Burke wasn’t a flier, but he bristled at the mention of Richthofen just the same. They’d killed the damned sonofabitch twice already; the first time at the end of Bloody April in ’18 and the second during the closing days of the Champagne Offensive in ’20. How many times was it going to take to keep the bastard from getting up again?
Stephens paused. Emboldened by three days of rest and a hot cup of coffee, Burke took advantage of the opportunity to speak up.
“With all due respect, gentlemen, I don’t see what any of this has to do with me or the reason for my transfer. I’m a grunt, at home in the mud and muck of the trenches, and wouldn’t know an aileron from a propeller. What’s this got to do with me?”
“Patience, Captain. You’ll understand why you’re here in a moment,” Nichols told him, then nodded his permission to the lieutenant to continue.
Stephens opened a file on the table in front of him. He picked up a photograph and then passed it to Burke.
“This was taken earlier this morning from the back of a Bristol two-seater that was returning from a sortie outside of Arcis,” Stephens said.
The photo showed what looked like an Allied soldier standing in the middle of a road somewhere, waving at the oncoming aircraft with his left hand as if he didn’t have a care in the world, while around him men in German uniforms were diving for cover.
“The Bristol’s pilot intended to strafe the enemy column, but the sight of the prisoner stayed his hand. The observer in the rear seat actually managed to take several photographs, but the rest were insufficient for our purposes.”
Nichols waited for Stephens to finish and then addressed Burke directly. “Do you recognize the man in the photo, Captain?”
Burke frowned, then pulled the photo closer for a better look. The image was fuzzy, and it was hard to see the prisoner’s face clearly. He did seem to be wearing the long flight suit and thick boots that had become the uniform de rigueur of the average American flier, but that was about all that seemed familiar.
Burke said as much.
Nichols stared at Burke for a long moment, then said, “The patrol was led by Major Jack Freeman.”
Burke’s frown deepened. There was a monocular viewing glass sitting on the table nearby and he snatched it up, using it to take a closer look at the photo.
Was it really him?
He couldn’t tell. Yet he wouldn’t be surprised if it was. Jack had a way of fucking things up even when he was trying not to. Managing to survive after getting his entire squadron killed would only be the latest in a long string of disasters that followed him around like a shadow.
Burke put a neutral expression on his face, set the viewing glass back down on the table, and sat back.
“Might be him. Might not. Hard to tell. Not much you can do about it either way, though. He’s clearly in the hands of the enemy and likely to remain that way for a long time to come.”
If he isn’t eaten first, Burke thought.
Rather than answering, Nichols turned to Stephens. “Thank you, Lieutenant,” he said. “That will be all.”
“Yes, sir.” The younger man saluted the brass and then made himself scarce.
Nichols waited until the door had closed behind the lieutenant before he turned to Burke.
“What I’m about to tell you is considered highly classified, with all the attendant penalties that go along with such material.”
In other words, we’ll shoot you if you tell anyone, Burke thought sourly. He had the sudden urge to put his hands over his ears so he wouldn’t have to hear whatever it was Nichols wanted to tell him.
The colonel paused, as if debating how to say what he needed to say, then shrugged his shoulders in a What the hell? kind of gesture and just threw it out there.
“For several years now a branch of the German scientific community known as the Geheimnisvollen Bruderschaft, or Arcane Brotherhood, has dedicated itself to combining scientific experimentation with the occult and mystical arts. They believe that the pairing of these two disciplines will ultimately result in the creation of a superweapon that could be used against Allied forces in Europe and even on the North American continent.”
The colonel’s statement was so far removed from what Burke had been expecting that he could only sit and stare at the man for a moment. “You can’t be serious?” he finally said with a laugh and then glanced at the other men in the room, waiting for the explosion of laughter that was sure to follow his acceptance of such a wild statement.
It never came.
The other men stared at him without expression, certainly without even the hint of a smile on any of their faces. In fact, Burke got the distinct impression that he was being pitied, the way a parent will pity the loss of a child’s innocence the moment they learn there really is no Santa Claus.
Nichols didn’t mince his words. “I assure you that I am. Quite serious, in fact. Where do you think the corpse gas came from, Captain?”
He’d always assumed the creation of the gas had been accidental, that some error in the production process had created that first batch and then, having seen its value, the enemy had simply continued replicating the error. He’d never even considered the notion that the gas had been developed for a very specific and deliberate purpose.
What kind of twisted mind did it take to come up with such a notion in the first place?
Nichols went on. “We’ve been monitoring the activity of the Brotherhood as best we can, but I’ll be the first to admit that things haven’t been easy. Most operatives only manage to get out one or two messages before going silent.”
Burke didn’t need to be told what that meant, and he found himself wondering just how many men had been sacrificed since the organization had been discovered.
“Unfortunately, this means we have a hard time separating fact from fiction. That leaves us in the rather unenviable position of having to act as if all the information we receive is valid in order to protect our country and our people.”
