Marcus turned away, choosing to ignore the look on the man’s face.
“I’ve accepted the surrender of General Sir Thomas Jackson, and so the fighting is over.”
The two men exchanged fearsome looks.
“That man is a traitor, and a mutineer. He can expect…”
“The General is in military uniform, and has fought and surrendered according to the articles of war. I would remind you I have accepted his surrender, Obersturmführer.”
He almost spat out the SS rank, reminding him who was the boss in this place. A Kapitän, he ranked the same as an Oberst in the Heer, equivalent to a full colonel in the British military. For all his rage and bitterness, the Obersturmführer knew it was over. Victory in London and the end of the mutiny was the military objective, and even he knew that continuing the fighting would merely get him shot by him superiors. It was over, but Klenner knew from that moment on, he’d made yet another enemy in the ranks of the dreaded SS, and that was an enemy he would have preferred not to have.
CHAPTER TWO
Rikers Island, New York, 14th November 2017
Twenty years later
“Prisoner 182378 step forward!”
Ray sighed. He’d never got used to being called by the number they’d assigned to him. Although he was glad this was the last time he would have to respond to it. He stared at the man behind the desk with contempt. He wore the green uniform of the ORPOs, the heavy-handed law enforcement officers who treated the population as though they were all criminals. He wore the Nazi eagle with obvious pride and refused to make eye contact with Ray.
As he stepped up to the desk, the man lifted a cigarette to his mouth and inhaled, before intentionally blowing smoke into his face. The smoke was sweet smelling, an imported German brand, and that made Ray’s dislike of him even greater. He hated anyone who donned the uniform, especially if they were Americans, his own kind. He still didn’t understand how a born and bred American could do it. Yet the Nazi uniform-wearing ORPOs were the sole law enforcement across the entire country, aside from the clandestine operatives who even the ORPOs feared.
Ray leant on the counter, peering at the officer who was rifling through a small box of items, the possessions they’d taken off him when he first arrived. The officer noticed him watching and stopped. He looked up with an expression of utter scorn, and still would not speak. He nodded to another guard behind Ray and coughed. Ray felt the crack as the baton struck the back of his right knee. His leg started to give out, and he fell back from the counter before regaining his balance.
“You aren’t out yet!” yelled the officer.
Ray turned and stared at the man who’d hit him. Under his searching gaze the ORPO was growing angrier by the second, but Ray’s defiant character would not let him submit.
“Eyes front, or we’ll find a good reason for you to stay a while longer!”
The impasse lasted another few seconds, and then the baton crashed into the side of his face. His head snapped around so he was indeed looking to the front again. The blow had rattled his teeth, and he felt around to check they were still in place. The side of his face was sore. His teeth had bitten into his gums, and blood trickled from his lip. There was no good reason for the sudden violence, but the reason or lack of one made little difference. In this place they needed no justification for their brutality. The guards revelled in their power, and the violence they were allowed and encouraged to dish out.
“One pair of jeans, blue. One leather jacket, brown. One…”
The guard reeled off the list of everything he had come in with, but Ray blocked it from his mind. All he could think of was becoming a free man again. Not that the world outside was all that free anymore, but it was better than this place. Rikers, an overcrowded hellhole filled with every kind of criminal from political dissident to murderers and paedophiles. He’d made it through because he could fight hard with his bare hands, but it had been a close-run thing.
Before long he was dressed in his own clothes, and they led him out the door and through a mesh screened corridor into the open air. The guards didn’t say another word to him as he exited the final door, as if resentful he was finally getting out. He was pale and covered in stubble, looking just as bad as he had in the closing days of the rebellion all those years ago. He strolled along the sidewalk and stopped at a scarred concrete wall to look out across the water to the island that had been his home. He exhaled, realising how much of his life had been wasted. Without doubt he would be back inside this place before long. More of his life wasted.
The rasp of a faulty exhaust and the uneven rumble of a poorly maintained straight six-gasoline engine made him look around, in time to see a car pull up behind him. The brakes squealed as it came to a halt. Without doubt it had come for him, but he didn’t recognise the driver. The beaten-up Oldsmobile was long past its best days. The driver’s door swung up, and a man in his mid-twenties, bursting with enthusiasm, leapt out.
“Sergeant Raymond Barnes?”
The man who asked the question had slick blond hair and a fresh face. He was wearing an old M43 combat jacket with the insignia removed, although the outlines of where the badges had once been were clear for all to see.
“Who’s asking?” he grunted.
“A friend,” he smiled, “Or I will be. I’m Charlie. Jump in.”
He hadn’t expected a welcome, although the offer was appealing. Right now he’d accept a ride from anyone other than an ORPO. He went to the passenger door and lifted the handle. It was stuck.
“Just give it a good yank!” Charlie yelled.
It wouldn’t budge. The enthusiastic driver lifted his leg across the bench seat and kicked the door panel full force. It swung open with a loud creak, and Ray looked inside. The young man was smiling back at him.
“Hey, I bet you could do with a drink!”
That was the best offer he’d heard in as long as he could remember. He climbed in, heaving the door shut as they pulled away. He said nothing, despite Charlie clearly expecting him to speak. He kept looking at him in anticipation, but when nothing came, he gave in and spoke.
