Hammer of Angels: A Novel of Shadowstorm

by G T Almasi

  Arvid says, in German, “You two had better sit on the floor. I have seen lots of police this morning. Best if you are less visible.”

  We smoosh ourselves onto the cab floor. We have to ignore our whole not-too-intimate-with-each-other thing as I sit between Brando’s legs and lean back into his chest while he wraps one arm around my waist to keep me from sliding around. Now all I can see are Arvid’s feet on the truck’s pedals, the man’s hands on the wheel, and part of his face.

  “So, Arvid,” I ask, “what brings you to this kind of thing?”

  “My mother was in television before the war. When the Nazis came to power, all of her Jewish colleagues were fired. After Hitler was assassinated and the Social Democrats were reelected, she assumed her Jewish friends would get their jobs and civil rights back. When that didn’t happen, my mother began working to help the Jews get out of Europe. In 1946 she got caught, but by then she had helped many people escape from the slave labor camps.”

  Arvid holds his hand up, palm facing out. “Shh,” he whispers. We hear a line of big trucks motoring the other way, toward York. Arvid’s eyes flit between the road ahead and the passing vehicles.

  “Ten trucks full of soldiers, plus two trucks towing artillery pieces,” he says, mostly to himself.

  I hiss to Brando, “Artillery? Who’s that for?”

  He pauses, then quietly says, “Us.”

  Shit. My upgrades won’t help me steer clear of fucking artillery shells. We’re agents, not soldiers. I try to distract myself by talking some more.

  I ask our driver, “So what happened to your mother?”

  Arvid’s face darkens. “Die Teutsch took her to Berlin and chopped her head off.”

  CORE HIS-NAZI-021

  Legacy of the Nazi Party

  The Nazi Party had hordes of members installed as civil servants, policemen, and military commanders when it was effectively dissolved by Hitler’s death in 1942. Although they removed their swastikas, many of these men and women retained the twisted worldview of their deceased Führer. Several Nazi agencies live on, albeit with modified charters and leadership.

  Abwehr

  Although not a Nazi agency, the Abwehr (German for “Defense”) was heavily engaged by Hitler’s command during the war. The Abwehr’s service to the Führer was at times inconsistent.

  In June 1940, two glaring Abwehr breakdowns occurred within hours of each other. First, the agency filed an analysis that wildly overestimated the USSR’s preparedness to withstand a German invasion. Their next report to Hitler is so inaccurate it appears to be a complete fabrication of Great Britain’s supposedly advanced progress toward developing an atomic weapon.

  Spurious or not, the historical impact of these reports was significant. Hitler was shocked that “the gangster” Churchill might soon have the Bomb, and he dedicated all of Germany’s resources to the successful invasion of England the following year.

  To this end the Abwehr provided sterling assistance. The agency’s leader, Admiral Wilhelm Canaris, personally convinced Spain’s President Franco to grant German troops the use of Spanish facilities for their attack on the British naval base at Gibraltar. This was the first step of the Axis’s eventual hard-won dominance of the Mediterranean theater.

  Today, the Abwehr continues to provide top-tier data and analysis to the German government.

  SZ

  Today’s SZ is a direct descendant of the sociopathic SS. After Hitler’s death in 1942, the SS were given a choice: manage Greater Germany’s new institutionalized slavery system or be disbanded for “reckless depreciation of the principles of the fatherland.” The SS generals accepted their assignment and rebranded their army as the Staatszeiger, or “State’s Hand.” This new name did little to curb their behavior, and their human rights record is nearly as stained as the original SS.

  Purity League

  Antidiscrimination activists have been alarmed by the recent resurgence of the Purity League. Members of this civilian group spout racist propaganda and dress in brown shirts as an homage to Nazism’s early days. Violence seems to follow wherever they go, and they are notorious for bringing their children to most of their demonstrations.

  Gestapo

  The most feared organization in Europe is the Geheime Staatspolizei, which has survived the passing decades almost unchanged. The Gestapo maintains an iron grip on its place in German society through a combination of disinformation and terror. Even Reich officials are afraid of them and the secrets they hoard. It is said every shadow in Germany hides a Gestapo man.

