by Pro Se Press
After working through his breaded pork cutlet, Jeff Shannon set out on his night’s mission. The walk was short, only about a mile. He hung to the shadows in case anyone was out on patrol. He had two choices. He could sneak in through the back of the commercial airport, or he could go right through the front gates as a new recruit. Sneaking would work better. There was less of a chance of him getting dead that way. A dead spy is not a good spy.
Sneaking up closer, he saw the military side. It was encompassed in chain link fence, topped off nicely with some barbed wire and lights from the flight line. Sneaking would be tough, but he'd gotten in to harder spots. Around the back was a bank of conifers he could change and camouflage himself in. Then he'd sneak over the fence. There was no light over there and it looked to be the back of a storage facility. Not much security. Shannon hopped up over the fence using his jacket as a barrier between his behind and the barbs.
Shannon sneaked around to the backside of the facility after he entered. The door was locked, but not to The Eagle. He pulled some slim tools from his inside jacket pocket and within seconds was inside. He pulled a small pen light from his pocket and began looking for any evidence of a flesh-dissolving weapon. The only things housed in the building were standard rifles, pistols, and some old broken down jeep parts. Shannon pocketed a pistol and a lot of ammunition and then walked out as any normal soldier would.
Klaus Schaeffer was a fighter jet mechanic, if anyone asked. The beer he drank at lunch would help him establish the guise of drunkenness if he were to be found in an unauthorized area, which was the only good place to be found. Shannon found his marks in the mess hall hovering wolfishly over plates of sausage and potatoes. Weiss and Hoffstetter were armed to the teeth with knives and forks when Shannon approached them.
“Von Mussen and Strohl told me I'd find you here,” Shannon began.
“You're Shannon?” Weiss asked between forkfuls of fried food.
“Yes,” the Eagle began. “What can you tell me?”
Getting down to business Hoffstetter explained, “My job is in administration. I am in charge of filing documents and taking sensitive materials to be destroyed. The thing is, Mr. Shannon, that sometimes those documents don't always find their way to the incineratoif you get my meaning.” He handed a small sheaf of papers to the newcomer.
“And these are the reports?” Shannon double checked quietly.
“Yes. That is everything I was able to obtain without notice. It should help in keeping this thing from being created. If the reports are true, no one will be safe,” Hoffstetter concluded.
With that, the Eagle tucked the papers in an inside pocket and got up to leave.
A few hours later, Klaus Schaeffer was back at the hotel. When he walked past the desk, the clerk motioned for him to come over.
“Herr Schaeffer, this message was left for you.” After exchanging a proper thank you, the Eagle took the small folded note up to his room. Removing his outer wear, Shannon sat on his bed to look at the note expecting it to be from one of his contacts. It was in code. After a minute of going through his standard systems, he still could not decipher the message. It gave him an uneasy feeling. Shannon gave the code thirty more minutes before his head hit the pillow and the code hit the back burner.
The next morning found Jeff Shannon back on a plane bound for London and the SIS offices. He had to report to Director Fletcher.
Back in the familiar vestibule that seemed to make time stand still and his life run out slowly like the sand through an hourglass, Jeff Shannon again took a look at the mysterious coded message he had received from the hotel desk clerk. Who could it be from? If it were from one of his usual compatriots it would have been in a simpler code that he could have cracked, but would have been Greek to the average eye. This was indeed unusual and disturbing. He tried numbers and shifting letters around. He used a correlation between German words and English and nothing worked. He was puzzling over the yellow bit of hotel stationary when Doris announced his entrance.
The good thing about being a spy is that you don't exist on paper. That meant that the Eagle never had to submit a standard report. If what you were doing never actually happened, there were certainly no forms to fill out. So he was once again in Director Fletcher's megalithic office to deliver his report and hand over the documents he had been given by Hofstetter and Weiss.
“Shannon, my boy,” Director Fletcher greeted him. “Good to see you again.”
