Kat's Rats

by Michael Beals

  Atkins ignored Dore’s venomous glare and wiggled himself off the ground. He grinned and shuffled over to the head guard as a jeep full of military police rattled down the block, with an empty and nondescript supply truck in tow. “We’re not in uniform, so prisoner of war status doesn’t apply. Thank you for not shooting us out of hand as spies. I’d love to return the courtesy.”

  One of the MPs dragged Atkins off by the collar. “The day’s still young, amigo. If you got something to say, then talk fast. Your Comrades are counter-attacking hard. We don’t have time for bullshit. So who are you with? Vichy diehards? Italian special forces? German Commandos? What?”

  “It’s not who we’re with. It’s who’s with us. Why do you think we were so confident that we’d get past security?”

  Capson snorted and puffed out his chest as another MP scooped him up by his bound wrists. “Don’t listen to him. He’s a coward on the best of days. We’re special agents with His Majesty’s Special Operations Executive. Also known as the Ministry of Ungentlemanly Warfare. We can save you from this land cruiser if you’d just—”

  The gate guards bawled over while an MP gagged Capson. “You’re making a terrible mis..take!”

  Atkins kept babbling while the rest of the team went silent. An Officer without any rank on his collar climbed out of the shadows inside the truck cab and tapped an MP’s shoulder. “Wait, Sergeant.”

  The cocky New Yorker dug his hands in his pockets, tilting his head at the prisoners glaring daggers at Atkins. Especially the redhead girl kicking the boy’s heel. “Are you insinuating that you have an inside man in the General’s headquarters section?”

  “Not insinuating; I’ll bloody tell you his name. She can tell you what he looks like. Should be enough for you, mate. You’re military intelligence, right?” Atkins nodded at the golden dagger slicing through a sun insignia on his collar.

  The American stubbed out his cigarette on the curb. “Shoot then. Better blow my socks off. I’ve got more important things to do.”

  “Not until you give your word of honor that you won’t do anything to us until you’ve gotten ahold of him.” Atkins tried sticking out his chest like Capson. His hero pose wavered as his shoulders shook. The US Officer snorted and spun around.

  “For a second, I thought you were a smart man. You could have spent the rest of the war in a cozy POW camp out in Texas. That’s a luxury afforded only to professional soldiers. Spies just disappear.” He snapped his fingers at a shark-eyed MP NCO. “Sergeant Goldberg, we have bigger fish to fry. Take ‘em down the road… you understand?”

  “Even the girl?” The MP turned his long nose up and leaned into the Officer’s ear.

  “We didn’t start this war, but by God, we’ll finish it. I figured you of all people wouldn’t be squeamish about taking out the NAZI trash.” The intel Officer spun on his heels and marched past the perimeter guards. Just as another sentry opened the headquarters’ front door, Atkins hollered through the sack swishing over his head.

  “His codename is Rigor!”

  The Officer froze in mid-step. “What the fuck did you say? Take that bag off him.”

  Kat whooped and pecked Atkins’s cheek through the bag. “I guess a little cowardice can pay off.” She squared her shoulder and murmured as the intel Officer rushed over.

  “Humorless Polish fella. Much like yourself. His real name’s Mie-something-I-can’t-pronounce Słowikowski. He helped us out in Algiers. If you’ll listen, we can help you out of this predicament with the Ratte.”

  The Officer spent a good ten seconds staring down the vicious gal in front of him before blowing out his cheeks. “I guess five minutes with the Executive Officer can’t hurt. I’m going to call up my contacts. If you’re lying, I’ll shoot you all myself.” He jerked a thumb over his shoulder and barked at the MP’s. “Take ‘em into the conference room on the ground floor. Keep them under guard. Double it, in fact. Don’t take the restraints off under any circumstances.”

  Ten minutes later, a cadre of men with plenty of gleaming silver on their collars stormed inside their plush holding cell. A Two-Star General leading the charge stubbed out his cigar against a marble bust by the door while the head MP boomed.

  “Group, attention!”

