by Jerry Ahern
Although he rarely had the time anymore, he’d made the time for himself today, visiting the place in Mid-Wake which was his first love: the United States Navy Center for Marine Research. It was the world’s finest aquarium, because the aquarium surrounded the observers.
His security personnel were vehemently opposed to his leaving the main complex at Mid-Wake, to venture out more than two miles to the Marine Research Center, but he finally just ordered the security people to do as he told them. And, he was transported here in a minisub, four other minisubs surrounding it and three attack submarines standing by to assist.
The problem with being president, he had once told an interviewer, was that the constraints it placed on the little, ordinary things, were outrageous.
Although always a reader of history, he had fallen in love with the view through the center’s aquarium windows when he was just a student and had been lucky enough to get a clerical job here. On his break time, he would come to the windows and just watch life unfold before him. The glass—it wasn’t really like ordinary glass at all—was designed to intensify available light, making the view without as clear as day, but casting no light on the sea creatures, thus altering their behaviors not at all.
He studied a striped sea catfish, special sensory barbels or “whiskers” extending from its lower jaw to aid in locating food, as they schooled near to the window. He envied them the simplicity of their lives. Eat, reproduce, perhaps die prematurely, but never the need to carry the weight of the species on their shoulders. He carried that weight.
At the end of World War II, the United States and its allies made two horrendous mistakes. First, the advice of the generals should have been taken, the German Army—the Wehrmacht—rearmed and set against the Soviet Union. Second, the useful Nazis who were true Nazis—not the ones who were legitimate scientists impressed against their will or by circumstance into missile research and other programs, but the ones who were true believers in Nazism—should have been eliminated, by whatever means necessary.
As recorded in the memoirs of Commander Robert Gundersen, USN, Captain of the USS John Paul Jones, John Rourke had recounted once during that historic voyage the story of a Latin American military officer. The officer was a friend of one of Rourke’s own friends. During a meeting once—social—the retired officer told Rourke’s friend, “The problem with the United States, amigo, is that you never win a war. You win all the battles, but then leave the field. Your nation did not win World War II. If you had won, you would have seen to it that those who caused such destruction were rendered unable to do so again; you would have taken the territories which were controlled by the vanquished and established governments there which would forever be allied to your own political interests. Look at Germany and Japan. They are world leaders in both industry and finance. They are gradually destroying their adversaries from the period of World War II, and your nation helps them to do this. The people of Germany and Japan would be just as well off, perhaps better off, if your nation controlled them, and your nation and the world in general would not be in peril.”
Arthur Hook had read the memoirs so often that he’d memorized this passage, almost certainly a paraphrase. The message, however, was clear. American military personnel had fought and died only so that the political leaders could sell out the hard-won peace.
Today, as he quietly observed the infinite variety of life, this course of past action was about to bear its final fruit. Doctor Thorn Rolvaag’s estimates concerning the trench which was growing inexorably toward the east were, as best Hook’s scientific advisors could determine, right on the money. That meant that unless the enormous crack stopped of its own accord—un—likely—something would have to be done to stop it. The chance of such an endeavor succeeding was remote at best. Rolvaag’s whimsical alternative, a race to launch arks for humanity into deep space, was impractical considering the time frame.
Chances were excellent that humanity was about to perish and sink into oblivion. And, as Arthur Hook watched the catfish on the other side of the glass, he was reminded of another quotation, from a work vastly older. “As ye sow, therefore also shall ye reap.”
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Gruppenfúhrer Croenberg’s eyes were grey-blue, but the most extraordinary feature about him was his head itself. Shaven, the skin was very tight and, according to the intelligence dossier, it was possible to see a vein occasionally pulse beneath it.
Croenberg’s English, normally accented, could be perfect when the need arose. Disguise was something he had been known to employ on at least two occasions. In his fifties, he was tall, vigorous and, judging by the results of his activities on behalf of the SS, exceedingly intelligent and remarkably clever. That he was ruthless seemed obvious, but there was always a pattern to his activities. Croenberg, it seemed, was as cold-blooded a killer as had ever been born, but only killed out of necessity as he interpreted it. Nothing suggested a pathological blood lust.