“I know a good little place that serves booze, don’t you worry.”
“Where?”
“The Bronx.”
Ray shrugged; with no home to go to, he was indifferent.
After a pause, Charlie spoke again. “Sergeant, you been inside long?”
“It’s Ray,” he replied solemnly.
“But you served, didn’t you?”
“A long time ago, sure,” he said wearily.
“Once a soldier, always a soldier, that’s what they tell me.”
“Who?”
“You know…people.”
“Maybe back when that was something for a soldier to be proud of. Who could honestly hold their head up high and be proud of a soldier’s work today?”
“You’re sure right there.”
He spoke in an excited tone as if nothing could dent his enthusiasm. Even Ray felt better, although the man was tiring, he was free and glad to not have to keep looking over his shoulder.
He surveyed the city through the windshield as they made their way across town. It was overcast and bleak, like the hunched, grey expressions of everyone he saw. They passed ORPOs every few car lengths, almost as if they were stationed on the corner of every block. Their patrol cars were in every street. He recalled the photos of how it used to look. The hustle and bustle of a vibrant city alive filled with excitement. He’d not known that time but had often dreamed of it.
On a street corner they watched ORPOs beating a group of youths with their truncheons, and no passer-by intervened. Instead, they went on with their business, making to stay as far away as possible.
“It hasn’t got any easier since you’ve been in,” said Charlie.
“How could it?” he replied despondently. They left the scene of the police violence behind them. Both despised what that they saw, but they were desensitised to it. Besides, they c
ould do nothing, not unless they wanted to suffer the same fate or worse. Ray hated having to be that way. He’d served enough time, too much to go back inside just for helping out people like those they’d seen. He didn’t like turning a blind eye, but he prized his freedom above everything.
The car drew to a halt, and he barged the door open. They were outside a rough old bar called O’Neil’s. Once a grandiose little place, the wood-panelled frontage was at least twenty years overdue for a fresh coat of paint.
“Come on, I’ll buy ya a beer,” said Charlie.
He was enthusiastic, as if life for him was good. For Ray life in present day New York didn’t feel particularly good, but he was keen to move on. To extract what he could from the abhorrent situation they all found themselves in. The shadows were drawing long as the sun sunk low in the sky. He licked his lips, thinking about the beer, mingled with the screams of yet another poor soul suffering a beating in an adjacent street. Three young homeless men huddled in a corner with a fire burning in an old oil drum. This wasn’t the New York he knew and loved, but it was all that existed anymore.
“Come on!”
They stepped into the dive bar to find it reasonably busy. A card game with money at stake was being played in full view, and a pretty girl little over twenty-years-old danced for several others in a corner. Dealings were going on under the table, and Ray was already getting suspicious looks. He knew those looks all too well. The kind that could get you killed. He heard the crack of bottle caps being prised off the beers, and one was thrust into his hands. It was icy cold, and Charlie tapped the bottles together before throwing back a large mouthful.
But for Ray the experience was rather more special, one to be treasured. He felt the cold and clammy bottle against his palm and took in the slightly bitter flavour of the beer. Though with it came the smell of the dingy bar. It was damp and dirty, and the smell of the alcohol and tobacco masked what would make it intolerable. He smiled; thinking about how much better it was than prison. He took his first sip, and it was every bit as good as he had hoped, even if it wasn’t the best of beer.
“Come on, take a seat.” Charlie hauled Ray over to an empty table at the back of the bar.
“So what do I owe for all this?”
Before Charlie could answer, another man took a seat opposite them on the same small table. He was black and a few years younger than Ray. His head was shaved and his expression stern. He held himself like a fighting man, a man who had lived through military discipline, and the open collar on his shirt gave away a dog tag chain. Charlie didn’t look surprised, as if this was all part of the plan.
“Sergeant Raymond Barnes?”
He signed in response.
“It’s Ray,” he replied wearily.
“My name is Woody.”
“Woody? That’s it?’
“That’s it, for now.”
“I'm guessing there is more to this than a drink for a guy who was in dire need of one?”
“There is a war going on. You may not see it, and you may not hear it, but it is there. All the time. It never stopped, and it will not stop until we are all free men.”
“Or dead.” He took another sip from his beer.
“If that is necessary.”
Ray shrugged as if he didn’t agree.
“We didn’t bring you here for nothing.”
“No, I figured.”
“People talk. They say you served in the Uprising, and that you were there in London on the day it all ended. They even say you were at the heart of a weapon technology that could have turned the tide.”
“You were there? You were there for it?” Charlie asked excitedly.
One glance from Woody and he was silenced.
“Well, Sergeant, is it true? Were you there the day the Uprising was crushed?”
Ray sighed, took another sip, and the two hung on with anticipation. He opened his mouth as if to respond, hesitating when loud sirens suddenly rang out. Two ORPO patrol cars screamed to a halt outside, their blues and twos flashing. Another two pulled in to support them.
“Shit!” yelled someone from nearby. Everyone was on their feet in seconds, and several raced out of a side door. Seconds later, the ORPOs were through the front door.
