Down: Trilogy Box Set

by Glenn Cooper

  “Very sensible,” Garibaldi said with a victorious smile.

  “You will dine with me tonight,” Maximilien said.

  Garibaldi stood, stoically hiding his own aches and pains. “With respect, I will dine with my soldiers tonight to boost their morale, as I have always done on the eve of a battle. It is an old habit. Let us break bread together after we have vanquished our foes.”

  Garibaldi arrived at the Italian camp near the town of Argenteuil after dark. Inside a candlelit tent John nursed an ale while Garibaldi’s generals presented a battle plan. Although Antonio and Simon offered to translate, John waved them off. He’d heard the generals’ views earlier in the day and hadn’t been impressed. They advocated a conventional approach, a pincer action, drawing Henry into a soft center then driving reserve forces into his left and right flanks.

  Garibaldi listened, stroking his chin in thought. When they were done he invited John’s opinion which was duly translated for the non-English speakers among the assembly.

  “Well, I guess I see it differently,” John said. “First of all, we’ve positioned ourselves just to the north of the Seine and as a matter of course, I hate to have our backs to the water, but that’s not my major problem.”

  “And what is your concern?” Garibaldi asked.

  “I know what Henry’s cannon are capable of and there’s a chance he’s had the time to make more of them in Sweden. He can stand back and lob in shells from a long distance without having to come into your pincer. And once he sees you’re a threat to his flanks, he’ll only need to reposition and re-aim the guns.”

  “Then how would you approach the battle?”

  “I say we come at him in a way I’ll bet he’s never seen before.”

  “Come,” Garibaldi said. “Show me on the map.”

  The men crowded around the table listening as John took them through his ideas and when he was done and all the questions from Garibaldi and the generals had been answered, Garibaldi slapped the map with his palm and said, “Yes! This is exactly what we must do.”

  King Henry arrived at Ermont the same time as the dawn. Ermont was some five miles from the Italians at Argenteuil although the English would not know this for several hours until one of their scouting parties would report on the position. Henry dismounted and surveyed the plain, a vast meadowland, the tall grasses undulating in the breeze.

  “Where is the river?” he asked Cromwell.

  “Directly to the south, Your Majesty. No more than a one-hour march.”

  “And you are certain there is a bridge?”

  “I am so informed.”

  “Robespierre will mightily defend the crossing or he will destroy it.”

  “If he defends it we will crush them. If he destroys the bridge we will build a new one in one week or less. I would have our carpenters begin to fell trees from the wood we recently departed.”

  “Your optimism buoys me. I trust it is not misplaced,” Henry said. “Why is my tent not ready? I wish to rest and eat.”

  “I will see to it immediately.”

  “Will they come to me or must I go to them? This is the question which has been rolling about in my mind.”

  “We shall know that soon enough, sire. I believe it matters not as your mighty singing cannon and your stout heart will win the day for Brittania.”

  “Thank you, Cromwell,” Henry said dryly. “I can always count on you to tell me exactly what I wish to hear.”

  The Germans arrived at Sevran, to the northeast of Paris, at mid-morning. The French forces, in position at nearby Drancy, were generating so much smoke from their cooking fires that Himmler, surveying the plain through his telescope, suspected an encampment. He ordered a squad of men to reconnoiter on horseback and when they returned they reported a massive concentration of French troops. Himmler strode over to the king’s travel wagon and briefed him on the development.

  “It seems they knew we were coming,” Himmler said. “Otherwise they would not have thrown their army against their eastern flank.”

  “Good,” Barbarossa said. “This pleases me. That means they have left their western flank less well protected. The English will smash through and once we have defeated Maximilien, aided by the Russians, we will turn our attention to Henry. By the end of this campaign we shall see Germania in control of much of Europa.”

  “That was my goal during my lifetime,” Himmler said curtly. “However, we must be vigilant against our supposed ally. Stalin will have his own agenda of conquest.”

  “Where is his army?”

  “I am hoping they will come by nightfall but my information is not reliable. When they arrive I will have them sweep around Henry’s army and surprise them from the rear.”

  “Will Stalin personally lead his forces?”

  “That is my understanding.”

  “I will meet with him without you as I know the two of you have bad blood.”

  “Bad blood? No, sire, poisonous blood,” Himmler said, unable to disguise his still-simmering anger over Stalin’s triumph over the Nazis.

  Frederick’s ever-present young male companions offered the king a tray of sweetmeats and he chose one daintily. “This is what I will offer Stalin to persuade him to exit France and return to Russia after our victory: we will send an army east to assist him against the Chinese. I believe he will find this attractive.”

  “And if he refuses?”

  “If he does and demands we carve up Francia and Brittania then I will make allegiance with the Chinese and I will destroy him.” He had another sweet, then another and soon the tray was empty. Himmler looked as though he might have liked some too but he kept his mouth shut. Then Frederick asked, “Where is the woman?”

  “She is well-guarded in a wagon near my own.”

  “Do not let her get away from us. She is more valuable than a room filled with emeralds and diamonds.”

  “Rest assured, she is guarded by my best men,” Himmler said. “I guarantee you she will be persuaded to help us build the most powerful weapons in all of Hell.”