Manfred Kohl’s voice interrupted James Darkwood’s thoughts. “Remember, that sleeve pistol he carries, hmm?”
“7.65mm, muscle-group activated or something like that. I remember,” Darkwood told his friend. “You just remember, we’re talking making a deal, not a hit—unless it comes to that.”
Kohl took off his glasses, wiped the lenses with his handkerchief, the circles under his eyes glistening slightly with perspiration. “I was not happy that we were volunteered for this mission, James.”
“I know.”
“I am reminded of the words of Winston Churchill, when he was speaking of Joseph Stalin, to the effect that he would make an alliance with the devil in order to defeat Hitler.”
“And you think asking Croenberg for help and offering him a deal in exchange is making a pact with the devil.”
Manfred Kohl put on his glasses, shrugged his shoulders. “I think it is possibly so. You are an American. I am a German. For me, perhaps, the concept of a Nazi is more real. And, this man is a Nazi.”
“If we defeat Eden and Zimmer’s Nazis, if we can save a lot of lives by doing this—or even one life—it’s worth it, maybe. Hell, I don’t know.” Sometimes, there was an advantage to having orders to follow rather than decisions to make.
Kohl shook his head and sighed, then started moving again, Darkwood falling in beside the taller man.
They had been enjoying their first few hours of R and R after a dangerous mission in Eden City and a difficult escape when they were hunted down by New Germany Military Police and told to report to the office of Generaloberst Nauert as quickly as possible. In the next breath, they were told that transportation would be provided and to climb into the car.
Generaloberst Franz Nauert was New Germany’s chief intelligence officer, one of the real powers in the Trans-Global Alliance’s intelligence hierarchy and at once respected and reviled. He was respected for his personal toughness, that he had risen through the ranks, had as much field-agent experience behind him as anyone and more than most; Franz Nauert was reviled for the assignments he sometimes made.
This turned out to be one of them.
In khaki shorts and a T-shirt, his pistol in a Lancer copy of the pre-War DeSantis GunnySack fanny pack holster, Darkwood was told to sit down and listen. Kohl, a little more presentable-looking, sat down as well.
Generaloberst Nauert’s English was perfect; and, doubtless because he knew their files inside and out, he knew that Manfred Kohl’s English was perfect but James Darkwood’s German, however adequate, was not perfect. The Generaloberst spoke in English as he paced back and forth behind his enormous, ornate desk.
“A rare opportunity presents itself to us, gentlemen. You two men are the best men available for the job at hand, so it is yours. I will make this meeting exceedingly brief, as I assume that you will both have a few things to do before your flight leaves—” And Generaloberst Nauert checked the watch on his left wrist. It was obviously a Steinmetz, and quite expensive-looking, Darkwood remembered thinking. “There is a
significant rift in the organization that has been so painstakingly assembled by Deitrich Zimmer and his late son, Martin. This is a chink in the armor of the Eden-Nazi front. We must take advantage of it.
“You are both familiar with Gruppenführer Croenberg?”
“Yes, Herr Generaloberst,” Manfred Kohl answered for them both.
“Good. He is their best man, the toughest of our adversaries. And, he has proposed an alliance, of an extremely temporary nature, of course. Yet, this may be just what we need in order to defuse the current crisis.”
“Excuse me, sir,” James Darkwood interrupted. “Aren’t we just putting off the inevitable?”
‘Until we are better prepared? Possibly.”
“Won’t they be better prepared too, by then, I mean?” Darkwood persisted.
“I do not make such decisions, nor do you, Darkwood. We all follow orders, do we not?” Generaloberst Nauert didn’t wait for an answer. “You will travel to Eden City; appropriate travel documents and the like are in readiness so that you should not have any real difficulties in getting around the city. There, you will meet with Croenberg and he will provide you with data which should enable us to anticipate Zimmer’s current scheme before the elements of it can be realized. Do it. That is all.”
