deserted Innsbruck streets as sirens wailed in the distance.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-FIVE

  STANDARTENFÜHRER AYING TOOK A STEP FORWARD. Thomas cocked the old pistol, the well-oiled cylinder dutifully clicking into place, aligned with the strike-plate and barrel. The sirens terminated downstairs, outside the hotel. At the end of the hall, a picture that had been hanging precariously fell to the floor. Thomas didn’t flinch.

  “Old man, are you completely senile?” Aying snapped. “Do you realize what that girl is up to?”

  Thomas dipped his chin, a quick nod. “Yes, I do.”

  “And do you realize her friend, a jewess, just killed our American ally, and herself? Can you not see what type of sub-humans we’re dealing with here?”

  Thomas shouted his reply in the event Aying’s hearing was damaged. “Perhaps she felt her cause was greater than her own life. Perhaps you killed her lover, a man who was no threat to any peace-loving person. Perhaps the American had already killed two German citizens, and she did us all a favor.”

  Aying bore his teeth, his face taut as he roared, “I am the authority here, not you!” He quivered visibly, pounding his chest in a Napoleonic manner. “I make those decisions, no one else. Do you hear me, you tainted relic? Do you?”

  Thomas listened to the little diatribe without emotion, but just as Aying finished yelling, he saw his eyes briefly divert. Expecting to see men from the fire brigade, Thomas glanced backward. He was surprised to see a large man in an SS overcoat. The man was lifting a machine-pistol and, from many years of experience, Thomas could literally feel the man’s intention to kill. Thomas whipped around, yanking off a round from the old revolver, watching the white-hot finger of flame reach from the barrel of the long pistol. The SS man squeezed off a few rounds but it was too late. Thomas’ bullet had struck him in his upper chest, sending him wheeling over like he’d been punched by Max Schmeling.

  As he turned back, Thomas saw nothing but a blur of gray as Aying had already launched himself. The two men went down in a heap. Struggling to get his pistol up, Thomas quickly realized he was no match for the younger, stronger man. Aying controlled Thomas’ shooting hand and struck Thomas with his other hand until he lost consciousness.

  When he came to, Thomas’ thoughts were muddled. The only sure reality was that his coughing was severe and he was still prone on the floor. He looked up to see the ornate hall lighting, still not working from the blast, illuminated by moving light from hand-lamps. Covering his mouth until his hacking stopped, Thomas twisted his head to see Aying. Men stood all around him, listening as the Standartenführer railed on and on about hurrying to the Yugoslavian border, to the Jesenice rail crossing.

  Thomas glanced at his watch and forced his hazy mind to do the calculations. The train couldn’t be but about two hours from the border, if the engineer had been correct. Gabi’s timing was going to be close. If she were to average 130 kilometers per hour, she should reach the border just as the train would. But given the top speed of an Army transport truck, there was no way Aying could catch up to the train at this point with the type of distance he would be forced to—

  “And you tell that prick from the Luftwaffe we’ll be there in fifteen minutes,” Aying proclaimed, halting Thomas’ train of thought. “I want as many men crammed on that bird as we can get, and we’re to land in the first clearing near that border crossing.”

  Thomas deflated. Neil and those aboard the train, as well as Gabi in the truck, were forced to take a circuitous route due to the rugged mountains. Thomas wasn’t sure of the exact distance, but assuming an airplane flew at three hundred kilometers per hour, Aying would almost certainly beat everyone to the border.

  “And what of him, sir?” an SS man asked, pointing a finger down at Thomas as if he were road kill.

  Aying snapped his fingers at the junior man, taking his machine gun. He stared down at Thomas, piercing him with his gray eyes.

  “Old man, I only wish I had more time to make you suffer.”

  Thomas stared straight up toward the heavens, a genuine smile creasing his face. Here I come, Greta!