Nichols got up, crossed the room to the coffee cart, and refilled his cup. Burke knew he was just buying time while he figured out what to say next, which was fine by Burke, as he was still trying to come to grips with what had already been said.
Occult practices and arcane arts? You’ve got to be shitting me.
But it all made sense, in a weird kind of way. He could even imagine the project getting ramped up considerably as a result of the success they’d seen in the corpse gas experiment.
Nichols hadn’t told him the worst of it yet.
“About a week ago we received a report from our most recent operative, a low-level occult practitioner, a dabbler really, who we managed to turn with an offer to get his family out of Germany. This report outlined a project our man called the Long Touch, or Lange Berühren, in German. It is supposed to be a way for one of the Brotherhood to deliver some kind of psychic strike to a target across a great distance.”
Burke wanted to laugh; the entire conversation was getting more bizarre by the moment.
The colonel went on. “With a sample of a man’s blood or the blood of a close relative, the Brotherhood can home in on their target regardless of the distance between them. He could be in the next village or half a world away. It makes no difference. They can reach out with their power and kill him, just like that.”
“And you think they’ve actually managed to perfect this?”
Nichols shrugged. “Three years ago I never would have believed the dead would get up and walk again. Now I do not have the luxury of disbelief. I must act as if the danger is real and the threat exists.”
Burke turned that one over a few times in his head. “Damn!” he said at last.
Nichols smiled tightly. “My sentiments exactly. Which is why we’re sending in a team to rescue Freeman.”
Burke choked on his coffee.
“You’re what?” he asked, when he’d finished sputtering.
“We’re sending a team behind the lines to rescue Freeman,” h
e said patiently, like a schoolmaster trying to explain arithmetic to a slow-witted schoolboy. Then he dropped the bombshell.
“And you’re going to lead it.”
Chapter Fifteen
Burke stared at the four men before him, very conscious of the fact that he would have been laughing aloud at the absurdity of it all if he hadn’t been so uncomfortably aware of just how serious they were.
He opened his mouth several times, attempting to offer a reply, but he couldn’t seem to get his mouth to form the words, mainly because telling the brigadier general and his chosen representatives that they were, to borrow a phrase from his British friends, absolutely barking mad, wasn’t the kind of thing one should say in a situation like this, no matter how hard you might be thinking it.
“Why me?” he asked, instead. “Jack and I aren’t the closest of brothers. Your files must tell you that.”
Nichols nodded. “We’re well aware of the level of hostility you have toward him, but frankly, your feelings are immaterial at this point. You’re the best man for the job.”
Burke practically sneered at him. “Why’s that?” he asked, expecting some bullshit about his time on the battlefield or the high level of leadership that he could bring to the mission.
To his surprise, Nichols didn’t try to make it into something it was not. “You’re one of only a handful of people who know that Major Freeman is the president’s son,” he began. “Of those who do know, you’re the only one with enough direct combat experience to have a prayer of getting the job done.”
The irony of the situation wasn’t lost on Burke. The president’s continued well-being depended on the son he’d spent years ignoring, who in turn had to be rescued by a brother who didn’t care whether he lived or breathed. The president must be quaking in his boots, he thought. Let’s see how far they are willing to take this.
“Why break him out? Wouldn’t it be easier to just gun him down?”
Nichols was already shaking his head before Burke had even finished. “That was our first inclination. Doing so, however, would leave his body in the hands of the Germans. As long as they have access to a sample of his blood, they will be able to make an attempt on the president’s life.”
Burke stared at him, then glanced over at the other two officers. No one seemed shocked that Nichols had considered assassinating the president’s son.
They’re entirely serious about this.
General Morrissey opened up the folder sitting on the table in front of him and withdrew the first piece of paper from the stack inside. He handed it to Burke.
“I suspect you’ll recognize this.”
A quick glance was all Burke needed, for he recognized it immediately. It was the handwritten after-action report he’d filed a few days ago from his hospital bed. As he handed it back, he said, “Yes, sir, I do. Recognize it, that is.”
The general laid the paper down on top of the folder, talking all the while. “Fritz hit us up and down the line that day. Fifteen different points of engagement, with one in three supported by those damned burrowing machines and carrying one of those new types of the undead.
“Hundreds of men up and down the line witnessed the actions of these damned things. They saw the explosives strapped around their waists. They watched as the creatures charged out of the tunneling machines and rushed the access points to the communications trenches. In more than one location they observed the things blowing themselves to bits when it became obvious that they were not going to succeed in carrying out their missions.”
Morrissey’s voice was filled with disgust as he looked up at Burke and asked, “Do you know how many reports I received telling me that these rotting bastards were different from the ones we’ve been fighting for the last four years?”
He didn’t wait for Burke’s answer.
“One!” Morrissey said, brandishing the now crumpled piece of paper in his fist. “One fucking report!”
Morrissey visibly took a moment to gather the fraying ends of his temper. “Care to take a guess who wrote that report, Captain Burke?”