  09

  Same morning, 9:15 A.M. GMT

  Circle of Zion camp, Yorkshire, Province of Great Britain, GG

  I’ll give the Bürgermeister one thing—he doesn’t faze easily. Despite being snatched from his office, drugged, hog-tied, tossed in a truck, and delivered to a hostile camp full of rebel slaves, he wakes up with an admirable amount of poise and dignity. The first thing he said when Brando’s knockout drug wore off was, “Gute Morgen, could I trouble you for some water, please?”

  His girlfriend is another story. Even though she got the same dose of sleepy time as our primary target, Tarty took longer to come around because she weighs a lot less than he does. This worked out fine since the mayor was there to calm her down when she woke up and totally freaked. Her eyes bulged out of her head, and she leaped behind her boyfriend to hide from all of us. I don’t know what this dumb chiquita thought we were going to do to her, but since Tarty woke up all she’s done is shout curses at everyone and sob into the mayor’s well-fed shoulder.

  “Darwin,” I comm. “They’re awake.”

  “Be right there,” he comms back.

  While we waited for our guests to wake up, Brando took their IDs and sent a report to ExOps in Washington. This took him a few minutes. He has to prerecord his reports, encrypt them, and then compress the living shit out of them so his transmissions are as brief as possible. This minimizes the Germans’ chances of finding his long-range comm signal with their radio trackers.

  Fraulein Tart is still shrieking and carrying on when Brando and Miriam walk into the tent. My partner brings his X-bag and a folding chair. He unfolds the chair in front of our two captives, and Miriam takes a seat. After a moment she says, “Isabel, enough! Stop crying or I’ll have my friend give you another shot. Stay calm, like Karl here.” Being addressed by her name helps Tartface—I mean—Isabel, calm down a bit. She falls silent and huddles next to Mayor Karl.

  Miriam says, “Herr Bürgermeister, you see that you and your … secretary, are unharmed?”

  Mayor Karl calmly answers, “I see you are runaway slaves, and you shall be dealt with accordingly.”

  “We have no desire to hurt you, mein Herr,” Miriam says. “We only want your help to restore Germany’s faith in herself and her place on the world stage.”

  “And how,” he replies, “would you have me do that?”

  If the mayor had flatly refused to help us, we would have switched to plan B, where we try to exchange him for the Circle members caught in last night’s roundup. But he has not refused, not yet anyway. So Miriam proceeds with our original plan to turn Mayor Karl to an agent in place, working for us from inside the German bureaucracy.

  Miriam holds her hand out to Brando, who gives her a slip of paper. Then she leans forward to the round little man and says, “We would have you help us by releasing the people on this list for lack of evidence.”

  Karl takes the small sheet of paper from Miriam and sits back to read through it. After a minute he looks at his girlfriend, then back to the sheet of paper. “What about Isabel?”

  “She will be returned to you tomorrow morning, after our friends have returned to us.”

  “I cannot vouch for the physical condition of your friends,” Karl says. “The Gestapo has had them for hours.”

  “All the more reason for a prompt decision on your part, mein Herr.”

  “I want your word that you will not harm Isabel.”

&
nbsp; Miriam’s face turns red. She stands up and roars. “You don’t get my word on ANYTHING, Teutsch!” Miriam seethes for a few moments. “Your cooperation will be rewarded by Isabel’s safe return. I want my people back, and I don’t want a battalion of troops following them.”

  “Releasing your people is one thing, but I have no authority over the army.” Karl spreads his hands. “Besides, how would that appear? I am a civilian. I cannot directly meddle in military affairs if you expect me to be useful to you.”

  Miriam suspiciously regards Karl’s face. “Are you saying you will join us?”

  Karl the Bürgermeister rubs his nose and glances at me. “Let’s say I hope to avoid further encounters like this one.”