The director was obviously taking liberties with the libations again.
“Director,” Shannon kept his reply short.
“How did it go?” Fletcher asked in an uncharacteristically casual tone that had Shannon worried.
“Should I come back another time, Sir?” Shannon wondered aloud.
“Nonsense,” exclaimed the red faced man across the etched oak desk. “Come, sit. Tell me about the mission.”
Acquiescing, Shannon sat in the same chair as the last time he had been in the office and handed the report over to the director.
“That's the Intel I received from the inside men. They seem to be as worried as we are, Sir.”
“That's great work, Shannon, great work.”
“What happens next, Sir, if I might ask?”
“I'll send this report,” Fletcher said waving the stack of papers in the air like a party favor on New Year's Eve, “to some of the top scientists in the country. After reducing it down a bit of course. They'll take the details and ascertain whether or not this abomination is possible.”
Getting up to leave, Shannon had a thought. “Director, I received this note at my hotel in Frankfurt. It's in a code I can't crack. I was hoping I could get the authorization to take it to Bletchley Park to see if they could give me any more insight.”
“Shannon, as far as I'm concerned, you have blanket authorization here...since you're not really here.” With a knowing wink, Fletcher dismissed Shannon.
***
Bletchley Park was a sprawling estate with a fantastic design that collides Victorian, Tudor, and Baroque styles. Through the lush green lawns, Shannon wondered with trepidation what the message could be. Who would have sent it to him? No more than five people knew where he was staying or who his cover was. Unsettled as a toppled glass of water, Shannon walked into the mansion in search of one of Cambridge's finest.
The young man was around twenty years old and bent over a metal desk. His glasses were as big as Coca Cola bottles and his hair was worn with worry. He ran his hands through it again, tugging at the ends. Looking up through his telescopic lenses, he grunted, “Yeah.”
Abrupt, thought the Eagle, but then again, the young man looked to be in the middle of something.
“I need help with a code,” the Eagle introduced.
The young man's eyes lit up. “Let me see it.”
Handing over the slip of paper, the Eagle introduced himself. “Jeff Shannon.”
The young man, clearly preoccupied, and very intrigued by this new challenge , looked up from the paper briefly to say, “Herb Roberts.”
After five minutes of intense studying where Shannon was sure the young Roberts was performing the same deciphering techniques he had used earlier, Roberts looked up, full attention on the man before him. “Mr. Shannon was it? Where did you get this note?”
“It was left for me at a hotel in Germany while I was on assignment. I've done everything I can think of to decipher this message and it is completely lost to me. Can you help?”
“Yes, I believe I can,” Roberts told his visitor while pulling out a chair.
Shannon accepted the invitation to sit and the two men worked at the cipher. A few hours of toiling later, they were reasonably sure they had found the answer. They were also reasonably sure Shannon was going to have to go see Director Fletcher again.
The message read: Shannon, good schnitzel isn't it. By the way, nice try at the mess hall… keep up the good work.
Shannon read it again and his stomach dropped to his kne
es. He'd never been followed before. He didn't remember seeing anything unusual. He'd always been alert and always kept track of his environment. In his line of work, uncertain is the same as dead.
Back in London, the Eagle slammed his fist down on Doris's desk.
“Mister Shannon,” Doris exclaimed in her best school marm voice, accentuating each syllable for extra emphasis, “there is no need for that kind of behavior. Director Fletcher is a very busy man.”
“Doris,” Shannon responded in kind, “there is every reason for this kind of behavior. It is im-per-a-tive that I speak with the director.”
The director came out to see what all of the shouting was about.
“Shannon?”
“Director,” the look on Shannon's face said all the director needed to hear. He hurriedly ushered, nearly forced the Eagle into his office.
Sitting in tense silence for some moments, the Eagle began apologetically, “I'm sorry for causing a scene, but I've decoded the message I received in Frankfurt.”
