“You think he is special, though, don’t you?”
Tapping his ashes over the snow, John eyed his friend. “What makes you say that?”
“You’ve smoked that cigarette twice as fast as you usually do.” Michael nodded toward the smoldering stump between John’s fingers. John laughed quietly. He pulled in as much smoke as the cigarette had left, then flicked it away, adding to the crude fairy circle of discarded butts that had been accumulating since the unit had set up camp here. “You’re mighty observant.” He pulled out a second cigarette. “You should be doing my job.”
“No, thanks.” Michael watched him light the smoke, and as John took another long, deep drag, he said, “So what’s special about this guy?” With a smirk, he added, “Or is that classified?”
It was, John supposed. Or would be soon enough. But Michael was good at keeping his mouth shut when he needed to. Open when he wanted to, of course, John thought with a pleasant shiver, but shut when he needed to.
He tapped more ashes onto the snow and kept his voice down. “High ranking, for one thing. You don’t usually see majors in the middle of France with that many medals and shit.”
“A major?” Michael glanced around as if to make sure no one was nearby. “Are you serious?”
John nodded. “And he’d have been tough to crack if he’d lived. Would’ve taken some time.”
“Think you could’ve done it?”
“Maybe.” John shrugged. “The lieutenant colonel can’t spare me for long, so I probably would’ve tried for a day or two before shipping the Kraut off to one of the bases. Maybe hand him over to the British. Now those boys don’t play nice.”
Michael laughed, exhaling a thin white cloud. “And you do?”
“By comparison.” John brought his cigarette to his lips, and just then he met Michael’s eyes and couldn’t help laughing. “Honest! I’m a polite Southern belle compared to those assholes.”
Michael chuckled, shaking his head. “I’ll believe that when I see it. And besides, polite Southern belles turn into vicious creatures if you cross them.”
“Well then”—John finally took that drag—“don’t cross them.”
“Lesson learned, believe me.”
“Smart man.”
They exchanged a look, and even as the amusement faded, the gaze lingered. But not too long. Much as John wanted to suggest finishing his cigarette and then heading off to one of their racks for a while, they didn’t dare. Not during daylight hours or on an installation this tiny, and not while the camp commander was probably stomping around in search of the last man besides Father Charpentier to talk to the battered Nazi.
There’d be time for him and Michael later anyway. Since he was an MP, Michael had been assigned to sentry detail as long as they were here. He’d be in the guard shack all night. So would John.
He shivered again and pulled in another breath of smoke. At least the day wouldn’t be a complete loss.
Hagen hadn’t been informed of any Americans in this particular area during the briefing. Perhaps it was just a small unit, one that had escaped detection. Larger numbers of troops would have been noticed, and Hagen and his men would have made their landing elsewhere.
No matter. The Americans were here, and they had Sieg. And they’d killed the others. He wished he’d had time to bury them, or at least . . . make them decent, somehow. If anything about gaping skulls and the smell of shit and piss and brains could be at all decent. What he’d done, in the end, was all he could do—he’d taken one of the still-smoldering logs from the fireplace with a pair of cast iron tongs and tossed it onto one of the beds. Then he’d gone a safe distance and turned back to watch the old mill burn.
Viking funeral pyre. It would have appealed to his commanding officer, who fancied himself the reincarnation of the famous Viking hero Ragnar Lothbrok.
But even better, the fire had attracted attention, and he’d hunkered down behind the bushes as the Jeeps rushed past. Three, and they’d gotten here quickly. So he knew at least one thing: The base was very close. Close enough to reach on foot.
Once he couldn’t hear the engines anymore, he broke into a trot and ran beside the road, following their tracks in the snow.
They led him to a small camp, arriving at dusk. Before he could plan his attack, though, a unit of Americans drove out of the camp again, and they had Sieg with them. His brother was alive, thank Gott, and Hagen followed this Jeep’s tracks down miles of country road.