  CORE MIS-ANGEL-128

  Date: January 4, 1981

  To: Director Chanez, Extreme Operations Division

  From: Task Force Zion

  Subject: Bürgermeister Karl Brun, Classification Level 14.

  Dear Sir,

  Attached please find a copy of my task force’s complete file on Herr Karl Brun, mayor of York. I will summarize their contents for your convenience.

  No one in Brun’s immediate or extended family has ever owned slaves, nor do they socialize with slave-owning families. The man is extremely discreet about his views on this topic, unlike his fellow officials, who are quite vocal in their support for slavery. When pressed for his thoughts on slavery, the mayor becomes evasive and changes the subject.

  We believe Herr Brun is secretly sympathetic to the German abolitionist cause and has the potential to be an asset in place for Operation ANGEL.

  Sincerely,

  Special Agent Barney Frank, CIA

  10

  Next morning, Wednesday, February 4[3], 1981, 3:30 A.M. GMT

  Circle of Zion camp, Yorkshire, Province of Great Britain, GG

  Alix

  I sit up in my sleeping bag. My breathing is rushed, and my face is slick with sweat despite the chilly air. I turn on my starlight vision and inspect the tent I share with my partner.

  Brando is asleep next to me. I almost made a real boneheaded move when we first pitched camp here last week. I was about to zip our sleeping bags together before I remembered I’m not all snuggly with this Patrick. It’s like that the first time we do most anything. I’m so used to doing it all with Trick.

  It’s worse now that we’re in the field together. When we’re awake, there are clues to help me remember he’s Brando and not Trick: small things in his manner, like how he’s still a little more serious or how he forgets to let me win at cribbage. He also wears more black clothing than Trick used to. But when Brando is asleep, I don’t get any of those hints. He even sleeps with his mouth half open, exactly like Trick did. Every night I have to resist the urge to touch his cheek.

  Our tent is waterproof and insulated, but we still need to sleep in our hi-tech long johns, socks, and big sweatshirts. I climb out of my sleeping bag, then crawl outside under our camouflage netting and piled-up tree branches. I suck in a lungful of frosty night air. It’s pitch black, of course. Even if the rebels had electricity, they’d stay dark at night to make themselves harder to find.

  The Circle’s members have found it’s easier to avoid detection by being as decentralized as possible. This policy shows itself in how they set up camp. Rather than cluster together, they spread out all over the woods. My built-in heat sensors show nothing but shivering trees and frozen sky, yet there are three hundred sleeping people hidden within a quarter mile of where I’m standing. All of them have been granted shelter by the Rabbi.

  He’s an interesting fellow. The Rabbi doesn’t look like much at first, kinda short and heavyset with a rolling motion to his walk. When he runs—and the man can shake a leg when he has to—his tummy bounces up and down like a basketball. He talks about being on a diet, but when someone in the group brings down a deer, the Rabbi goes up for seconds until there’s nothing left. He’s got a big laugh, and everyone in the Circle clearly adores him.

  There’s a Friar Tuck quality to him—he’s all jolly and shit—but he’s also perfectly willing to do whatever is necessary, no matter how gruesome. Brando and I are the first American agents to meet him in person, so part of our mission here is to sniff him out and see how what we think he can accomplish. The Rabbi’s cell has been effective, but his influence is limited to Yorkshire. A full-scale uprising will need a leader with an abundantly broader reach.

  One such person is former Wehrmacht colonel Victor Eisenberg, known as the Hammer, who seems to operate all over the Reich. According to the Rabbi, only Eisenberg has the military training and track record to lead a real rebellion against the slavery system.

  Another person of interest is Johannes Kruppe, a former Staatszeiger colonel. Kruppe is retired now, but his repression of Europe’s Jews continues through his membership in the Purity League. The Rabbi told us Kruppe is one nasty mofo. When I replied Kruppe ain’t met nasty until he’s met me, the Rabbi cautioned us not to take him lightly.

  The Kruppe family is very wealthy, and has extensive influence with the government, including the Gestapo. The Rabbi has also heard Kruppe had himself surgically upgraded with some lightweight Mods and surrounds himself with a full-time team of bodyguards.