  The four MP’s stiffened and propped their Tommy guns in a salute in front of their chests. None of the prisoners even budged from their seats at the oak table. The General folded his arms at the dour reception, the black rifle scopes in his eye sockets darting back and forth between targets.

  “You must be French. Just like the Gauls to send a little girl after me. The Huns would take me more seriously.”

  He propped both hands on the ivory-handled six-shooters dangling from his hips and grunted. “So I understand you traitors want to turn on your own side in exchange for your freedom? I’ve been down this road before. Lost a lot of good men in the Teutoburg woods when I trusted Arminius. Give me one reason I should believe any of you?”

  Trufflefoot threw back his head and barked at the ceiling. “Another mad hatter, perfect!”

  The rest of the room looked at the odd General. Kat tucked her knees onto her chair and dropped her head between them, all while muttering something.

  “What was that?” Patton stomped next to the sobbing girl… and right into the nearest MP’s line of fire. “Don’t worry. We’re not barbarians. I won’t let them shoot a female. You better speak—”

  His right hand shot to his belt as the lithe thing slipped her legs through her tied wrists. Before his finger even grazed the trigger, Kat rammed her boot heels into the General’s solar plexus. He tumbled backward, his fall halted by the quick arms of an MP, while Kat crashed out of her chair. She bounced to her feet. None of the American guns tracking her fired.

  Nor did she fire the gorgeous white revolver in her outstretched hands. Patton snatched open air in his missing right holster while drawing the other gun with his left hand. He had it halfway out before the redhead was on him.

  “Can we quit with these silly games already and get back to killing the real enemy?”

  She shoved the pretty gun back in the General’s empty holster and winked.

  “That thing’s so cute. Does it match your purse?”

  Patton worked his jaw for a moment, speechless for the first time in his many lives.

  “Who the hell are you people?”

  The beefy guy at the table strained his shoulders, the cuffs making an audible cracking sound. “You can call us Kat’s Rats. The older man is Colonel Trufflefoot. The bonnie Lassie there is codename Kat. After all your fuck-ups, I’d say her showing up is the equivalent of you falling on your ass and just happening to land in a big ole pile of Christmas.”

  Patton coughed in his gravelly version of a giggle. “That a fact? And who are you?”

  “All you need to know about the rest of us is I’m going to rip your bloody arms off if you don’t release us and stop pointing a gun at her.” Dore slammed the table with his knee, sending the ashtrays flying. “We’re trying to help you daft cunts, for some reason.”

  Patton absently twirled his fingers at the guards. He ignored the snarling Scottish man throwing shade over him and took a seat across from the Colonel. Trufflefoot massaged his wrists as a guard unsnapped him and cleared his throat.

  “I apologize for my team’s… less than politic manners… The situation is a spot urgent.”

  Patton shrugged and lit a fresh cigar. “Oh, I’m not angry. Jealous, really. I haven’t fought alongside a tigress like that since I was holding the Hadrian Wall against the Celtic hordes.”

  “Indeed.” Trufflefoot squirmed, fighting the urge to gawk at his seriousness. “Let’s stay focused on the f
uture. Surely you’ve heard about what happened to your other beachhead. As fast as this thing moves, you’ve got an hour, tops, before the Ratte and its army storm the gates of Casablanca. This is the third time we’ve fought this land cruiser. We have to destroy it from the inside out. We have a plan to get close enough, but we’ll need some help…”

  Patton flapped his cigar in dismissal and snagged a map from his adjutant.

  “Ah, Port Lyautey was just a small covering force. This is the main beachhead. I’ve got 20,000 men around the city. Plus at least 10,000 loyal Vichies that haven’t gone back to their NAZI lovers or turned tail and run off. No need to risk sneaking on board. We’ll drown them under superior firepower. Speaking of which, I need to get going. You’re welcome to accompany my staff. This battle should be quite a sight!”

  Kat snorted as he stood up and reached for the door. “Good idea, sir. All those bodies would make a great diversion.”

  “Honey, I’ve been doing this for two thousand years.” He grinned wide over his shoulder at the young gal waving her fist at him. “Ok, then. What’s your plan, based upon your extensive strategic experience?”

