Winter's Bullet

by William Osborne

  Tygo’s mind was racing. She was right—Krüger was becoming more desperate and unpredictable as the hours ticked down. Better he got the stone and then engineered the right circumstances to negotiate with him.

  “Are you sure, Willa?”

  She nodded.

  “Tell Krüger I’ve gone to get the stone. Tell him if he touches a hair on your head he’ll never see the stone, or me, again. Trust me, he needs it—his life depends on it.”

  “I’ll tell him,” Willa said.

  Tygo looked at her. He needed to get away, but he also needed to ask her something.

  “Why did you do this? Come back for me?”

  Willa stared back at him. “You did a brave thing for me tonight, Tygo. You didn’t have to, but you did anyway. I just felt it was the right thing to do.”

  “Thank you,” Tygo said, and this time he leaned forward to kiss her softly on the cheek.

  It took Tygo a lot longer than he would have liked to find the shop. He had to show his Gestapo warrant disk and letter four times to get through the checkpoints that ringed the inner city, but finally he located it in a side street, its metal shutters pulled firmly down and padlocked. The front door was also locked. He banged on it with his fist and pulled the bell stop, but no one came.

  Tygo set to work and quickly picked the mortise, but he still couldn’t get the door open. The proprietor had lodged a metal bar into the floor and set it against the inside of the door. He would need a sledgehammer to take out the hinges if he wanted to get in that way.

  Tygo stepped back and took stock. It was a two-story building, like his family’s shop, probably with accommodation on the upper floor. It had the traditional crow-stepped gable on the front. Tygo knew he had only one option left: climb onto the roof and hope there was a skylight to get in through.

  The cast-iron drainpipe was agonizingly cold on his hands as he pulled himself up the side of the building. At last he reached the stepped gable and carefully climbed up it to the top, where the roof ridge ran away to the back of the building. Sure enough, there was a skylight about a few feet down each side of the roof, but both were latched closed. Tygo straddled the roof ridge and shimmied along it until he was level with the windows. What could he do? Again, his choice was limited.

  He swung his leg over so that he was sitting perched on the top of the roof ridge, the window just below his outstretched legs. He would need to spring forward and hit the glass pane with his boots, falling through it and hopefully not breaking his neck. If he missed, he was down the icy roof and over the side to the street below in an instant.

  Tygo rocked his upper body, his hands pressing into the ridge tiles, his heels pressed against the roof. He took a deep breath and sprang forward with all his strength. His boots hit the glass together. It shattered into fat pieces and he fell through, hitting the floor below and rolling to one side, then slamming into something hard.

  Tygo glanced up. It was a heavy wardrobe, and in the gloom he could make out a single bed and a washstand with basin and jug. He got to his feet, a little unsteadily, and brushed himself down. His bullet wound throbbed. He peered around and saw a single brass candlestick on the bedside table, with an inch of candle still in it. Tygo found his matches and lit it. It gave a weak, jaundiced pool of light, but it was enough for him to make his way downstairs.

  “Is there anyone here?” he called out softly, the stairs creaking under his feet. There came no reply. When he reached the bottom of the stairs he stepped into a narrow corridor. The inside of the shop was through a door in the middle. Tygo stepped inside and shone the candle ahead. Then he screamed and jumped back, tripping and falling onto his bottom. An enormous polar bear was standing in front of him, its massive-clawed paws outstretched and ready to strike, its mouth with long, yellow fangs open and ready.

  Tygo stared at it for a moment, his heart racing, then glanced around. On all sides glass cases and cabinets were stacked, filled with all kinds of animals: birds, dogs, foxes, rabbits, eagles, even a crocodile. Tygo got to his feet. It was a taxidermist’s shop, and the polar bear was the prize exhibit, standing—he could see now—on a plinth that resembled a huge block of ice. The owner had even put a swastika armband around its right arm, which—now he came to think of it—actually looked like the bear was making the Nazi salute. It made him smile, and he wondered what its name was—Peppy, maybe, like the mascot for the mint candies?