The Pervitin kept him going through the night, but he felt exhaustion waiting around the edges. He was jittery, but he couldn’t risk stopping to rest. If more snow fell, or more vehicles came down this road, he’d lose Sieg. So he followed the tracks, heart hammering between his ears with worry and fear and anger.
Occasionally, he’d pause to collect his bearings, to ensure he hadn’t lost the track. But whenever he closed his eyes, he saw the blood spatters on the whitewashed walls. The memory of his brother. The taste and echo of violence in that room. And then he’d continue.
It was just after noon when he reached the next camp. This one was even tinier than the last, consisting of little more than a flock of green tents hidden beneath snow-dusted camouflage netting around an old church, one of those stone ones that had likely been here for a thousand years. Under that netting, a Jeep with fresh tracks in the snow leading up to its tires.
Around the camp’s perimeter, four small guard shacks had been erected, each little more than a hut or a lean-to constructed from found materials. This was a camp meant to support a few men. A forward base, and recent. The church was a wise choice of locations: slightly elevated from the surrounding territory, unassuming and abandoned enough that it wasn’t likely to be bombed by a roving Luftwaffe battle pilot. If anybody could spare pilots for such minor tasks. Just a few short years ago, the Luftwaffe had reigned supreme in these same skies, every enemy a fair target to the wrath of eagles.
Hagen’s gaze drifted over the church again. The damaged roof, the broken windows. Cracked stones and walls in danger of crumbling. Still a church nonetheless.
He couldn’t help a small laugh. You always said that, SS or not, you’d draw me back into the church one day, didn’t you, brother?
Not yet, though. Hagen ducked back into the forest, planning to stay behind the tree line until nightfall. One against dozens needed the element of surprise and cover of darkness, so even though impatience gnawed at him, he forced himself to stay low and still.
He nibbled some tasteless rations to keep his strength up. As the sun sank behind the leafless trees on the other side of the camp, he took another Pervitin too. He’d need to rest soon—the pills would only keep him going for so long—but first: Sieg.
Watching from a distance, he memorized the guard change rotation and the foot patrols’ timing. Once he made his move, he’d have a window of about seven minutes to neutralize a stationary sentry before another patrol went by. Plenty of time to dispatch one of these children the Americans called soldiers.
With darkness covering him, he inched closer to the nearest guard shack. That sentry was alert and kept sweeping glances over the ground Hagen needed to cross. Every few minutes, he’d even come outside and check the perimeter of his shack. He was probably one of the wild-eyed young types, bored with the monotony and itching for a fight. Hagen would stand out too much against the snow to escape detection by one paying that much attention. Creeping through the underbrush, he moved toward the next guard shack.
That sentry wasn’t quite as alert as the first, but still aware. They’d all been on shift for a few hours now; fatigue would be setting in. One of them had to be nodding off by now.
At the third shack, Hagen grinned. The sentry was alert and even a little agitated, but he wasn’t watching his assigned terrain. Whatever had the sentry’s attention, it wasn’t the landscape or Hagen.
Hagen waited for the next foot patrol to go by. The man stopped and exchanged a few words with the sentry, then they both chuc
kled, and the patrol continued his rounds. As soon as the patrol was a few safe meters away, Hagen emerged from his cover and crept toward the shack.
He pressed himself up against the wall beside the door. Looked around to make sure an ambitious foot patrol wasn’t ahead of schedule. When he was sure he was alone except for the distracted sentry, Hagen tapped on the door with his knuckles.
Movement on the other side. Hagen adjusted his grip on his pistol and held his breath, listening to every motion approaching the door.
The lock clicked.
The door opened.
“Didn’t expect you so—”
Hagen grabbed the sentry, clapping a hand over his nose and mouth, and dragged him into the shack. He snapped the sentry’s neck with a single, swift movement and let the body crumple to the floor as he toed the door shut behind him. He blew out the breath he had somehow kept deep in his lungs, still feeling the echo of the sickening crunch of bones.
Pathetic. They believed they could win this war with barely trained troops. He turned the body over and smiled. Lucky, for once. Of all the sentries, this one resembled him most in build and, near as he could tell in the low light, coloring. He’d half expected more blacks, but this one would do very nicely.
