By the Blood of Heroes

by Joseph Nassise

  In addition to the Tommy gun, they also carried a Colt .45-caliber 1911 firearm in a holster on their hips. A double-pocket magazine pouch containing two full magazines for the pistol were attached to their cartridge belts. They also carried two British Mills bombs, or hand grenades, that could be set to a timed delay of four to seven seconds before throwing.

  Additional equipment—tents and pegs, coils of rope, candles, maps, compasses, matches, additional clips of ammunition—had to be divvied up so that they could meet Nichols’s weight restriction.

  The process raised the issue of what was behind the restriction and several of the men asked Burke about it, but he didn’t know any more than they did. All he’d been told was that they were going to be taken by truck to Châteauroux. Once there, someone would see to it that they were informed about the next leg of the journey.

  Burke didn’t like it, didn’t like it one bit, but there was very little he could do about it. Nichols had already made it clear that security was paramount and Burke wasn’t getting anywhere pushing for more information.

  That didn’t mean he couldn’t use the brain he’d been blessed with, however, and try to work it out for himself. Châteauroux was nearly 150 miles to the east of their current position, in the exact opposite direction they needed to travel in order to reach the POW camp where they believed Freeman was being held. If they were going that far out of their way, there had to be a good reason for it.

  Perhaps they’d developed some new sort of transportation system, he thought, something to carry them beyond the front and deep into occupied territory, like the burrowing machines that Fritz had used to infiltrate the trenches a few days before. Or perhaps the rumors he’d been hearing for the last few months about a platoon of armored walkers being developed for frontline combat were actually true and they’d been drafted to test the twenty-five-foot behemoths through their raid on the POW camp.

  While he was still pondering the issue, he heard a truck pull up outside and moments later Nichols’s aide-de-camp, Corporal Davis, entered the shed and indicated that they were to begin loading their gear.

  As the men were getting themselves and their gear settled into the back of the truck, Davis indicated that Burke was expected in the tent next door.

  Leaving Sergeant Moore to handle the details, Burke slipped through the opening in the drab-colored canvas and found Colonel Nichols and Professor Graves waiting for him, a long table covered with odd-looking gear between them.

  “Quickly, Captain,” Nichols said, gesturing for him to come forward. “Professor Graves has some special gear for you, and we still need to get it packed up and loaded in time for departure.”

  As Burke hustled over, Graves turned to the table, picked up the first gadget, and handed it to Burke. It was a revolver, much like the Colt 1917, except the barrel was slightly longer, a lot wider, and was accompanied by an oversized cylinder that made it look slightly comical. He noted that there were eight openings in the cylinder, rather than the usual six.

  “This is the Colt Firestarter,” Graves said, “and it fires these . . .”

  He handed Burke a two-inch-long cartridge that was as wide around as his thumb. “The bullet inside the cartridge has been coated with a special enzyme that has been designed to interact with a shambler’s blood. One shot should be all it takes to put one of the things down for good.”

  There was a holster and an ammo belt with eight full cartridge loops to go with it, giving him a total of sixteen shots with the new weapon. “This all the ammo you got?” he asked, as he buckled the belt around his waist.

  “Unfortunately, yes. The components that make up the enzyme are extremely rare, and we haven’t yet found a practical way of making them in large quantities.”

  Which was too damn bad, Burke thought. Putting a gun like this into the hands of every Tom, Dick, and Harry on the front lines could change the course of the war.

  Provided it worked.

  Graves moved to a pile of half a dozen objects that looked like German stick grenades; each had a long handle with a fat tube on the far end. He handed one to Burke, who discovered it was a bit heavier than usual, which would make it harder to throw.

  Graves caught his grimace. “I know; we’ve done everything we can to shave off some of that weight, but that’s the best we’re going to be able to do at this point. What you’re holding is a magnetism grenade. Six-second countdown; you arm it by twisting the top.” He mimed turning the fat end of the grenade, where Burke would normally expect the explosives to go.

  “Magnetism grenade?” Burke wasn’t sure he understood the point. He wanted his explosives to explode, and it sounded like this one might not do that.

  He was right. “The device sends out concentric waves of magnetism that impart a positive charge to anything within an eight-foot radius from the blast point. Metal objects, especially anything with high levels of iron in it, will be seized and held in place for the duration of the effect,” Graves told him.

  “How long does it last?”

  “About ten minutes.”

  Not bad. Not bad at all.

  Graves wasn’t finished yet. He moved over to where a wide-mouthed metal tube rested next to a plate about a foot square. The plate was made from something that looked like a combination of steel and ceramics, and Burke found it to be lighter than expected.

  “Looks like a mortar tube,” Burke said, and Graves nodded eagerly.

  “It is. I’m calling it a pulse mortar,” he said with a smile. “It is based on the same principles that created the suitcase device you used previously, but it is much more useful than the earlier device. Dropping the round into the tube triggers the firing pin, which charges the shell and sends it on its way. When the shell strikes the ground, it releases the energy contained in the warhead, sending tendrils of electricity arcing outward from it with enough power to knock a man unconscious. We can give you as many mortar rounds as you can carry.”

