Freeman waited a moment, until he heard the car pull away out front, then he opened the door.
The two guards stationed outside turned to face him, their weapons at the ready and pointed in his direction.
Freeman smiled tightly at them, then shut the door before they could say anything.
He crossed the room and looked out the window on the wall opposite the door. Another guard stood a few feet away, watching the house from that direction, ostensibly preventing Freeman from climbing through the window and making a run for it, though where he would go in a camp surrounded by hundreds of enemy soldiers was up for grabs.
The sound of an approaching plane drew his attention away from the guard to the airfield he saw on the northern edge of the camp. A red triplane was just coming in for a landing and Freeman watched the pilot put the aircraft down, a sense of jealousy stirring in his heart. It had been days since Freeman had been in the air and his longing to be up among the clouds was like a physical weight, dragging him down. He’d flown nearly every day since arriving at the front; being stuck dirtside was its own special torture. Richthofen had to know what he was going through; otherwise, why situate him where he could hear and see the airfield all day and night?
He moved to close the curtains only to discover there weren’t any.
Oh, Richthofen knew all right!
Bastard.
Wandering back over to the sink, Burke found a straight razor and a cup of shaving powder resting on the edge. He eyed the razor for a long moment, as thoughts of using it to kill the guards out front ran through his mind, but he dismissed them as quickly as they came. He was starting to understand that everything about his presence here was calculated, no doubt by Richthofen, and snatching up the weapon and trying to use it was exactly what they expected him to do.
He refused to be their patsy.
Instead, he decided to have a shave. He’d always kept himself clean-shaven, and his face itched terribly from the several days of beard growth that now covered it. A good shave would make him feel better mentally as well as physically. Once he was finished with that, he changed into the clean set of clothes and sat down on the bed to await whatever was next.
They came for him an hour later.
He heard the car pull up and was on his feet by the time there was a swift knock on his door. He opened it to find Adler waiting on the step outside.
“If you would come with me, please,” Adler ordered.
Freeman had the sudden urge to tell him no, just to be a pain in the ass, but he conquered the feeling and did as he was told.
Adler let Freeman precede him into the rear of the vehicle and then leaned forward to give some instructions to the driver in German.
As the driver pulled away, Freeman was unable to keep himself from glancing out the window toward the airfield and was met with a startling sight. A massive airship was now moored alongside one of the hangars, the black crosses painted on its tail stark against its gleaming silver skin. It was at least three times the size of any he’d seen before, with an oversized gondola to match, and had several flat platforms hanging beneath its bulk. He caught a glimpse of long rows of narrow openings piercing the underside of each platform. He didn’t know what they were for, but one thing was certain; if those were weapon bays, that ship would carry one helluva punch. The airship must have just arrived, for mooring lines were still being secured and a ground crew was working frantically to get it settled into a makeshift berth.
The driver pulled up before a two-story manor house and let them out. Adler led Freeman inside. The American glimpsed several richly furnished rooms as they passed by. He was led into a study at the far end of the hall.
“Please make yourself comfortable,” Adler said. “Rittmeister Richthofen will join you shortly.” He left Freeman alone in the room, pulling the door shut behind him as he left.
Freeman assumed this was Richthofen’s personal residence. He wandered about the room, trying to get a sense of the man he was about to meet, the man who had been his personal nemesis for what felt like years. Richthofen clearly enjoyed reading, as the walls were covered with shelves full of well-worn books, mainly historical treatises or military examinations of particular battles and tactics. A copy of the Baron’s own Der Rote Kampfflieger, or the Red Battle Flyer, the autobiography he had written just before being killed the first time, was stuck between a copy of Caesar’s Gallic Wars and Bismarck’s memoirs. Freeman found himself wondering how the Baron would deal with his subsequent “deaths” if he ever got around to writing a revised version.
He left the bookshelves, glanced idly at the papers on the man’s desk; most was correspondence to his brother, Lothar, it seemed. He turned his attention to the chessboard set up on its own table in the corner. He was standing in front of it, studying the game already in progress, when a voice spoke from behind him.
“Knight to Queen’s Rook 4. Checkmate in 16.”
Freeman turned around and found himself looking at a man who, just days before, he’d done his best to kill and who had tried to kill him in turn.
Rittmeister Manfred Albrecht Freiherr von Richthofen.
The Red Baron himself.
He was dressed in a well-tailored uniform of dark gray that buttoned across the front in double-breasted fashion. A red ribbon around his throat held a medallion in the shape of a blue-enameled Maltese cross with eagles of gold between its arms, which was Germany’s highest military honor, the Pour le Mérite, otherwise known as the Blue Max. Hung over the back of his shoulders was a fur-lined leather flight jacket that looked as if it had seen a fair bit of use.
Richthofen wore his hair slicked back and parted in the middle, which only served to exaggerate his long, narrow face and to highlight the spot along his left jawline where Freeman could see bone poking through a section of missing flesh the size of a half dollar, a remnant left over from when the Rittmeister’s body had started to rot after being shot down and killed the first time.