  Aying fired two shots into Thomas’ chest and one into his head. Thomas’ mission, and his suffering, was complete.

  ~~~

  Two hours later, Gabi had the truck in high gear, holding the accelerator to the floor. The speedometer needle had disappeared, meaning she was doing better than the 100 kilometers per hour the gauge registered. It wasn’t long before she crested the long grade and, once headed downhill, the old truck revved until it sounded as if it might explode. She was navigating by road signs, having memorized each stop on the way to Jesenice—thank you, Neil, for making me study that map. Towns shot by her in the black of the night. Schwaz. Wörgl. Zell am See. She watched the fuel indicator in the old truck—nothing more than a floating ball. It was hovering low. Gabi kept her foot down. Once things leveled out, near the town of Villach, the train tracks rejoined the main road, to her left. Gabi decreased speed a bit, fearful she might have passed the train. If she had, she would have to find an unpatrolled section of the border and cross on foot.

  Wouldn’t she?

  Earlier, she’d seemed so confident about crossing. Now, having endured such extreme pain and sorrow, she’d lost a great measure of her confidence.

  As she sped out of Villach, a light on a roadhouse flashed like a strobe. Gabi closed the distance and, just when she was nearing the roadhouse, the light stopped flashing. The old truck rumbled as she pushed it even harder. She whizzed past the roadhouse, seeing the hard triangle of white light. It was aimed to illuminate a train. The light hadn’t been a strobe after all.

  A train had been passing, blocking the light with each passing car.

  She squinted her eyes, trying to see ahead of her. At her speed, she was looking so far forward that she didn’t realize she was already beside the train, alerted by the rumble of the caboose thirty meters to her left. Gabi wheeled the stubborn window down and began to pull and push the headlamp switch.

  Standing on the rear deck of the caboose, barely illuminated, was a group of men. They were aiming rifles at her. One of them gestured to the others and she watched as each man ceased his aim. Then one man disappeared into the caboose.

  She matched the speed of the train for another kilometer before sparks erupted under the train.

&n
bsp; It was stopping.

  She slowed, pulling the truck to the side of the road as the train finally squealed to a halt. Gabi exited the truck, her knees on the verge of buckling. When she saw Neil climbing down the black steel of the train’s ladder, a torrent of emotion swept through her. Though he frowned as he approached, he embraced her tightly, holding her for a long moment before he pulled back.

  “Are you okay?”

  Gabi was unable to hold back her tears.

  “Gabi, where’s Madeline?”

  She squeezed her eyes shut.

  “Gabi, what happened?”

  “She’s gone, Neil.”

  Neil dipped his head with a murmur of exhalation.

  “I talked, Neil. He tortured me and I told him everything. He knows…” Gabi buried her head in Neil’s chest and sobbed, his sweater muffling the sounds.

  After a moment Neil lifted her head. “Who killed Madeline?”

  Gabi wiped her eyes. “I think she killed herself. There was an explosion, upstairs in his hotel room. It killed them both.”

  Neil looked away. After a moment, as if accepting this, he nodded and said, “So she planned it.” His hand moved to Gabi’s upper chest, probing carefully as the center burn was visible in the moonlight. “And that…that sonofabitch, Lord…he tortured you.” It wasn’t a question.

  Gabi’s brow lowered as she turned her head side to side. “No, Neil. Madeline was with Preston Lord. Aying burned me.” She pulled the side of her wrinkled dress down, wincing as she showed him both of the fresh burns. “It’s Aying who knows everything…I’m so sorry.”

  “Where’s Aying now?”

  “When I left, the policeman, Herr Lundren, was holding him off.”

  Neil’s heterochromatic eyes danced, moving all around her. While they had been talking, Falkenberg had walked up, listening at a distance, his car idling in front of the train. During the gulf in the conversation he said, “No single policeman is going to hold back Aying and his SS.”

  Gabi turned to him. “There were more SS arriving just as I left.”

  Falkenberg threw his leather gloves to the dewy grass in disgust. “Damn that man.” He nodded knowingly. “He’ll be there. He’ll be at the border.”

  “Airplane?” Neil asked.

  “That’s my guess,” Falkenberg replied. “How long ago did you leave, mein Liebling?”

  “About two hours.”

  Falkenberg nodded. “Okay. Assume he took fifteen minutes to dispatch your policeman friend. Then, another fifteen to get an aircraft ready. He’d be bringing the alert platoon, which is lucky for you because they’re, in my opinion, a bunch of self-important greenhorns. But even still, they have the finest—”

  “Did you say ‘lucky for me’?” Neil asked with a great deal of heat. “You mean us?”

  Falkenberg cupped his hand over a cigarette, illuminating his face as he lit it. After a few puffs, he said, “We’ve gotten you here. The border is only ten minutes ahead. If Aying isn’t already there, the cursory guards at the crossing won’t be able to stop you. They’ve no doubt been notified, but there are no switches there, so just have your engineer blow through at full speed while you light up with fully automatic fire to keep the border guards’ heads down.”

  “And if Aying is there?”

  Falkenberg turned his head to Gabi, politely smiling. “Begging your pardon, my dear, but greenhorns or not, if Aying is already there with the ready platoon, I’d hazard that you’re roundly gefickt. He’ll blow the track.”

  “Leave the truck here and go get on the caboose,” Neil said to Gabi. “Have Kraabe put something on your burn. Peter’s in there, too.” When she didn’t move he said, “Gabi, please go. We must hurry.”

  As she walked away, Neil moved toe-to-toe with Falkenberg. “I realize you probably don’t want to be found associating with me, but you and your men are in plainclothes. I’ve got hundreds of innocent children, plus a woman, a teenager, an old doctor, and a train engineer under my care. I refuse to allow them to perish because you didn’t hold up your end of the bargain.” Falkenberg opened his mouth to speak but Neil continued. “I’m offering ten thousand reichsmarks, cash, for each of your men who will come with me.”

  There was a half-minute of silence.

  “What do you say, Falkenberg?”

  “I’d like to see the money.”

  “It’s on the train.”

  “I’d still like to see the money,” Falkenberg persisted.

  Neil wet his lips. “Look, I realize that you and I probably wouldn’t be close friends in normal circumstances. But, believe it or not, Falkenberg, I like you. You don’t bullshit around. You may not care for me, and that’s fine. For once, however, do me a favor and just trust me. I’ve got the money and don’t mind paying it. There’s no more time.”

  The German’s eyes crinkled at their edges. He turned to his driver, snapping his fingers. “Assemble all the men right here, right now.” He turned back to Neil.

  “You’re aware, my friend, that my personal fee just doubled?”

  Neil’s mouth twisted into a sour smirk. “I’d expect nothing less.”