  Burke’s gaze was drawn to the last piece of equipment on the table, a leather cuirass covered with narrow metal tubes that ran over the shoulders to a boxy collection of gears and wires that came together in a juncture box at the small of the back. Two wire-covered sleeves made from rubber and steel rested on the table beside the remainder of the “suit.”

  He looked at Graves with a raised brow. “Dare I even ask?” he said.

  “Hercules vest” was the prompt reply. “Runs on a combination of steam and electrical power. Will effectively double a man’s physical strength for a short period of time.”

  “How short?” Burke wanted to know.

  Now it was Graves’s turn to wince. “We’re still having some issues with the cooling mechanism. As a result, the feeding tubes have a tendency to overheat. Any usage longer than ten minutes runs the risk of bursting the tubes and scalding the wearer with superheated steam.”

  Burk took a step back, as if the device had a mind of its own and might suddenly turn itself on, but he was smiling when he turned to Graves and said, “We’ll take them. Give the mortar tube to Jones, the rockets to Compton, and the Hercules vest to Sergeant Moore. We can distribute the grenades among the team.”

  As Graves disappeared outside to round up some help with packing up the gear, Nichols appeared at Burke’s elbow.

  “A final word, if you please, Captain?”

  “Of course, sir.”

  Nichols led him into the shadow of a four-ton lorry a few yards away, then wasted a few minutes fussing with a cigar, getting it lit properly. Burke recognized Nichols’s actions for what they were, a delay tactic, perhaps even some distaste over whatever was to come, and so Burke waited him out, having learned plenty of patience while dealing with his so-called superior officers over the years. At last, Nichols got around to the reason for pulling him aside.

  “I wanted to stress again the importance of your mission, Captain. The president has been very clear; in no way can Major Freeman remain in the hands of the Boche.”

  �
�I understand, sir,” Burke replied. “We’ll get him out and bring him home.”

  Nichols shook his head. “You’re good, Burke, I’ll give you that. A damn sight better than some of the yahoos I’ve dealt with over the last year, to be sure, and the men under your command are all solid, reliable soldiers, but both you and I know the chances of actually getting Freeman back across the front are slim at best.”

  Burke stared at him in confusion. What the fuck kind of pep talk was this?

  “I’m not sure I follow you, Colonel.”

  The colonel sighed. “No, no, I don’t expect you do.”

  He looked away into the darkness, and for a moment Burke saw a fleeting expression cross the man’s face. Frustration? Pain, maybe? He didn’t know; it was there and gone again so quickly that Burke wasn’t even sure he’d seen it at all. When Nichols turned back toward him, his face was set back into the same stone canvas it had been moments before.

  He withdrew a piece of paper from his pocket, unfolded it, and read it aloud to Burke.

  “If, after arriving at the prisoner of war camp and making contact with Major Freeman,” Nichols began, his voice as flat as the Kansas prairie, “you determine at any time that it is unfeasible to escort him to the safety of the Allied lines, you are ordered to use any and all means necessary to see to it that his physical form does not remain in the hands of the enemy.”

  He handed the paper to Burke, who looked down at it in confusion, his mind still trying to process what he’d just heard. It was a telegram, addressed directly to him, and it was signed by none other than Nathaniel Harper, President of the United States.

  You’ve just been ordered to kill your own brother and destroy his corpse!

  By none other than the president!

  It pissed him off. Years ago it would have been inconceivable that such an order would have even been considered, never mind given, but this crazy war had been going on so long that all the old rules had fallen by the wayside. Burke knew that the conflict was no longer about political ideologies or territorial expansion, no longer a question of “might makes right,” but rather had become a fight for survival with the fate of the human race hanging in the balance.

  Anything that weakened the ability of the Allied powers to stand in the face of the threat had to be eliminated. He knew that, but the order still stuck in his craw, and for a moment he considered telling them to go fuck themselves. It was an illegal order. He knew that, knew it as well as he knew his own name, but the coldly logical side of his personality also recognized it as a necessary order, one that was ultimately designed to protect the hard-won gains bought with the lives of thousands over the last several months. What was one man’s life against the continued existence of an entire country, an entire way of life?

  Besides, spending the rest of the war sitting in a six-by-nine cell somewhere after being court-martialed for disobeying a direct order wouldn’t help anyone, least of all himself. They’d just order some other fool to head up the mission. If his men were going to be put in harm’s way, and that’s how he thought of them now, as his men, he’d be the one to give the order.

  No, refusing was out of the question. Which meant that he’d just have to be sure that they succeeded in getting Jack out alive. It was as simple as that. Anything else was unacceptable.

  Nichols took the telegram back and made a show of tearing the evidence into tiny pieces. “Are we clear, Captain?” Nichols asked when he finished, and for the first time Burke heard the edge of steel in the man’s voice.

  “Crystal clear, sir.”

  Nichols stared at him for a long moment, as if trying to see inside the depths of his heart, and then nodded. “Very well. Dismissed.”

  Burke saluted and then turned away. He hadn’t gone more than a few steps before Nichols’s voice called out to him.