“Do you play?” Richthofen asked, indicating the board and watching with blue hawklike eyes as he crossed the room.
“Occasionally,” Freeman replied, glancing down to buy some time while he tried to get his thoughts in order.
He had no idea what he was doing here or what it was that Richthofen wanted from him. Make no doubt, Richthofen wanted something; you didn’t think sixteen moves ahead in chess and not apply that kind of thinking to everything you did. There was a reason Richthofen had rescued him from that pit and brought him here, wherever the hell here was. Not that he was complaining; this was a damn sight better than being surrounded by the rotting corpses of dead shamblers, so he wasn’t about to look a gift horse in the mouth. He needed to remember, though, that the German ace had a purpose for rescuing him, even if that purpose wasn’t obvious.
Richthofen shook his head, as if he’d just remembered something. He marched across the room to stand before Freeman and extended his right hand.
“Please, forgive my rudeness. I am Freiherr von Richthofen.”
Determined not to let the other man get the better of him, Freeman shook the offered hand.
“Major Jack Freeman,” he said as he did so, pleased that his voice didn’t betray any of the discomfort he felt at the cold, clammy feel of the other man’s skin.
“Your reputation precedes you, Major.”
“As does yours,” he answered politely.
Richthofen moved over to the pair of leather chairs near the fireplace and settled into one of them. He waved his hand at the other. “Please, join me.”
Not seeing any reason to not do as he was asked, Freeman sat down opposite the German ace.
Richthofen got right down to business. “I wanted to apologize for what you went through while under the supervision of Oberst Schulheim. I acted as soon as I learned that you had survived the crash, and I give you my word, both as an officer and a fellow flier, that he will be dealt with appropriately.”
Freeman shrugged, not knowing wh
at to say. Richthofen sounded sincere, but Freeman had no way of knowing if his captor truly meant what he said or not. The best strategy seemed to be to say nothing at all.
A few moments of silence passed as Richthofen seemed to evaluate what he wanted to say. At last, he asked, “Tell me, Major, why did you join the AEF?”
The question surprised Freeman. “To fly, of course,” he replied.
That, apparently, was an answer Richthofen could understand. “It is glorious, is it not? To slip the bonds of earth and soar among the clouds? To pit your skills against those of another flier, like knights of the air fighting for the favor of the Queen?”
Freeman was surprised. It was almost as if Richthofen had reached down right into the center of his soul and read his secret heart. Knights of the air, indeed!
“Flying has certainly been one of the few pleasures of this war, yes,” Freeman replied, not wanting to admit how the other man had struck the heart of his emotions.
Richthofen’s next comment, however, showed he wasn’t fooled by Freeman’s casual reply.
“It must be hard, for a man like you, to deal with the realization that your flying days are over. At least, that is, for the duration of the war.”
Was that a hint of mockery he heard in Richthofen’s voice?
The German ace didn’t seem to notice Freeman’s sudden tension. He went on in the same matter-of-fact tone that he’d started with earlier. “It doesn’t have to be that way, you know.”
Freeman laughed. “Somehow I don’t see you giving me an aircraft and sending me on my merry way.”
Richthofen smiled, revealing the sudden flash of wet bone at his jawline. “On the contrary, Major, I’d be happy to do so.” He paused, then concluded, “Provided you were to join me.”
The American wasn’t certain he’d heard him correctly. “Excuse me?”
Richthofen leaned forward, and Freeman could see what he could only term an unholy light shining deep in the German officer’s eyes. “How many kills do you have now, Major? Seventy-four? Seventy-five?”
It was actually eighty-two, but he just shrugged and said, “Something like that, yes.”
“Ha! You are lying; I can tell. But no matter. A little modesty can be an asset for gentlemen like you and me,” Richthofen replied. “The truth of the matter is this. Whether it is seventy-five, eighty, or even one hundred kills, you are clearly the Allies’ top ace.”
Freeman didn’t try to argue. A fierce competition had sprung up in the early days of the war between fliers on both sides of the conflict. At first it had been a race first to see who could make five kills and become an ace, but as the war ground on and the better pilots lived to fight another day, it became a race for the top, to become the ace of aces, the ruler of the sky.
Richthofen had been clearly in the lead with eighty-nine kills when he’d been shot down that first time. That had been an incredible achievement, but what he’d done since was absolutely astonishing. In the last two years he’d bested twice as many pilots as he had in the four years prior to that, bringing his current total to 267, last Freeman knew. It could have gone even higher in the days Freeman was in captivity.
One of those “kills” was me, Freeman thought.
Richthofen seemed to sense what he was thinking. “If you had not steered your plane into my own, there is a good possibility our encounter might have ended with you as the victor, rather than me.”
Freeman didn’t agree, but he politely inclined his head to acknowledge the implied compliment.
“We are the two best pilots on both sides of the conflict. Were you to join my Circus, there would be none who could oppose us! We would own the sky and could dictate whatever terms we wanted from the losers on the battlefield. Forget being a knight—you could be a duke, nay, a prince of the air!”