  ~~~

  Standartenführer Anton Aying was crouched just behind the two cockpit seats of the Junkers Ju-86. The moon was low and to their right, bathing the cockpit in indigo light as the co-pilot navigated by map, occasionally calling out heading adjustments to the pilot. Behind Aying, fifteen SS were split on two benches. Each man was well equipped with a spanking new Beretta 1938 sub-machine gun, ammunition, and two grenades. Some of the SS, their faces sweaty and their eyes wide, appeared ready to fight that instant. Others slept.

  Aying turned and eyed his men, recalling from his fighting experience in the Great War how soldiers prepare for deadly situations in a multitude of ways. If there was to be a deadly situation on this night, finding that blasted train—immediately—was imperative.

  The pilot cut power as he began their descent. The sudden lack of engine roar allowed Aying to hear what the pilots were saying.

  “Did you just say ‘the airfield at Villach’?” Aying demanded, pulling on the co-pilot’s harness.

  “Yes, sir,” the man, a Hauptmann, equivalent to a captain, yelled back. “It’s about ten kilometers from the border.”

  Aying shook his head emphatically. “Bullshit! You will land this aircraft in a field or on a road close to the railway’s border crossing. I literally want to be right there when that train comes through.”

  The pilot, a major, turned in his seat, screwing up his face at Aying. “Sir, while we’re airborne I am in charge of this aircraft. Now, you can do whatever the hell you want to me when we get back, but I’ll take a reprimand over death any day. Because there’s a good chance we’ll die if we try to land in some unknown place, especially at night. Electric lines, towers, ditches, livestock…there are all sorts of potential landmines and we’re still well over half-full with fuel.”

  Aying nodded as if he understood. The two pilots turned and resumed their flying.

  After thinking it through for only a few seconds, Aying calmly pulled out his Luger, cocked it, and fired it into the pilot’s head just behind his right ear. He turned to the dumbfounded co-pilot and wagged the smoking pistol at him. “Listen to me, Hauptmann, I’ve got over four hundred hours at the stick. Do you want to land the plane, or do you want me to do it?”

  The co-pilot gaped at his dead pilot, being held off the controls by Aying’s left hand. He glanced at the pistol, then at Standartenführer Anton Aying. “I’ll do it,” he yelled enthusiastically. After moving his index finger over the map, the man nodded to himself before adding a measure of power and banking slightly to the right.

  Aying turned to the ready platoon, all of whom were now wide-eyed. “You see what happens to men who disobey orders in a time of war?” he yelled. “Listen up because here are your orders. We’re going to halt a train and then we’re going to…”

  CHAPTER SIXTY-SIX

  NEIL IN
STRUCTED THE ENGINEER TO STOP THE TRAIN two kilometers from the border. Up ahead, white lights marked the border crossing. From this distance there seemed to be no evidence of increased activity. Neil hopped off the engine and walked to Falkenberg’s staff car. Falkenberg lit his lighter, aiding Neil’s vision as he checked his watch.

  “I’ve instructed the engineer to move forward at full speed eighteen minutes from now.” Neil was leaning on the car and twisted his head back to the border. “We probably could have just plowed straight through, but there is no way of knowing that there isn’t something blocking the tracks. I can’t risk a derailment with all those children aboard.”

  “There appears to be no activity,” Falkenberg said, peering through his binoculars. “But, I can’t tell if they’ve blocked the tracks.”

  “We’ll find out. Take your four men over there, where you can lay a field of fire if needed,” Neil indicated, pointing to a cluster of railcars to the east of the border crossing. “Don’t shoot unless someone opens fire on us. Make sure you’re shooting only in the arc between your position and the crossing. I’ll instruct your other soldiers of your position so we don’t cut each other apart.”

  “Let’s assume for a moment Aying isn’t here. What about the border guards?”

  Neil hoisted the two canvas bags slung over his back. “Just go take up the position by those railcars. I’ll handle the guards…I’ve got some mouse traps to set.”

  “So all I need to do is take my four boys to the boxcars and prepare to shoot?”

  “If anyone shows aggression toward the train.”

  Falkenberg crushed out the cigarette in the car’s ashtray. He considered Neil a moment before he said, “Good luck, friend.” He extended his hand, which Neil took.

  As Falkenberg’s car eased away with its lights darkened, Neil jogged back to the train, absently realizing his side finally felt almost back to normal. Perhaps the loading of the train broke up the last of the major scar tissue. There was no pain at all.