“Come on,” Woody whispered.
He pulled Ray off his chair, past the bar and the telephone. Woody tried the handle of a door, but it was locked, and his face mirrored his shock and consternation.
“Everyone stay where you are!” yelled an ORPO.
A table overturned and a chair was kicked aside as one patron tried to flee. Two gunshots rang out, and the body of the man crashed into some chairs and slumped to the floor, dead. They were sheltered from the cops where they were, but without a way out.
“I told you nobody move!” the same cop yelled.
He sounded mightily pleased with himself, as if he truly loved his job, but his accent a native of New York as any of them.
“What do we do?”
Charlie looked desperate, and likely had never been in such a situation before. Woody drew back his jacket and pulled out an old military issue parkerised Colt 1911. They all knew it wouldn’t be enough to get them out of the situation. More ORPOs poured into the bar.
“You sure chose a great place,” muttered Ray.
“Shhh,” said Woody.
He searched around, desperately trying to find some way out. He stared at the lock on the door as if contemplating using his gun to make an exit, although it would certainly be covered. They were desperate, and Ray could see his taste of freedom rapidly disappearing, envisaging being behind bars on Rikers again before the day was through. He wished he’d never accepted the ride from Charlie. He knew it had to be too good to be true, and he kicked himself for not trusting his instincts.
Their attention was drawn to the double kitchen swing doors when a woman barged through. She had an old M3 grease gun in hand and opened fire the moment she was clear of the doors. She fired on full auto from the hip. None of them were able to see what damage she was doing, but she was spraying the front of the bar. The slow thud of the little utilitarian submachine gun at last came to a stop as she emptied the magazine.
“Run!” she yelled at them.
She had another magazine taped upside down beside the one in the gun, and rapidly switched them as Woody stepped out from cover, opening fire to cover her. She was dressed in a long trench coat and men’s clothes, but her flowing blond hair hid nothing. She wore a red bandana around her nose and mouth like a train robber from the great American West.
Ray made it to the doors and looked across to the door where he’d first come in. There were two dead ORPOs, and the rest ducking for cover.
“Go!” Woody roared.
They rushed through the kitchens and out a back door. A panel van was waiting with the side doors open and a driver at the wheel. They tumbled into it, and the woman was the last in. She slammed the doors shut behind them, and the driver tore off along the street. A window was blown out on the back of the van, and they ducked for cover. Several more shots rang out, one ricocheting from the back bumper. The driver took a sharp bend around a brick building. The tyres squealed when the back end swung out, throwing them about, but they were soon in a straight line and tearing off into the distance.
Nobody said a word for a few minutes; waiting and listening to see if they had gotten away clean. The woman broke the silence as she pulled down her mask.
“Cool it, we’re clear!”
She was pale-skinned and pretty, but with a scar around her left ear that extended to her neck, maybe caused by a fire. She seemed unfazed by what had happened.
“Nice to meet you, I’m Lisa.”
She was so matter of fact, as if it were any other normal day.
“Ray.”
“I know.”
He stared out of the front window. The sun was setting on the city, and he’d never been so glad to see it. He’d survived his first day out, and after all he had be
en through, that seemed like a miracle worth celebrating.
* * *
220 East 60th Street, Upper East Side, Manhattan
15th November 2017, 6.05am
Marcus Klenner was already awake, as he was every morning. The mere act of knowing the alarm would go off ensured he was awake. He watched the glowing red numbers on the alarm unit, waiting for the seconds to count down.
“Wake up…wake up.”
He could have risen from his bed at any time, but this was what he did, every day. Marcus had a routine, and from experience, he knew that it was best to follow it. He reached out and tapped the alarm, putting it back into standby mode. He moved one leg, and then stopped.
What’s that?
Something rumbled, and the apartment complex shuddered slightly. He hesitated; it was the crackle of gunfire. Marcus knew the sound better than most, and he counted the shots.
Fully automatic firearms, it must be another raid.
In one smooth action, he pulled the duvet aside and sat up straight to take in the sights and sounds of yet another day. Dawn had just broken, but the sound of the city already filled his hearing. He blinked several times and reached for the glass of tepid water. A small amount trickled down his throat, alleviating the dryness he felt after lack of sleep. He replaced the glass and rose to his feet. His legs ached, not from age or lack of exercise, but the act of getting up and knowing what he had to face once again.
He walked to the en suite bathroom to ready himself for the day, but curiosity drove him to the window. He pulled it open and leaned out from the fifth storey, past the iron walkaways of the fire escape. Far off in the distance, and just visible, a distant apartment complex was burning. Smoke rose into the sky and grew into a thick cloud. A Luftwaffe helicopter flew overhead and circled lazily around the burning building. Police sirens wailed as emergency vehicles rushed to get close.
Marcus opened the cabinet door to reach for the soap, taking minutes for a quick shower and to dress himself. Even after all these years, it felt odd to be back in civilian clothes. The three-piece suit was hardly the latest fashion, but the grey trousers, waistcoat, and jacket had become his daily uniform. He paused while adjusting the maroon tie and regarded himself in the mirror.
Soldiers of Tomorrow: Iron Legions Page 3