It was all, Nauert dismissing them with a flourish of the hand, sitting down again at his desk and turning to his computer console. They stood, walked out, were driven to their BOQs where their gear was already packed. After quick showers and a change of clothes, they were airborne, landing at a predesignated landing zone about fifty miles from Eden City. The field was just that, a field. Yet it was adequate for the V-Stol which brought them in.
How they had managed it through the Eden Air Defense shield Darkwood was not certain, except that this might also have been part of the fix. A car was waiting for them and, after inspecting it for explosives and monitoring devices (they found neither), they drove to Eden City, using their papers to enter legally.
Much of the city was in ruins and security was tighter than Darkwood had ever seen it. Some fires still burned, but as best Darkwood could tell, the chemical weapons facility—Plant 234—was totally destroyed. The fires looked to be from downed aircraft and surface-to-air missiles, all due to Eden weapons systems, not those of the Trans-Global Alliance.
Sirens filled the dawn air as they stopped at the appointed doorway. It was a private apartment building, quite well-to-do looking.
Two Eden police stood guard at the doorway with energy rifles. Darkwood and Kohl presented their security passes—they bore Croenberg’s own signature—and were admitted to the foyer.
Darkwood rang the appropriate bell and stared up into the video monitor. It would either remain black, or, if the person on the other end were so inclined, show a picture. There was a picture, the face was Croenberg’s face. “Do not identify yourselves. I recognize you both. You are admitted. Take the elevator to the fortieth floor.”
“Which apartment?” Darkwood asked.
“The fortieth floor is the apartment, gentlemen.”
The screen went blank, the door buzzed and, as Kohl opened it, Darkwood said, “I knew that; that he had the whole fortieth floor.”
“Bullshit, as you say.”
“Fuck you, as you say,” Darkwood answered politely.
The elevator doors opened the instant Manfred Kohl pushed the call button and James Darkwood entered first, his pistol drawn.
‘What good will a handgun do if this is a trap, James?”
“Beats me. Force of habit.” But, James Darkwood didn’t put the pistol away. Distrusting Nazis was habit, too.
Chapter Thirty
John Rourke looped the garrote over the sentry’s head, then wheeled and snapped the sentry up onto his back, partially severing the head from the body, but more importantly stifling any potential for sound. Rourke slowly eased the dead man to the snow, leaving the wire where it was, unsheathing his knife as he moved along the side of the outermost tent.
There were seven tents in all, one for hospital use, one for command and communications, one for field repairs, the remaining four for personnel. Rourke’s observations of the encampment had confirmed this almost too easily. He kept moving, two of the German Long Range Mountain Patrol commandos and two of the SEALs with him.
At the front of the tent, Rourke signaled a halt. An ordinary soldier, not even Alpine Corps, was passing, about ten yards away, too much in the open for Rourke to get to him without an alarm being raised.
Rourke drew the suppressor-fitted 9mm from his belt. This was all but immoral, penetrating this camp so easily, the men who had been left here staked out like goats left to bait a wild predator into a trap. Was that their true function?
The aircraft, well beyond the encampment, looked safe enough, but about three dozen men had begun advancing on it at almost the same instant Rourke and his personnel had begun their infiltration. This left the encampment even more poorly manned.
In about three or four minutes, as Rourke judged it, the troops advancing on the aircraft would be in position for an assault, their obvious intention. But they were all afoot. Why were the armored half-tracks still parked in the encampment’s motor pool?
None of this made any sense, except that there was danger here, more than he could fathom.
The soldier stopped walking, took cigarettes from the pocket of his parka and pulled down the lower portion of the toque covering his face. “Shit,” Rourke hissed under his breath, readying the suppressor-fitted 6906 as he did so.
The soldier fired his cigarette with a lighter, as he did so, his face turning toward the side of the the tent where Rourke and the four commandos waited.