Hagen leaned his rifle against the wall and began to strip the corpse, keeping all senses alert, the sleep inhibitor thrumming through his nerves. As unwieldy as a body was, he’d helped dress enough stone-drunk comrades during his training—or rather, the rare and illegal trips to the nearby village to score drink and, for those who wanted it, a pair of warm arms to succor a heroic Aryan or two—that he proved surprisingly adept at this.
He removed his conspicuous SS jacket and trousers, and slipped into the enemy uniform. The other man’s boots were thankfully too large rather than too small, but much newer than his own.
After five years of war, the quality and newness of the American’s equipment struck him. Never mind that he wasn’t supposed to wear any of it. Well, maybe wear it, if it was useful, but he remembered his officer’s grave words that if he fought in enemy uniform, he lost all protection under the laws of war: Wear them on top, men, but strip them when the shooting starts.
He slipped Sieg’s papers under his jacket and shirt, keeping them against his skin at the small of his back. The American’s belt would hold them in place. He then dressed the corpse in his own uniform, which might very well buy him more time once it was discovered. Especially if he dragged the body out into the woods and dumped it there. Which he would after the next foot patrol went by.
He eyed his own rifle for a moment. Though he didn’t intend to let himself get captured, he’d have to leave the gun here for a time, and it might be discovered. Orders were orders. No functioning semiautomatic rifles could fall into enemy hands. Besides, he still had his Luger, and this sentry wouldn’t need his M1 again anytime soon.
He set the butt of his Gewehr on the ground and held the barrel just below the muzzle. He braced his foot against the stock, held his breath as he listened for any footsteps nearby, and when he was sure no one was close, he shoved his weight against the stock, snapping off the butt and rendering the weapon useless.
For the moment, he shoved the broken gun and the limp body up against the wall and assumed the sentry’s position, M1 at the ready and searching the forest for intruders. Outside, boots crunched on snow. Hagen’s heart fell into sync with the footsteps, and he lowered his chin a little to make sure that when he came into view, shadows covered as much of his face as possible.
A soldier appeared from Hagen’s right and paused in front of the guard shack. “Got any smokes?” he asked. “I just smoked my last.”
Hagen cleared his throat, grateful he was well practiced in speaking with an American accent. He’d never have thought the few years spent as a child with his aunt’s family in America would end up being so useful. Well, “useful” in being taken out of his unit that had been destined for the Eastern Front and joining legendary Otto Skorzeny’s SS commandos on the Western Front. Considering how rare that skill was, he had by now forgiven his English teacher at school who’d mocked him for his “unrecognizable cowboy speech.”
“Only have two left to hold me until morning. Sorry.”
“Damn.” The soldier shrugged, his gear creaking and rattling with the motion. “I’ll see if Landon’s got any.” He gestured with his gun. “Stay warm in there, buddy.”
“Right. You too.”
As soon as the soldier’s footsteps faded into the distance, Hagen knelt beside the body. He pulled one of the limp arms around his shoulders, and—
Froze.
Footsteps.
Approaching, but from the wrong direction. He looked over his shoulder, furrowing his brow at the closed door as if he could see through to whoever was coming. Possibly a higher-up checking on one of his lax sentries.
Verdammt. Hagen dropped the corpse’s arm and nudged the body as far into the shadows as he could.
The footsteps stopped outside. Hagen swallowed. Then came a sharp but quiet series of taps, like a crude imitation of Morse code, but meaning nothing. He double-checked that his pistol was ready to be drawn at a moment’s notice, and then unlocked the door.
It opened, and another soldier slipped past him into the shack. Hagen’s heartbeat shot up. The soldier was centimeters from the dead sentry.
“I’ve needed this all day,” came a coarse, exhausted voice, and a hand appeared from the shadows and landed on Hagen’s waist.