  After taking in his surroundings for a moment, Tygo set to work. He had to find the ledger book that held the counterpart to Willa’s receipt. There was a tall counter running along the end wall of the shop, and Tygo discovered a large brass lantern on it with some oil still inside. He lit it with the last of his guttering candle; that improved things a great deal. He stepped around the counter and, for the second time in a minute, his heart missed a beat.

  In front of him, slumped in a battered striped deck chair, was an old man, covered in furs top to bottom, from his racoon hat to his bearskin boots. His eyes were closed, a thin layer of frost covered his furs, and tiny icicles dropped down from his bushy, unkempt eyebrows.

  Tygo edged forward and prodded him with his finger. He felt rock hard. He touched the man’s cheek with the back of his hand; it was stone cold. Dead as a doornail.

  Tygo blew on his hands and rubbed them together. It was truly as cold as a morgue in this shop that was filled to the brim with dead things. He shivered, set the lamp down, and started to work his way through the drawers beneath the counter until he found what he was looking for: a small workbook with the original tickets on one side and a carbon copy beneath the top page. He flicked through it until he found the matching order number: 27. There was no description on the order.

  Tygo looked around. He couldn’t see anything with that number on it, but it had to be here. He made his way back through the shop between the bell jars and glass boxes, their contents staring at him with their glass eyes. Then he saw a large shelved cabinet running the full length of the wall at the other end of the shop. It was full of brown paper packages tied up with string, neatly stacked on its glass shelves. They were of varying sizes, but each one, Tygo could see as soon as he’d opened the cabinet, had a small label attached to it, bearing a number.

  Tygo worked his way through the packages, finding every number but 27. Once he’d checked the lower shelves he had to stop and hunt around until he found a set of steps so he could reach the higher ones. He worked on, moving along the shelves and climbing back up. A feeling of panic was setting in.

  “It has to be here. It has to be here!”

  Tygo realized he was shouting the words aloud at the top of his voice. His hands had started shaking. Only three more packages remained: 102 … 19 … he tossed them aside, grasping the last one, which was small—no bigger than a box of cook’s matches. He looked at the ticket: 27.

  Twenty-seven.

  He threw his head back and yelled out in relief. The action saved his life: At that very instant he felt a searing pain against his left ear, as if someone had stuck a red-hot needle through it. The glass in the cabinet exploded in his face, and he toppled back off the stepladder to the floor as the sound of the gunshot filled the room.

  Tygo scrambled to his feet, a trickle of blood running down his neck, still clutching the package in his hand.

  Another gunshot, the bullet smacking into the wall just to his left.

  He grabbed the oil lamp and just had time to glimpse the other end of the shop before a bullet hit the lamp and ripped it out of his hand, leaving him with just the wire handle. But that was all the time Tygo needed to realize he had to get the hell out of the shop right this second. The man he’d thought was dead was standing behind the counter with some ancient bolt-action rifle in his hand.

  “You thieving little …”

  The frozen voice bellowed out in the gloom.

  Tygo ran toward the front door, barging into glass cabinets and sending them crashing to the floor. Another bullet sang past him and blew t
he head off a large blue parrot perching on a tropical branch.

  Tygo heard the man reloading as he reached the front door, pulled the metal bar away, and slid back the bolts. His neck was wet with blood. Then he had the door open and was out into the street, running as fast as he could as the man’s angry cries faded.

  The sound of the heavy bomber woke Krüger. After Tygo had left, he had made his way out to the secret air base on the coast as per his orders, bringing the girl with him. He was to remain there until evening, when the Führer and his party would arrive. But first the secret shipment was due to arrive from Peenemünde, and that was the bomber now, circling, trying to land.

  Krüger hurried out from his tent, buttoning his leather greatcoat, the deep throbbing of the engines above him, almost on top of him. The canvas on the outside of the tent was white with frost, and he was chilled to the marrow. He stared up at the dawn sky, checking his watch. Just before five; he’d managed a couple of hours’ sleep.