He handed the paper across the desk, and the director looked at it with increasing concern showing itself in the creases etched in his forehead.
“This is bad, Shannon.”
“Yes, sir,” Shannon whole-heartedly agreed with Fletcher.
“I was registered as Schaeffer at the hotel. I was followed Sir. I fear that some of your men are being fooled. There is someone in this network who is not as he says he is.”
“How'd you like another job, Shannon?”
***
Jeff Shannon was a good spy… world renowned in fact. Everyone knew of the Eagle and his exploits. He was a hero, and he had earned the accolades. Walking out of the SIS building, Shannon was thinking about the past few days. He'd been taken as a fool. He'd made the biggest mistake someone undercover can make. He'd been made. But how? This was the first time anything like this had ever happened to him. He, and the director for that matter, had been fooled completely. But what was the end game. He had to know.
Deep under Bletchley Park was a little known facility specializing in the more clandestine activities that could not even be discussed up in the mansion. Simply known as “the basement”, it was a facility dedicated to researching anything and everything, and it was here that Fletcher had sent the information for the RWW as they were calling it, the radio wave weapon. Off duty, it was referred to as the death ray. The basement was a bunker of sorts. It was one of the most technologically advanced laboratories in the world. Experts from around the world came to examine artifacts, to research weapons, to build prototypes, and to change the world.
The Eagle walked in and went straight to the weapons wing. It was understandably separated from the rest of the underground facility. The head of the weapons development program was Dr. Wendell Price. He was the one put on the case of Hitler's mysterious death ray. It was basically his job to make sure the plans jived with reality, or even a future reality.
“Dr. Price, I'm Jeff Shannon,” The Eagle introduced.
“Mr. Shannon, I have your documents over here,” Price got straight to the point. “I've been looking over them, and I have to say, it is an impressive idea. Impressive, but unrealistic.”
“So what you're saying is the whole thing’s a hoax?” Shannon asked, his insides burning with humiliation for the third time that day.
“That is exactly what I'm saying Mr. Shannon. When I initially began to ponder these plans, I devised several ways for this weapon to be built. None of them are feasible. You see, they would all require a frequency that could not be reached. Not to mention that a signal strong enough to be shot through the air at a target would inevitably do damage to the shooter as well. Scientifically, it is outlandish.”
Scientists don't really have a reputation for beating around the bush or sugar coating things. “Dr.,” Shannon began with the first inklings of real worry creeping back in, “if this is just a ruse, then someone must be doing it for some reason. Is there anything else you've been working on? Perhaps something classified, something only a few people in the community know about?”
Dr. Price paused for a moment, removing his glasses and rubbing the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. As he went through the project index in his cortex, he mouthed the words silently. Then suddenly, his mouth stopped moving. He looked over at the Eagle.
“We've been working on developing a new power source that can be used to fuel a large bomb,” Price announced. “It's based on the nucleus of an atom.”
The Eagle's eyes grew wide with confusion.
“Let me see if I can properly explain this. The world is made of atoms. Every thing in it is made of billions and billions of atoms. An atom is made of electrons that circle a center, called the nucleus. This nucleus is made of protons and neutrons and basically, in the simplest terms possible, we split the nucleus into two smaller nuclei releasing the extra energy that was holding the larger one together. If harnessed properly, this energy, this nuclear energy, can power the world. But,” here Dr. Price paused, “if it was to fall into the wrong hands, the results would be catastrophic. A nuclear weapon would have the potential to annihilate an entire country.”
“But it's not finished?”
“No, we have not, as of now, completed the project, but we are close. I've heard that the Germans are also thinking about nuclear technology, but are not nearly as fortunate as we are to have the great minds that grace us here.”
“Dr. Price, where is this information held?”
“Most of it is here, underground under lock and key in my office, but there are a few others with access. Some university physicists are working on it theoretically. Why?”
