Shadows Will Fall

by Trey Garrison

  When the latch to the dungeon door clacked, the prisoners quickly hid their tools and sat back on their bunks, trying to look bored and defeated.

  It was the scar-faced SS commando—Skorzeny—the one who’d been on their trail from almost the beginning. His black uniform tunic was unbuttoned, his pistol belt slung over a shoulder, and and he carried a bottle of schnapps

  “I won’t interrupt whatever useless escape activities I’m sure you’re up to,” he said, slightly slurring his words. “Don’t deny it. I’d be shocked if people who traveled with Rucker weren’t up to something.”

  None of the four prisoners said a word.

  Skorzeny took a long pull on the bottle.

  “I hope you’ll forgive me, showing up like this,” he said, motioning to his stocking feet.

  “That’s all right, Lieutenant,” Terah said. “I don’t like boots.”

  “Touché,” Skorzeny said. “Anyway, I’m here to drink a toast to Captain Rucker.”

  He took another pull off the bottle, then handed it through the bars to Terah.

  “Rucker died trying to escape earlier today,” he said.

  Terah felt her cheeks go cold and her stomach drop. Deitel and Filotoma looked shocked.

  “I thought you should know,” he said.

  Skorzeny turned around and started for the door.

  “Also, tomorrow night you’ll witness the whole new direction the New Order is taking Germany, all hail the little men in their little coats with their little schemes,” he said bitterly. “And then, of course, they’ll execute you one way or another. A woman, a girl, an old man, and . . . well, I guess you should be executed, too, traitor.”

  Deitel nodded. “Danke. Ass.”

  When he reached the door, Terah called out to him.

  “Lieutenant, about Fox . . .”

  Skorzeny turned around. “Yes?”

  “How?” she said, blinking back a tear. “How did he die?”

  The bottle had been passed from Terah to Deitel to Filotoma. He offered it to Skorzeny, who took a swig and then passed it back to Terah.

  The knowing look on Skorzeny’s face and irony in his tone told Terah something wasn’t as it seemed.

  “He apparently escaped wearing a storm trooper’s uniform. He’d made it halfway down the mountain, to the plateau where the Fi-156 Storch was parked. The nachtmenn picked up his scent. He tried to take off in the Storch but apparently wasn’t ready for how short the runway is. He didn’t have enough speed. He got it off the ground but lost altitude. Probably wind shear,” Skorzeny said. “He crashed the plane into the lake below. At least that is what the garrison commander believes.”

  Terah stood, unmoving. Skorzeny was almost smiling.

  “Rucker crashed?” she asked.

  “Yes. I’m afraid so,” Skorzeny said. Then he winked, just to underscore the point. They both knew Rucker was alive.

  “Thank you, Lieutenant,” Terah finally said.

  Skorzeny bowed his head slightly. “Yes. I must get some rest now. I plan to do a little hunting tomorrow. There’s some game I’ve been stalking for a while. And now I think I can go after it one on one. I don’t care what the cost is,” he said, then left the dungeon.

  Amria saw Terah slide to the floor against her cell wall, her face in her hands as her shoulders rocked. Filotoma had his back turned and his head down. The she realized that Terah was laughing.

  “ ‘Rucker crashed the plane into the lake,’ ” Terah quoted, and rolled on her side, still laughing. Deitel and Filotoma joined in.

  Amria looked at them all, certain they were crazy people.

  Outside, Skorzeny was heading back across the courtyard to the room he’d taken for himself in the bailey. He was more than pleased.

  Tomorrow he would have Rucker all to himself. Whether in armed or unarmed combat, whether a quick duel or something else—he would best the man who had so maddeningly outfoxed him. As a practitioner of the most unorthodox of tactics himself, it was a matter of personal pride and honor.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  Poenari Citadel

  Wallachia Region

  The night settled on the ancient castle like a cloak laid on a corpse. The sun was setting behind the Carpathian Mountains. A bloody moon was on the rise. In the distance, wolves howled.

  Poenari Citadel was transformed into a sight its most famous occupant would have appreciated. Torches provided illumination in the main courtyard. Bloodred swastika banners were draped all around, while others fluttered on poles in the evening breeze. Black clad sentries walked the walls. An honor guard of storm troopers—all in dress uniforms, masks, and helmets—held torches high. Hand-cranked motion picture cameras mounted on tripods recorded every moment from several angles.

  The observation platform was flanked by swastika banners. Colonel Uhrwerk, Major Hoffstetter, and senior staff officers were in full dress uniform. Dr. Übel was dressed as always in his lab coat, goggles, and long black gloves. Torchlight danced on his face, twisted with excitement

  To the right of the officers, the first six draugrkommandos stood unmoving. They wore their maroon SS uniforms, black helmets, and pistol belts. Their faces were ashen and expressionless.

  Lieutenant Skorzeny was there as well, wearing his usual battle dress and smoking a cigarette. He just wanted this to be done with and to get back to Wewelsburg, as soon as he dealt with Rucker. This was not soldiering as he saw it.