  John wanted to go alone but Antonio, Simon, and Caravaggio insisted on accompanying him on his mission. Just before dusk they crept up on the German encampment approaching from the northwest, taking care not to encounter any elements of the French army massed at Drancy. There was a wooded hill overlooking the Germans that proved to be a satisfactory observation point. Each man had come with a spyglass and the four of them set to scouring the vast German camp.

  “It’s a needle in a haystack,” John said after a few minutes. There were hundreds of wagons and tents and thousands of milling troops.

  “There won’t be many women, we’ve got that going for us,” Simon said.

  “If we can find the king’s wagon then she would be close, I think,” Antonio said. “It will certainly be near the center to give him the most protection from an invasion.”

  “What does a king’s wagon look like?” John asked.

  “It will be large,” Antonio said, “and very nice.”

  John laughed. “Thanks for that. I mean, any flags or emblems?”

  “Not likely,” Simon said. “No sense making him an easy target.”

  Caravaggio was concentrating in silence but after a while he said, “That one may belong to Barbarossa. I see many men coming and leaving, men with fancy uniforms.”

  He gave them instructions on where to point their telescopes and Antonio and Simon agreed it was a likely enough suspect.

  “Good eye,” John said.

  “It is what I do, I see things,” the painter replied.

  Working against the fading light they kept sweeping their scopes around the surrounding wagons but they failed to spot anyone promising. Antonio urged a return to the Italian camp but John pressed for more time. It was getting harder and harder to make out much more than shapes and campfires.

  Suddenly, Caravaggio whispered, “There!” He spied a hulking figure leading another figure in a long dress from a wagon near the king�
��s to an adjacent small tent. Armed men circled the wagon.

  John frantically tried to focus on the white tent Caravaggio was describing and when he had it in his sights he held his hands as steady as possible. The others found it too and four pairs of eyes locked onto it.

  “It may be a privy set up for a lady,” Antonio said.

  John felt his heart beating through his chest. Looking through the spyglass he had a flashback to the time he had spent an entire day peering through a sniper scope in Iraq, but this time his target wasn’t an enemy. It was the woman he loved.

  The tent flaps parted and the woman emerged. The hulking man immediately grabbed her by the wrist. John tracked her, step by step. She had a hooded cloak pulled over her head and he couldn’t make out her face but just as she climbed the stairs to enter the wagon, the hood slipped down.

  He saw it in the light of a nearby torch.

  Blonde hair.

  And in the briefest moment, a flash of a profile.

  Emily.

  “It’s her,” he said, more to himself than to his comrades.

  “Are you sure?” Simon asked.

  “Yeah, it’s her.”

  “I am also sure,” Caravaggio said, collapsing his spyglass.

  “Why?” John asked.

  “Because she is as you described her. Very beautiful.”

  Upon his return to the Italian lines John urgently sought out Adolphus. The old monk was on his knees praying in the dark. He stopped when John touched him and he looked up with a smile.

  “I was praying for you,” he said.

  “I think it worked. She was there.”

  “I am glad.”

  John got down on his haunches so he could look the kneeling monk in the eyes. “I would like you to do something for me. If you feel you can’t, just say so.”

  “Tell me what you wish.”

  “You speak German. You’re a monk. You won’t be considered a hostile threat. I’d like you to carry a message from me to Emily inside the German camp.”

  “Of course, my son. I will do this for you, happily.”

  “It could be dangerous.”

  “I have no fear. Even here, I still feel I am in God’s hands. What is the message?”

  “Tell her John Camp is here to rescue her. Tell her I’ll come for her soon.”

  “How will she know this is not some trick?”

  “My name.”

  “Might she have uttered your name to someone who is now using it to fool her?”

  “You’ve got a devious mind, Adolphus.”

  “It is a skill of survival. Tell me something only you would know.”

  He thought for a few moments and said, “All right, tell her thirty TeV.”

  “Thirty T-E-V. Is that correct?”

  “You’ve got it.”

  “What does it mean?”

  “It’s hard to explain. If you’re ready we’ll ride with you most of the way.”

  Adolphus wandered into the German encampment on foot as if he were invisible, all the while, practicing his message in a self-whisper, “John Camp is here. Thirty T-E-V. John Camp is here to rescue you. Thirty T-E-V.”

  The frail old man in monk’s robes hardly raised an eyebrow and when one soldier finally looked up from his plate of millet the monk blessed him in German and asked where he might find the lady with golden hair.

  The soldier seemed to know precisely what the old man spoke of because rumors of a live woman with golden hair had spread through the camp like wildfire.

  “She is alive, you know,” the soldier said.

  “I have heard this.”

  “Is that why you want to see her?”

  “It is. I wish to hear if our Lord, Jesus Christ, is still revered on Earth as he was in my day.”

  “Christ is my lord no longer,” the soldier spat, “but you may find her in a fancy wagon near the king’s at the center of the camp.”

  Adolphus soon found the likely wagon as it was gilded and near a white tent as had been described to him. Tall guards with muskets surrounded it.

  He was challenged as he approached and asked, “Is the live woman in here? I am a poor old monk who wishes to speak with her.”