  Kat ignored his dripping cynicism and cooed. “Just give me a good artillery spotter who has priority access to all your gun batteries. We’ll need at least four jeeps and a small squad of your craziest drivers and gunners. My team and I will take care of the rest.”

  Dore and Capson bounded to their feet and stood behind Kat. Even Atkins rose, after crossing himself twice. Trufflefoot squared his shoulders and tapped his wristwatch. “Time’s almost up.”

  Patton fiddled with his ivory revolver, clucking his tongue.

  “Ok, cowgirl, what about those ten thousand or so traitorous bastards covering that land cruiser’s ass? They’ll still be there even if you take out the Ratte.”

  “Oh, that’s the easy part. Don’t piss away most of your division now. Save your men for fighting the Afrika Korps in Tunisia. God knows you’ll need ‘em.” Patton opened his mouth, but Kat cut the General off.

  “I know what you’re really worried about. Rest assured, you’ll get all the glory, since we were never here. As for the Vichy traitors, they’ll fade away as soon as the going gets tough. With their savior destroyed, those stupid sheep will be docile lambs again. Any diehard who stands his ground for some reason… well, you can use their guts to grease the treads of your tanks.”

  Patton’s eyes sparkled. “My God… are you sure we haven’t met before? Maybe at Waterloo? Ok, I’ll get you a strike team. We have other plans for the artillery. You can work your black magic at the same time my division launches an all-out offensive. Care to wager on who takes this tank down first?”

  Kat snapped and snagged his collar. “You macho glory hound. We could do this clean and surgical, without pissing thousands of your men away to salve your fragile ego. You seem so hell-bent on dying for your country, but how about we make those bastards die for theirs?”

  Patton shoved her off and stuck a finger in her face. Kat yawned. The General growled, then beamed. “Hot damn, lady, you’ve got a way with words. Reminds me of Quintus Pictus. Gave me all my best lines to inspire my legionaries back during the Second Punic War. Hmm. You do look so much like his daughter…”

  Kat squinted, for once at a loss for words.

  “So be it. I’ll take a half-baked plan violently executed right now over a perfect one in an hour.” He spun on his adjutant, who kept shaking his head. “Get ‘em whatever they want, Captain.”

  “Sir, the operation’s staff was in unanimous agreement on the plan. Even you agreed. It’s crazy to change everything at the last minute!”

  Patton hiked his belt and chuckled. “I say we need a dose of crazy. If everyone is thinking alike, then somebody isn’t thinking.”

  CHAPTER 13

  Casablanca

  Kat hopped out of the jeep, squealing and clapping her hands as the supply trucks pulled up. A dozen fit young Americans piled out and hauled crate after crate of goodies down. Their leader flashed a pearly white smile above his cement block chin. He flashed Trufflefoot a quick salute as the Colonel came out of the shade and shook his hand.

  “Captain Darby at your disposal, sir. If you don’t see what you need here, I can get it in moments.”

  Capson and Atkins dived into the deadly candy shop, both hefting a couple of giant tubes upside down. Atkins rifled through the bags underneath the odd stovepipes and popped the top off an ammo canister. He pried out something vaguely resembling a small mortar, with bare wires and a cloth string snapped loosely on.

  “Did you buy these from a Berber merchant? Whatever this is, seems more dangerous to fire it, than to get hit by one.”

  Darby scooped the shell up and gently slid it back in the ammo sleeve. “Yeah, it’s crude. Brand new top-secret weapons usually are. We call ‘em bazookas. It’s a rocket in your pocket. You fire this much like a recoilless rifle… Be careful about the backblast. Sometimes I wonder which end is more dangerous.”

  Kat crossed her arms and studied the impeccably clean new men hovering around. “Which one’s the artilleryman? We need a good one even more than a bunch of rocket launchers.”

  “Master Sergeant Niels! Front and center!” Darby nodded at a man jogging over, armed with nothing but a bulky wireless set on his back, a pair of field glasses dangling around his neck and a compass tied to his chest.