  “I trust this conversation will remain between us, Captain.”

  Burke hesitated, considered saying something, then just raised his hand in acknowledgment without turning around, because, really, what was there to say?

  Chapter Eighteen

  CHTEAUROUX

  Burke awoke to a hand on his arm.

  “We’re here,” Charlie said softly, leaning between the front seats to reach Burke from his position in the back of the truck.

  The ride to Châteauroux had taken close to four hours and Burke had used the time to catch up on the one commodity you could never have enough of as a soldier—rest. Now, as the truck turned down the dirt track that served as the entrance to the airfield, Burke wiped the sleep from his eyes and looked out into the predawn light.

  Even at this hour the airfield was a flurry of activity. Planes had been wheeled out of their hangars and were lined up on the grassy field that served as the takeoff and landing area. Men swarmed over them like worker ants on a mission, checking struts, tuning engines, and loading ammunition into the machine guns that were mounted in front of the cockpits. A group of pilots stood around a map pinned to a piece of plywood, more than likely discussing the morning’s dawn patrol. A group of infantrymen emerged from the mess hall as they drove past, and Burke lifted his hand in greeting.

  Corporal Davis drove the truck through the center of camp and out the other side. When Burke shot him a questioning look, Davis said, “Almost there, sir,” inclining his head in the direction they were going. Burke let it go, figuring the corporal knew where they were headed, and settled back in his seat.

  They drove through what had once, in the days before the coming of the kaiser, been a farmer’s field and followed the dirt track they were on into the woods just beyond. They continued for a few more minutes until the trees suddenly gave way and a clearing opened before them. Burke sat up, staring in astonishment out the windshield at the massive airship that came into view.

  The gleaming cigar-shaped silver vessel hung fifteen feet off the ground, anchored there by more than a dozen guide ropes, its silver hide illuminated in the spotlights directed up at it from the ground below. Burke guessed it to be somewhere close to seven hundred feet in length, with a diameter in the neighborhood of eighty or ninety feet. The insignia of the British Air Corps, three concentric circles of blue, white, and red, was painted brightly on the airship’s nose and tail fins. When one of the lights played across the bow, Burke was able to make out the name of the craft written in letters six feet tall.

  HMS Victorious.

  Two gondolas hung from its underside, one forward and one aft, connected to the bottom of the dirigible by thick brass columns. Large wooden propellers on gimbaled platforms jutted from the back of each of the gondolas, which Burke surmised were meant to assist the tail rudder in maneuvering the craft through the sky. A pair of smaller propeller platforms hung down from the middle of the vessel, perhaps to provide a little extra lift in case of an emergency.

  From beneath the tail fin at the rear of the ship jutted several exhaust ports, most likely leading to several steam engines designed to provide the thrust necessary to move the big craft through the atmosphere. A large cargo door hung open, partially obscuring the view of the ports, and Burke could see men standing in its doorway and using a system of ropes and pulleys to bring up crates of supplies that were loaded by a group on the ground below.

  Davis pulled to a stop in the shadow of the airship and the men of the squad climbed out of the truck, their eyes going wide as they caught sight, one by one, of the enormous airship looming over them.

  Burke understood how they felt.

  If was, by far, the largest airship he’d ever seen. The sheer size of the craft was impressive, but it was when you remembered that a ship like that could carry a man all the way across the Atlantic that the wonder of it all really hit home. He’d never ridden in an airship before, and the idea that this behemoth might be their transport made him as giddy as a schoolgirl.

  Until he realized with a sinking feeling in his gut just what a bright, big target HMS Victorious would be.

  While he was still ponde
ring the implications of that realization, a slim young man in a dark blue uniform approached and asked in a heavy British accent which one of them was Captain Burke.

  “That would be me,” Burke said, stepping forward.

  “Lieutenant Silverton, sir, His Majesty’s Air Corps.”

  “Good to meet you, Lieutenant.” The two men shook hands.

  “If you’ll follow me, I’ll get you and your men squared away, sir.”

  Silverton led them toward the group loading the cargo. As they approached, Burke watched several crates being pushed into a wire-framed basket, which was then hauled upward to the men waiting above. Half a dozen other lines hung down from above and men were using them to climb up and down from the deck as their duties required.

  “We’ve got your team bunking together in one of the forward wardrooms,” the lieutenant told Burke. “When you get topside, ask for Chief Wilson and he’ll help you get your gear stowed away and show you to the bridge.”

  Silverton glanced at Burke’s clockwork arm, hesitated, and said, “If you’ll give them a moment to unload, I’ll have them send the basket down for you.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” Burke replied, irked that the lieutenant would assume his former injury left him less capable than the men he commanded.

  He reached out, grabbed hold of one of the hanging lines, and began to pull himself upward, hand over hand. His mechanical arm actually worked to his advantage, for he was able to “lock” the hand in the closed position, fingers clamped tightly around the rope, and then hang from it without putting unnecessary strain on his muscles while he reached upward with his other hand. It took him a moment to get the rhythm, but once he had it, he went up the rope as if he’d been doing it for years.