With you as king, of course, Freeman thought in a slightly dazed fashion. Being asked to betray his country and join Richthofen was quite possibly the last thing Freeman had expected to hear. He was literally shocked into silence.
Richthofen went on. “I assure you, the Auferstehung process is a painless one, and it has been considerably refined since I underwent it as one of its first subjects, accidental as that incident might have been.”
The freiherr leaped to his feet, caught up in his own passionate rhetoric. “No longer will things like hunger or thirst plague you!” he said, pacing back and forth across the room. “No longer will your body be susceptible to the plights that can befall an ordinary man. You will be smarter, stronger, faster than you ever were before. None will be able to stand against us! The empire will be ours to command!”
Freeman knew at that moment that he was in the presence of a madman. The very notion that he would betray his country and join the man he had spent the last few years trying to send to his just reward was absolutely ludicrous, yet Richthofen obviously believed it might be possible or he wouldn’t have made the offer. That worried Freeman more than he wanted to let on, for if he turned Richthofen down, who knew how he would react?
Trying to buy some time during which he could figure a way out of the situation without getting shot on the spot, Freeman asked, “The Auferstehung process? What is that?”
The question seemed to bring Richthofen back to his senses. He stopped, shook his head as if to clear it, and looked hard at Freeman, as if checking to see if Freeman had noticed his irrational behavior.
Freeman made sure his expression did nothing to convey what he really thought: coming back from the dead twice had certainly messed with the German ace’s mental stability and emotional health.
Apparently satisfied with what he saw, Richthofen relaxed. “I will explain the Auferstehung process tomorrow, when you’ve had a chance to rest. I’m sure what you’ve been through has been particularly draining. I will have Leutnant Adler escort you back to your quarters and see to it you are fed properly. We’ll talk again tomorrow.”
Just as quickly as it started, his audience with Richthofen was over. The German ace strode from the room without another word, only to be replaced several seconds later by his aide, Adler.
Soon thereafter, Freeman was returned to his quarters, as Richthofen called them, and locked inside to await whatever craziness tomorrow might bring.
As he listened to airplanes coming and going in the field outside, Freeman did his best to forget what Richthofen had said, but the words kept echoing inside his head.
Your flying days are over.
Your flying days are over.
Your flying days are over.
Chapter Thirty-four
VERDUN
Once Freeman was led from the sitting room, Richthofen returned. Gone was the sense of manic behavior that surrounded him only moments before, and in its place a cold, reptilian-like logic remained.
The truth was, his instability had all been an act. He wanted Freeman to underestimate him, so that when the time came, he’d be able to break the American flier without effort.
Richthofen was pouring himself a scotch from the decanter in the corner when he heard the door behind him open and then close again.
“Care for a drink, Docktor?” he asked, glancing over his shoulder at Eisenberg who stood in the room’s doorway.
“That would be excellent, Herr Richthofen.”
Richthofen handed the other man a glass full of the deep amber-red liquid and then picked up his own. With the requisite toast to the kaiser out of the way, he took a long pull on his drink, holding a folded piece of white cloth over the hole in the side of his jaw with his other hand while he did so, not wanting to waste any of the hundred-year-old liquor. He could barely taste it anymore, but he was determined to continue enjoying some of the activities common to his earlier life, and a good glass of scotch was one of them.
“You heard?” Richthofen asked, knowing the other man had been listening in on his exchange with Freeman.
“Of course. I thought your performance was quite remarkable, actually.”
Ric
hthofen ignored the compliment; Eisenberg’s constant need to curry favor could be highly annoying, but right now Richthofen was too pleased with how the meeting had gone to care.
“What do you think? Will he survive the transformation process?” Richthofen asked.
“I believe so. He appears determined to survive regardless of what happens to him, which is an excellent sign that he’ll have the mental stamina necessary to come through with his mind intact. And thanks to Taschner, the infection in his leg is gone, giving him the physical toughness he’ll need to withstand the change as well.”
“Excellent,” Richthofen replied. He had plans for Freeman, important plans, and he preferred that the American ace come through the resurrection process with his sanity intact.
“Where are we in regard to Operation Stormcloud? Can we launch as anticipated?”
Eisenberg nodded. “We started production of the gas several weeks ago, when Taschner first let us know about the success rates he was seeing with the new compound. We completed the first batch at 1500 hours this afternoon.
“We’ll need thirty-six to forty-eight hours to properly load the canisters onto the Megaera and another five to six hours to prime the deployment system. After that, it will be entirely up to the pilot.”
Richthofen was pleased. The airship was ready to be loaded, and reports from the other facilities were equally positive. It looked like there was very little that could stop his forward momentum at this point. If he could turn Freeman to his cause, all the better, but one way or another, the Allies were about to learn what it meant to face the German juggernaut when it was led by one worthy of the role.
Then, when he had finished eliminating the empire’s enemy, he would turn his attention to the emperor himself. The Grand Council would be only too happy to replace that weak, insipid fool who currently occupied the palace with the man who had won this war quickly, decisively, and with a minimum of German casualties.
By the Blood of Heroes Page 24