“I think that whoever sent us on the trail of this impossible death ray is using it as a distraction, expecting us to fall all over ourselves trying to come up with a counter weapon to the RWW. All the while, they're really after the nuclear weapon.”
“But we're safe right?” Price was beginning to worry. He was locked in a facility filled with intellectuals, not trained fighters.
“For now, operate as normal. I'm going to find out what's going on.”
Back at his hotel in London, Jeff Shannon placed a call to Director Fletcher informing him in the vaguest way possible that the death ray was in fact, a ruse and that he; the Eagle, was going to find out what was really going on.
Thinking through it all, Shannon could only think of two places where the slip could have occurred. Either Director Fletcher was being fooled by Strohl and Von Mussen, which didn't seem that likely, or the two admirals were being double crossed by Weiss and Hofstatter. If Weiss and Hofstatter were double agents, that would make sense. They would have gotten the information from Strohl and Von Mussen. That's how they would know that Schaeffer was Shannon and where he was staying. He had to go back to Frankfurt. This time it was personal. He'd take the two men back to a secret camp hidden deep in the French countryside. The camp had been installed a few years prior for just such an occasion as this. It was risky, but it was his only shot.
There was no need to book a room this time; the Eagle was just passing through. He snuck onto the post the same way as before attired in his German military uniform. If Weiss and Hofstetter were really double agents, they wouldn't risk blowing their cover to anyone by telling them how he got on post. As he figured, the way was clear, but he still kept to the shadows. He slithered through the night like the darkness itself, making his way to the communications building.
Around the supply shed, past the armory, and on the other side of the mess hall were the barracks. The Eagle walked in and asked the first person he saw what rooms Weiss and Hofstetter were in. It turned out the two were roommates in room 215. He took the staircase at the end of the hall, turned right, and walked down looking at the numbers as he passed the doors, 221, 219, 217, and finally 215. Behind this door were two double agents. He took a glass bottle and a rag out of his pack and soaked the rag in the ether.
The Eagle knocked at the door. Wei
ss answered without even asking who was there. As soon as he saw Shannon, Weiss tried to slam the door shut, but the Eagle's boot was already in the way. Shannon hurriedly grabbed Weiss from behind as he tried to run, held him by the shoulders and pressed the rag to his mouth. Within seconds, he had become dead weight and rested on the floor. Next was Hofstetter. He lumbered out of one of the rooms asking who was at the door. He too tried to run when he saw the Eagle coming at him, and his roommate sprawled on the floor, but it was a futile effort. The Eagle was in far superior shape to these glutinous sausage scarfing scalawags. Hofstetter went down the same way Weiss did.
With the two men incapacitated, the Eagle set to work, rummaging through books and papers, drawers and closets. Tossing blankets and pillows aside and even looking under the bed. That was where he found a stash of money and a letter written on a typewriter.
It said simply, “Heirs Weiss and Hofstetter, I am hiring you to give the British false information. Enclosed are some plans for you to make known to them. Cause a diversion. You will be paid handsomely. Be on the look out for the Eagle. I will be in contact.” It was only signed, “C”.
The Eagle gathered up the letter and the money and stuffed them into his pack. He took a sheet from one of the beds, broke the legs off of a chair and made a makeshift gurney. Ripping up another sheet, he fashioned straps to secure the men to their mode of transportation.
Under the protection of the night and her moon, the Eagle dragged the two men off back to his entrance point.
Taking care of his charges, The Eagle pulled out a pair of wire cutters from his pack and cut a hole from the fence at the ground. He crawled through, pulling his unconscious companions with him. Though no easy task, The Eagle ably completed the next step, dragging the two men through the forest behind the base and over to the airfield.
He had chartered a small plane to fly to the French camp. It was parked at the end of the flight- line awaiting The Eagle and his two passengers. Throwing them in the back under the guise of flying them to the hospital, he gassed them once more for good measure, and flew off toward the secret facility.