  He made his way through the gloom toward the temporary airstrip, which the engineers had constructed where the forest gave way to sandy dunes. He could hear the surf, and the air had a salty tang to it. Krüger nodded to the guard standing outside another tent, close to a cluster of vehicles: support trucks, a radio truck, field kitchen, and an ambulance.

  “The girl?”

  “Secure, sir.”

  Krüger reached the edge of the airstrip. Sections of steel strips lay on the leveled ground, a series of drums filled with fuel were burning brightly along its perimeter, and someone had lit flares down its center line. The bomber had dropped through the low clouds and was thundering toward Krüger, its landing lights blazing. It touched down with a great thump, lifted up again for a moment, then settled, barreling toward him. It’s never going to stop in time, he thought, and turned to run—then, with a great whoosh, a large parachute deployed from the rear gun turret and the plane shuddered violently as it slowed right down. When it finally came to a halt, the pilot swung the bomber around so that it was already lined up for a quick exit.

  A team of Luftwaffe service personnel hurried past Krüger to begin unloading its cargo. Satisfied all was in order, Krüger turned and walked back into the trees until he reached a small clearing, in the center of which was another transport plane. Camouflage netting had been strung above it.

  It was one of the few remaining Arado heavy transport planes that were still serviceable. It looked a bit like the Liberator that had taken him to Barcelona, with a high wing above the fuselage and four beefy engines. But its tail was different; it had a long pontoon from the wing to the double tail at the back. This meant that the fuselage itself, which was fat and stubby, actually ended just past the front wing. Krüger made his way to it and found that the doors had been folded back and a ramp lowered to allow easy loading. Inside was a cavernous space.

  Now Krüger was close up, he noticed the strange undercarriage. In addition to the normal three-wheel tricycle arrangement, it also had two neat rows of smaller wheels along the bottom of the fuselage. It was an amazing-looking craft, he thought.

  Krüger decided to take a look inside while he waited for the cargo to arrive from the other plane. He walked up the ramp and stared at the open cargo area. It was completely open right up to the cockpit, except for a compartment on the right-hand side. He walked down toward it. Several metal seats had been bolted in pairs down the side of the fuselage before one reached the compartment, and other equipment was attached to the side, including fire extinguishers and a metal ax. The compartment had clearly been specially fabricated and fitted inside the plane; there were scorch marks to the metal where the welds had been made.

  Krüger carefully opened the door to the compartment. This was to be for the Führer’s exclusive use. It was surprisingly spacious and had been furnished like a sitting room, with wicker armchairs bolted to the floor, a daybed along one wall, and a table and a set of chairs next to it. A copy of Hitler’s favorite portrait of Frederick the Great had been screwed to a wall in a metal frame. There was even a cold box for food and drink. Krüger closed the door and made his way back down the plane, mentally selecting a suitable seat for himself.

  A few moments later the ground crew appeared through the darkness, with two tracked vehicles being driven at a walking pace. This type of vehicle was known as the Kettenkrad and consisted of a motorbike at the front with a set of tracks behind it, perfect for pulling heavy loads.

  The first one spun around when it reached the bottom of the ramp, and then reversed slowly up, its tracks smacking on the metal.

  Strapped to it was a rocket—an A-4B, about five yards in length with a smooth conical nose, a three-foot-long needle at its tip. In the middle of the rocket were two winglets, and at the end, four long fins. A fat rocket exhaust cone sat beneath them. It was lashed to a wooden pallet that had bright yellow buoyancy bags fitted all around, with CO2 cylinders to inflate them.

  Krüger watched as it was carefully unloaded from the Kettenkrad and secured to the floor of the cargo hold. The Kettenkrad rolled back down the ramp, and the second one reversed up.

  This one was carrying a wooden crate about the size of a tea chest, which the men unloaded very carefully. Krüger was not surprised—next to the Reich’s eagle, together with the serial numbers from Krüger’s file, was stamped in large letters: GEFAHR DES TODES. NICHT ÖFFNEN.