  The captain of the guard demanded to know who he was and how he had gotten into their midst. Adolphus would only say he had heard a rumor and as a loyal subject of King Frederick he prayed he might have the briefest of words to ask her about Christianity on Earth.

  The tough soldier told him to go away or suffer the consequences. He tried his best to persuade the tough soldier otherwise. But it was to no avail. When another soldier grabbed his robe to pull him away, he called out in English, “Emily! Emily! Could I speak with you, please?”

  The wagon door opened and Andreas stepped out. A curtain parted from a window and Adolphus saw a woman. Hearing the commotion, Himmler emerged from another wagon close by and headed in their direction.

  “Who are you?” Andreas asked the monk.

  Adolphus whispered, “I have a message for the lady Emily.”

  Himmler was shouting now and the captain of the guard responded briskly to the order and came behind the monk.

  Adolphus was about to speak when he inhaled sharply at the sight of a saber blade emerging from his belly. The captain pulled the sword out as quickly as he had thrust it in and the monk collapsed onto his side, his breathing turning desperate.

  Andreas knelt beside him and put his ear close to the monk’s moving lips. Adolphus seemed to be struggling with his thoughts and a full sentence was not forthcoming. At the moment before exsanguination forever cost him his speech, the only thing he remembered to whisper was, “Thirty T-E-V.”

  “What did he say?” Himmler demanded.

  Andreas rose, shrugging. “He said a number.”

  “What number?”

  “Thirty.”

  “Thirty? Was that all?”

  “I think just that. Then some gibberish before he said no more.”

  “Does anyone know him?” Himmler demanded.

  No one did.

  “All right then, probably just a crazy old man who followed us from Germania. Throw him into a fire and let’s get back to sleep.”

  Emily had been watching from the window and when Andreas came back in she demanded to know what the old man had wanted.

  “He said he wanted to speak to you.”

  “How did he know my name?”

  “I do not know.”

  “What else did he say?”

  “He said he had a message for you.”

  “What message?”

  “He said, ‘Thirty.’”

  “What does that mean?”

  “I do not know.”

  “That was it, nothing else?”

  The eunuch thrust out his chin as his mind tried to grind out a recollection of the last bit of gibberish. His face lit up. “I remember. It was letters. T-E-V. That is right, T-E-V.”

  She began trembling. “Are you absolutely sure? He said, ‘Thirty TeV?’”

  Andreas nodded vigorously.

  She collapsed on her bed in tears and one thought churned over and over.

  I’m saved. My God, I’m saved.

  27

  John felt the recoil of each burst of automatic fire against his shoulder. His aiming point was the top of the low wall surrounding the Taliban farmhouse. Each time there was a new muzzle flash, he adjusted his targeting to that point. Through his nights cope he could see his rounds pulverizing mud bricks.

  “How bad’s he hit?” he shouted into his radio.

  The medic answered back, “It’s a through and through to his leg but it’s not arterial. He’ll be okay.”

  “Fuck I will,” Stankiewicz blurted out in pain.

  John saw that Knebel and Stankiewicz were exposed to incoming fire so he got to his feet and positioned himself into a crouch between them and the hostiles.

  He and his men on the south side of the house kept up a steady rate of fire, changing out mags
when empty. Mike Entwistle’s squad was on the north side. It sounded like they had engaged too.

  “Mike! Give me your status,” John said out into his headset.

  “We’re taking and returning fire,” Mike radioed. “This is fucked up.”

  “Billy,” John shouted, “put some 40s into that wall.”

  His gunnery sergeant immediately sent a round from his M203 grenade launcher down range, blowing a hole the size of a watermelon through it.

  “Keep them coming,” John said. “Mike, put 40s into your side too. We’re going to have to blast our way in.”

  “Roger.”

  Through his scope John saw something sticking out of the fresh hole in the wall.

  “RPG!” he shouted, as the grenade streaked toward him.

  He flopped to his belly and heard the whoosh of the projectile above his head. The explosion finally came well behind them.

  Ben Knebel had also fallen to the ground, landing beside Stankiewicz and scattering first-aid supplies onto the sandy soil. “Christ!” he shouted. “Too damn close.”

  In his ear, John heard the calm voice of his Black Hawk pilot. “Hey, Major, we’re watching your fireworks from one click out. You want us to throw some heat on your tangos?”

  “That’s affirmative,” John said. “Light up the perimeter walls. Perimeter walls only. Not the house. Repeat, not the house. We want our HVT alive.”

  “Roger that.”

  Soon tracer rounds from the chopper’s M60C machine gun began thwacking into the mud walls and then the gunship’s 30mm cannon let loose.

  Through his night-vision scope the flashes were unbearably bright so he watched the explosions with his naked eyes. Each orange fireball lit the farmhouse for a moment.

  The night was black then orange, black, orange.

  He was almost mesmerized by the raw beauty of the desert light show when he heard an awful scream through his earpiece, the kind of scream that once you hear it, never gets out of your head.

  Startled, John looked around for the source of the screaming only to hear Simon’s raspy snoring coming from the cot beside him. He threw off his blanket, stepped over his sleeping comrades, and parted the tent flaps.