  As part of our mission parameters, we’re “requested and required” to hoover up any intel we come across about any of these guys. My partner commed the Rabbi’s data about Kruppe back to HQ the second he heard it. The response from Brando’s Info Coordinator, Bill Harbaugh, was on the laconic side: “Data received, nice work.” But from Harbaugh that’s like a flying end zone chest bump.

  I’m about to go back inside my tent when my heat sensors pick up something warm. The heat source is about 1,200 yards away, too far away to make out a distinct shape, but since I don’t hear an engine, it’s safe to assume it’s a deer.

  Unless it’s another damned hallucination.

  I look away, then snap my eyes back. Still there. Must be a deer.

  Or … is that a person?

  I scamper inside my tent and shake Brando awake. “Darwin, wake up. I think someone’s coming into camp.” His eyes pop open, and he wriggles out of his sleeping bag. I strap on my holster and stuff Li’l Bertha inside. We both pull on our outer layers as fast as we can and pop back outside. The heat source is 900 yards away now. It’s clearly a person. I indicate the approaching figure’s direction while Brando puts on his vision-enhancement goggles.

  “What do you think?” I comm.

  “The timing is right for it to be someone from York.”

  The person-shaped heat silhouette still surges straight at us. I crank my hearing up and detect the whup-whup of a helicopter. I listen some more. The chopped-air sound grows louder and louder.

  Make that a bunch of helicopters.

  11

  Same morning, 3:40 A.M. GMT

  Circle of Zion camp, Yorkshire, Province of Great Britain, GG

  I comm, “Rabbi, this is Scarlet. Come in.” Among the equipment we’ve smuggled in and distributed are walkie-talkies that can be recharged with a small hand-cranked generator. We gave some to the Rabbi and showed him how to tune them to our comm frequency. They’re only effective for short-range communication, but they’re perfect for this type of situation.

  The heat-blob person is 400 yards away, but it’s so dark he or she can’t see us. I take a few steps away from Brando and aim my father’s watch toward our guest. I flash the watch face’s light, twice slow, then twice fast. The heat blob puts on a burst of speed.

  My commphone activates. “This is Rabbi. Go ahead, Scarlet.”

  “Sir, I’ve got an unknown person inbound, and I hear helicopters.”

  “Can you tell if they’re coming here?”

  “Affirmative.”

  He broadcasts to the other walkie-talkies. “Attention, fellow mice. The cat is returning in force. Disperse and we will regroup via our usual channels.”

  Time to vamoose. Brando throws the shrubbery away
from our tent and yanks our packs out while I roll up our sleeping bags. My partner begins to fold the tent’s aluminum frame. Our ExOps trainers insisted we be able to bug out of a bivouac in less than one minute. We finally figured out the only way to do this is to keep anything we aren’t wearing stowed in our big backpacks all the time. All we need to do is strike the tent and bundle up the sleeping bags.

  While my partner finishes getting us ready to leave, I pull out Li’l Bertha and run toward the incoming person. My gun’s sensors see something big and metallic, but it doesn’t fit the profile of a weapon. Then I realize—it’s a bicycle. The helicopters’ racket is loud enough I can yell, “Hey, over here!”

  The cyclist calls out, “Rabbi?”

  “No, he’s busy.” I aim my pistol at the stranger. “Who goes there?”

  The figure pedals toward me and stops. “You are the American?” My night vision reveals the perspiring face of a young blond-haired woman. She speaks with the same German-British accent as Miriam.

  “Yeah, that’s me.”

  She breathlessly asks, “I must be sure. How many home runs did Babe Ruth win?”

  “How the fuck should I know?”

  “Well,” she pants, “that is not what I expected, but I suppose only an American would answer in that way.” She brushes a sweaty lock of hair off her face. “I am Greta, a friend of Arvid’s. I live not far from here. The Gestapo down in York forced Mayor Brun to tell them what little he knew to help them discover his abductors’ location.”

  Crap.