There was no choice. Rourke stomped his right foot and stabbed the pistol toward the target, pulling the trigger, then again and then a third time, the first bullet hitting the voice box, the other two the head.
The soldier collapsed silently enough into the snow.
Rourke looked toward the troops advancing on the aircraft. They were nearly in position. “We go tent to tent. Move it!” Rourke rasped. The two SEALs fell out, their knives going to work on the tent wall, Rourke and the two Germans running around toward the front of the tent. There was no guard. Rourke stepped through the flap opening, the two Germans at his heels.
No one was inside the tent, except the two SEALs who had just cut their way in. “Next one!” Rourke wheeled toward the opening, running now for the next tent. If someone appeared, he’d shoot. There was no time for anything else.
He saw no sign of enemy personnel between this tent and the next. “Same method,” he hissed, the two SEALs going to the side of the tent, Rourke himself and the two Germans going to the front.
No guard. No one inside.
“Deaton, Hines, hit the hospital tent and watch it.” There was no need to tell American military personnel, “Remember we don’t make war on wounded.” But Rourke did add, “Watch out for the other teams.” Paul’s men and the others from Rourke’s group would be moving about the encampment as well.
As Rourke started toward the command tent, he saw Paul Rubenstein already coming out of it. Rourke quickened his pace, joining Paul just outside. “Nothing inside but a tech with a bump on his head. He’s gagged and bound, hand and foot, with duct tape.”
“Duct tape?”
“Like they carry on aircraft.”
John Rourke nodded to his friend, then looked toward the aircraft. “Any other personnel?”
“Two sentries, gone. What’s going on?”
“I don’t know. Get your men.” Rourke then called across the open expanse of snow field toward the two German commandos, his voice a loud stage whisper. “Get our people. Hurry it up. Then the two of you position yourselves on the west end of the camp.” Rourke looked back to Paul Rubenstein. “Put two of your men on the eastern boundary. The rest of us are attacking that force moving up on the aircraft.” Rourke glanced at the mission clock. “Still better than two minutes before C
ommander Washington’s men are going to go into action.”
John secured the suppressor-fitted pistol and unslung the HK-91 rifle.
Chapter Thirty-One
Annie ordered, “Hold your fire until they fire. Remember, we’re a lot bigger target.”
“I don’t understand it, Mrs. Rubenstein,” the pilot said, crouched beside her. “They’ve got those damned armored half-tracks that whiz over the snow like a bat out of hell, but they’re advancing on foot. It’s like they don’t know what the hell they’re doing.”
“I know that, but whatever they’ve got planned, they didn’t tell us. They could be holding those armored half-tracks in reserve,” she told him, which of course didn’t make any sense tactically. She’d never been to a war college, nor studied tactics, but she knew stupidity when she saw it. Armor would come first, softening up the target for the infantry, which would close for the kill. The reverse was suicidal . . .
Michael Rourke’s hands balled into fists on the twin operating handles of the energy cannon. Although the foot soldiers approaching could easily have surrounded them, the only activity he could see was coming from the direction of the Nazi encampment. About three dozen men were moving into an assault formation. The formation itself was absurd. With armor available—the half-tracks which were like the old Arctic Cats his father had spoken of—were armored and could easily have been used to spearhead an assault. The vehicles were armed with energy cannons and were fitted with firing ports for conventional small arms. And, of course, the actual Nazi headquarters was within a few miles of here, not more than fifty, certainly.
Why this type of attack?
Natalia, beside him, cheeked her M-16. “They’re coming, Michael. This is insane.”
“I know,” was all he could say . . .
After setting out more guards to watch the site of the encampment, John Rourke had six men remaining, including Paul. The seven of them removed the guards at the motorpool—two men who surrendered without any resistance—and used flex cuffs to bind the men. Then, Rourke, Paul and the others—SEALs and Long Range Mountain Patrol commandos—each selected a vehicle. The vehicles were half-tracked armored Arctic Cats, each of them equipped with energy cannons which could be targeted and fired by the vehicle operator.