  Danger of Death. Do Not Open.

  So Müller had been telling him the truth. This was the wonder weapon that would soon attack New York and win them the war.

  “I want a permanent guard around this plane from now till takeoff,” he said. “Ten men—six outside, four inside.”

  “Yes, Herr Oberst.” A sergeant saluted him.

  He turned at the sound of a girl’s cry and saw Willa being manhandled by a soldier at the front of the cargo plane.

  “Bring her here!” he barked, and the soldier led her down toward him. Krüger pointed to the inside of the plane.

  “Take a good look, you foolish child.”

  Willa craned her neck and stared into the plane.

  “What do you see?”

  Willa shrugged. “Some sort of rocket.”

  “You have just seen the future. A single weapon that has the power to obliterate an entire city.”

  “I don’t believe you,” said Willa.

  “Ja, I know.” Krüger smiled. “I don’t believe it either, but fifty years ago, no one would have believed we could fly in such huge machines such as these.” He touched the side of the ramp, then started to walk back toward the main camp. Willa followed him. “Perhaps fifty years from now, we will be doing things no one thought possible. Living on the moon perhaps.”

  Willa shook her head.

  “Why not? With these weapons we will win the war, and then with our technology we will transform it.” Krüger glanced at her. “So you had better hope Frettchen soon appears with that stone, if you are to have any chance of seeing that day.”

  “What about you?” Willa said, almost contemptuously.

  He dismissed her with a wave of his hand. But in fact, she was right: The Führer had promised the stone to the Duarte woman. If Krüger couldn’t produce it, he was finished.

  “Take her back to my tent, and if she escapes again I will have the guard shot.”

  General Müller was finally feeling human again. Having arrived at the Adlerhorst early in the morning, he had managed five hours of sleep. Upon rising he had enjoyed a hot bath—the first in days—and a good shave from Bormann’s valet, and was now wearing a fresh uniform. He had just finished his excellent breakfast of ham and eggs, and was walking across the castle courtyard with a swing in his step and a smile on his face. Müller was not one to smile—ever—but today he treated himself to an approximation of one. He felt optimistic; everything was going according to the plan and was on time. How very German.

  Even the weather was good, with some rays of sunshine that bode very well for their departure to Zandvoort at
nine o’clock. The only fly in the ointment remained the Führer’s chronic indecision. He had changed his mind at least a dozen times in the last two days, from agreeing to the plan to believing a return to the bunker in Berlin was the better option. Müller had left Bormann to work on him with his subtle persuasive skills.

  Müller reached the radio room and composed a short message to Oberst Krüger, advising him of their expected departure and arrival time and requesting confirmation that everything was ready at the airfield. He handed the message to the operator, who quickly encoded it and sent it out on the Enigma machine. Then he sat and smoked a cigarette while he waited for the reply, which duly arrived. Excellent—the cargo had arrived safely, but, Müller noted, there was no mention of the Red Queen.

  Müller walked back across the castle courtyard to call on Bormann and to check the time of departure. He stopped to make a final inspection of the vehicles waiting there; as with the airstrip engineers, he had had to twist arms in order to put together a secure convoy.

  For the sake of speed and secrecy, he had ruled out using the Führer’s armored train and had instead found the fastest armored cars available. These were Pumas fitted with Porsche engines—one with flak guns, one with a double cannon, and one with radio capability. They could reach up to thirty miles an hour and were fitted with long-range tanks. There would be two at the front and the flak one at the back. Between the Pumas were two of Hitler’s own six-wheeled Mercedes, capable of carrying seven people in comfort and safety. Müller had asked for machine guns to be fitted to the running boards at the front, and had had the tires switched to road ones in order to lift the top speed to that of the armored cars.

  Finally, there was a fuel truck, a mechanical support truck, a field ambulance, and a transport with a platoon of the Führer’s own Leibstandarte SS troops.

  He turned from his inspection and found that Bormann was coming to meet him. It was hard to tell if he was smiling or experiencing an attack of indigestion. Müller hoped it was the former.