A complete idiot, Burke thought, even as he said, “I did, sir,” with more than a hint of resignation in his tone.
“You are correct, Captain,” Morrissey said. “Which is why we need you to lead this mission. The partisans we’re in contact with behind the lines feed us information on a regular basis, but they’re a far cry from trained soldiers who know what is important and what’s not.
“You’ve already demonstrated your ability to think on your feet and, if I may be so bold, your willingness to do what it takes to make it back alive,” he said, inclining his head toward Burke’s clockwork arm. “You also have considerable familiarity with the enemy. You’ve been on the front for how long now?”
“Five years, sir.”
One thousand, eight hundred, twenty-five days and eleven hours, give or take a few minutes, to be exact, but who was counting?
Morrissey was nodding. “You have the experience to see this through. You understand the need for discretion. And perhaps most important of all, you know the man we’re after and he knows you. He’ll trust you.”
Burke must have looked doubtful, so at that point Clayton Manning spoke up for the first time. “If I may, General?” he asked, and then turned to Burke when the general waved his acquiescence.
“Have you ever been hunting, Captain Burke?” he asked. “I don’t mean for deer or pheasant but for the kind of game that can often turn the tables and hunt you in return?”
Burke shook his head.
“Hunting lions, tigers, even the bull elephants of the world takes a particular mind-set. You have to understand your enemy to a certain degree; know what they’re capable of, yes, but also know how they typically react when facing a given situation. A tiger will disengage when faced with fire, for instance, but a lion will not. Fire simply enrages the king of beasts, and using it will cause him to attack with more determination.”
Burke realized where he’d seen Manning before. He was the big game hunter the British government had hired to track and kill a man-eating tiger that had been terrorizing British settlements in the Hindu Kush back in the spring. Four other men had tried and failed before Parliament had hired the American to handle the job. He’d gone into the jungle with only his rifle and a few supplies and had come back out five days later carrying what was left of the tiger in a burlap sack. The photo of him holding up the beast’s head, three times the size of his own, had made the front page of the London Times. A little piece of good news to distract the loyal Brits from the ongoing hell of the war, Burke supposed.
“What I think the general is trying to say is that you are a man who has been tested in the heat of the crucible and has emerged refined by the process. You know the enemy because you have spent the last five years thinking like the enemy, doing everything you can to anticipate his next move so that you can counter it. You have lived through everything he has thrown in your direction through a combination of knowledge, skill, and a ruthless determination to survive. Your actions at Cambrai are a perfect example.”
Burke winced. They were never going to let him forget that, were they?
What he’d done that day had been born of desperation, not good leadership. With his platoon pinned down by machine-gun fire and a group of enemy tanks about to roll over their position, his only option had been to order an attack. He’d gone over the top and charged the nearest tank with a grenade in each hand, praying like hell that his men would follow. He’d come out of that day’s events with a silver star for bravery and the nickname “Madman” Burke.
He wasn’t particularly proud of either of them.
Exasperated with the turn the conversation had taken, Burke turned to Nichols. “Do you even know where they took Freeman?”
“We think so. Reports have filtered back to us that a man fitting his description recently arrived at the POW camp outside of Vitry-le-François.”
Burke frowned; he’d never heard
of the place. He got up and examined the map on the wall for several minutes. When he finally located it, he couldn’t believe what he was seeing.
“That’s sixty miles behind enemy lines!”
“Sixty-four, to be precise,” Nichols replied.
Burke’s exasperation with the whole idea finally burst free. “How in heaven’s name do you expect me to lead a team that far behind enemy lines without being discovered?” he asked. “We’ll be lucky to make it through no-man’s-land, or did you forget that the entire German army is camped out on our doorstep?”
Manning laughed good-naturedly. “I’m sure Colonel Nichols will have it all figured out ahead of time, Captain.”
“Easy for you to say,” Burke replied, growing annoyed with the man’s need to speak for everyone else. “Your ass won’t be left hanging out in the wind if things don’t go as planned.”
The big game hunter smiled wryly. “On the contrary, I’ll be right there with you.”
For a moment Burke thought he hadn’t heard correctly. Manning’s smug expression didn’t fade, however, and so Burke turned a confused look in Nichols’s direction.
“MID has retained Mr. Manning’s services for the duration of the mission,” Nichols told him.
“For what?” Burke wanted to know. “It’s not like we’re going to be running into any tigers.”
“I’m afraid that’s classified.”
Of course it is.
Nichols went back to his explanation.
“We’ll get you to within ten miles of the POW camp. I can’t tell you how at the moment—that’s classified until just before the mission to keep leaks to a minimum—but we will get you there. From that point it will be up to you to ascertain where they are keeping Freeman, infiltrate the compound, and get out with him in tow.”
For the first time since Burke entered the room, Nichols looked slightly uneasy as he said, “We’re still working on the exfiltration plan, but I assure you that it will be firmly in place before the mission gets under way.
By the Blood of Heroes Page 11