Hagen stepped back, but the other man followed, and before he could make sense of this bizarre ambush, Hagen was pressed against the flimsy wall with another man’s mouth—tobacco, coffee, stubbled chin—against his. His hands hovered uselessly in the air for a few seconds. Shove him away? Shoot him? Grab on and enjoy—
“What the hell?” The other man abruptly stepped back. “What is . . .” He furrowed his brow in the low light. “You’re not—”
Hagen hit the man in the gut, doubling him over. He drove a fist into his back, and the intruder dropped to his knees.
“What the fuck is going—oh my God. Michael?”
Hagen reached for his gun, but a fist slammed into the side of his leg. He swore as his knee buckled, and the soldier flew upward, shoving Hagen against the wall with an entirely different kind of force than before, nearly toppling the flimsy hut.
“I need some help in here!” the American shouted into the night.
Shit! Hagen’s amped-up pulse slowed to a trickle of icy slush in his veins. He knew that he had no time to strangle the man, so he grabbed the stolen rifle and swung it like a medieval club. The man ducked so the butt only glanced off his temple, but it was enough to send him to his knees. Hagen spat a toneless curse, aware that he could stand and fight, or run. Maybe the others hadn’t heard the shouts. Maybe he could talk his way out of here. Maybe if he just ran he could try again later.
But after they found these two, security would be tighter than a nun’s thighs.
Attack is the best defense.
Shooting the American would draw the attention of any soldiers who hadn’t already heard the cry for help, so he left the man crumpled beside the other corpse and exited the hut, loaded pistol in his belt and the M1 in his hands. He moved swiftly toward the church structure, ducking into shadows to avoid the guards running toward the sentry hut.
He had a few minutes to find Sieg. Maybe only moments. They might both already be as good as dead, but he’d thought that a few times already.
Hey, it’ll make a good story at a party, one of his comrades would say now. Pity that the same comrade had died attempting to take a ride on an enemy tank on the Eastern Front. They’d been trained for courage—ancient heroes made flesh. Single-handedly attacking a tank, never mind an American base without backup, was just the kind of story that might be told back home when the Allies had been driven back into the ocean.
Not that any of that mattered right now, because they had Sieg.
He
shouldered open a heavy door and wandered through what must have once been the sanctuary to a narrow hallway, passing makeshift doors. He ground his teeth, biting back even a whispered “Sieg?” Tempting though it was, the only response would likely be a bullet through his brain.
“Hey!” Someone grabbed his arm, and Hagen very nearly took the man down before a sharp, “There’s an alarm sounding! Get out there!” reminded him what uniform he was in.
“I’ve got orders.” Hagen gestured past him. “To get the prisoner.”
The other soldier stiffened, eyeing him in the darkness. “Then what the hell are you doing in here?”
“Right. Of course.” Hagen forced a laugh. “I was . . .” What? “I was told to come in here. Where am I—”
“Fucking moron.” The soldier shoved Hagen back toward the entrance. “Now get back out there before you join the fucking prisoner.”
Hagen didn’t have much choice, when the other man followed him outside. The tiny base was in chaos. Shouts and footsteps thundered in from the direction of the guard shack where he’d left the two soldiers. Shit. Not good.
Hagen ducked his chin into his collar and started to the right, opposite the approaching men, but the soldier caught his arm again.
“What’s the matter with you?” He shoved Hagen again, this time forward. “Now follow me, you fucking idiot.”
“Yes, sir.”
The soldier threw him a puzzled look, but shook his head and continued around the other side of the building. Hagen waited until they had a few meters between them, and then he followed the soldier.
“There! That’s him!”
The shout turned Hagen around. Behind him, three sentries carrying rifles jogged behind a fourth man. The blood streaming from that man’s temple brought more curses to Hagen’s lips. He should have shot the son of a bitch when he’d had the chance.
Hagen turned after the other soldier again and sprinted across the slick frozen ground. Too late, though. Soldiers came at him from all directions. Closed in on him. Surrounded him. He reached for his pistol, but half a dozen rifle barrels were suddenly at eye level.
Unhinge the Universe Page 3