  “One of the best FISTers in the entire airborne Command. I’ve seen him paint his name on a mountain with howitzer craters.”

  “What’s a bloody FISTer?” Kat rifled through the arsenal and rolled her eyes. “You Yanks and your kinky acronyms.”

  The odd Master Sergeant hummed a jaunty tune. “Fire Support Team. You know, FO… Forward Observer?”

  He grinned at Kat’s blank stare. “I’m you’re friendly neighborhood artillery spotter. So what neighborhood should I blow up?” He tugged out a bag of sunflower seeds from an empty ammo pouch and took a pinch of seeds. Kat swatted the snack away when he jiggled the bag in her face.

  “First things first, where’s your weapon? Don’t tell me you’re one of those pacifist types.” Kat shoved a Tommy Gun in the artilleryman’s chest.

  The forward observer pushed the gun away, the barrel crinkling the folded map taped to his forearm. “Not exactly. Eyes of death, baby. Have fun with your popguns. I brought the deadliest weapon known to man.” Niels drummed the wireless mic clipped on his chinstrap. “I’ve got four battalions of 122mm death dealers on the other end of this radio. How many square kilometers can you sanitize with a single word?”

  “Cute.” Kat snorted and jabbed a finger in his chest. “But real life is a bit more complicated than the training range.”

  Niels giggled and spat out a clump of cracked shells. “Ain’t talking about theory. I could show you a couple of Jap mass graves on Guadalcanal that can attest to that. Look, I’m sure you’ve done a fair share of killing with all these toys, but that’s retail slaughter — a mom and pop operation. I’m in the wholesale business of stacking bodies. And honey, business is a boomin’.”

  Kat followed his crazy eyes up and down the endless line of howitzers setting up on the outskirts of the village, well ahead of Casablanca’s main defenses. “Touché, but we need a deft touch. That wall of lead you’re laying down is our only cover, and you’ll have to move it fast. I need you to wield these guns like a surgeon. No, like Picasso himself.”

  The quirky Forward Observer moaned deep and crossed his legs, hiding something.

  “Oh… yes, ma’am.”

  Kat matched his purr and winked. “I think we’re going to get along just fine.”

  Dore frowned and spun away, helping himself to the weapons bu
ffet. He grunted at the blue patch on Captain Darby’s sleeve.

  “Rangers? That supposed to be some type of Commando outfit? What do you blokes do?”

  “Ha!” Darby adjusted his single ammo belt and shrugged. “I’ll let you know when I find out. The first regiment was only formed back in June. Sort of a jack of all trades situation.”

  “But master of none, oye? Hear you there, mate. Don’t ever forget these SS scunners aren’t new to the game. They’ve had years to narrow their focus. So don’t even waste your breath trying to take ‘em alive. If one ever surrenders, yeez can bet your arse it’s a trap. Once we get inside, it’s gonna be a massacre… one way or the other. We clear?”

  The Captain nodded, neither a twinge of bravado nor fear on his Captain America’s jaw. Dore snapped a third load-bearing vest on and tripled his ammo load, then stuffed every shirt and cargo pocket with more mags and frags. He stifled a grin as the Rangers donned their standard kit and left most of the fireworks scattered in front of the trucks untouched.

  “This ain’t a parade, fellas. You can always drop what you don’t need later. Don’t worry. Ammo has a habit of getting lighter the more you need it.” None of the men matched his grin. Dore huffed. “You boys seen much action?”

  Captain Darby puffed out his cheeks. “Fired a couple rounds when we stormed the beach. Almost hit a seagull.”

  Dore winked as the Captain ordered his Rangers to double their load, then personally checked each man. “An Officer that doesn’t take himself too seriously and actually listens to an NCO… damn, I’ve seen it all now.” Dore rubbed yet another knot out of his calf and stretched his back until something cracked.

  “The army could use a few more leaders like that. God knows we’ve got too many washed-up, broke-dick Sergeants like me. I’ll take point up the ropes. You lead the second wave, clear?”

  “How about I race ya?” Darby beamed his perpetual grin. “First come, first serve. Same rules as hell, I hear.”