  Off to one side of the observation stage was an enclosure where Terah, Deitel, Filotoma, and Amria stood, still manacled. With them were the dozen civilians the patrols had taken prisoner. Amria’s hands were still bound, but unknown to her captors, the locking mechanisms were now jammed with Deitel’s bubble gum, preventing the locks from engaging. The rest of the SS men assigned to Poenari, those not on sentry, guard, or patrol duty, watched from the other side of the platform, along with the engineers and lower ranking officers.

  The centerpiece of it all was in the middle of the outer courtyard—the large clockwork engine attached to a circular walkway four feet off the ground. Technicians monitored the steam device at several workstations. The main control panel was located on the observation stage, where the officers now stood, alongside the six draugrkommandos. The thing hummed and gave off steam. Brass controls and levers lined an entire side, while gauges set at the workstations wiggled back and forth, measuring the power the machine was taking in and putting out.

  The machinery was dead center between two of the tall, outer courtyard towers, and a hundred yards from the main gateway to the inner courtyard. Cables ran from the outer towers to the main gate tower, from which lights were strung.

  In the middle of the walkway, resting on the ground and attached to the machinery by dozens of thick cables and wires, was a glowing orb at least six feet in diameter. A ladder led to a small dais atop the orb. It was where Übel would prime the device with the Spear of Destiny by inserting it into the cradle adjacent to the orb.

  At the designated moment, the maroon-clad Death’s Head Legion—994 strong—marched into the courtyard in a formation of ten squads. When the column leaders were within the ring formed by the torch-bearing storm troopers, they split, five squads to the left and five to the right, encircling the huge orb. They came to a halt when they met up on the far side. On the command “Paradeaufstellung!” they did a right or left face, so that they all faced the orb in a circular formation, five men deep.

  The Death’s Head Legion was ready. They were to be born again as the Draugrkommando Legion.

  Dr. Übel’s lab technicians had administered all the proper injections prior to the ceremony. The torch-bearing SS men marched in formation away from the orb, taking up positions along the eastern and western walls of the outer courtyard. It would all be highly dramatic on film, Hoffstetter thought. He’d been given careful instruction from Josef Goebbels
and Leni Reifenstahl on how to provide the proper look for posterity.

  Hoffstetter stepped to the front of the stage to address those assembled. Deitel provided translation for the other prisoners.

  “Men of the Death’s Head Legion! Because of your bravery and service, you have been chosen for the honor of becoming the vanguard of the Reich. You are being made into the most perfect soldiers who ever existed, finally worthy of our great Führer and the ideals of national socialism. What you do today will ensure the future for all Germans, so that our children and our grandchildren can grow up in a world without lawlessness, chaos, and abusive liberties that corrode the collective spirit of mankind’s greatest people. Your names will be remembered for all times as the pioneers, heroes who will liberate the world from the tyranny and the false promise of freedom, where men are allowed to suffer and fail. We of the SS and the Reich salute you! For Germany! For the Führer!”

  He threw out his arm in a salute. Every man of the Death’s Head Legion saluted back.

  “Adolf Hitler! Sieg heil! Sieg heil! Sieg heil!”

  As the crow would fly, Rucker was only five miles from Poenari Citadel. But given the mountain passes and valleys, he’d actually traveled closer to twenty miles without rest.

  And he was lugging a twenty-pound suitcase.

  Granted, he had fashioned the suitcase wireless radio into a backpack of sorts. But still, it was a hard march. Too hard.

  He regretted what he had to do the day before. Knowing the nachtmenn would stay on his trail until they were called off, and knowing he’d never get the Storch aloft before the storm troopers shot it down with small-arms fire, he’d rigged the plane for an automatic take-off. He figured it would crash either in the valley below or the lake if it wasn’t shot down. Either way, the krauts would assume he was dead and call off their search.

  But that meant he had to cover the distance away from the castle on foot before he could send his wireless message to Mama Bear, their code name for Chuy. It had taken him the better part of a day.

  The response from Mama Bear was more than he could have hoped for, and more than he would have ever expected. Mama Bear was bringing the Big Bad Wolf to the party. Now he had to get back to the castle to send up the signal to Chuy on where to drop the package, and time was ticking. He had to be back in just three hours, which was near impossible, given the steep, winding, mountainous terrain.

  Rucker expected to make better time, but the combination of being unfamiliar with the territory and having to avoid SS patrols slowed him considerably. Now the sun was setting. The goat trail he followed curved around the side of a bluff and came to an abrupt halt overlooking a bridge that spanned a small river flowing from Lake Vidraru. Hidden by the foliage, he was barely thirty feet from the bridge. The heavy branches from the ancient trees that he was using for cover stretched out over the bridge.

  In the center of the bridge, a horse-drawn cart was carrying a load of hay, but the cart wasn’t moving. The front right wooden spoke wheel was broken, its farmer owner trying to repair it. He was blocking the whole width of the small bridge. Behind the cart, clearly held up from crossing, was one of the SS steam crawlers with a very impatient looking commander sticking his head out of the top hatch. He was yelling at the farmer.

  Rucker checked his satchel, which he’d recovered along with his pistols and other essentials, including the Tesla gun, when he escaped from Poenari. He also had a storm troopers’ standard machine pistol and two potato masher grenades that came with the uniform he’s used as a ruse back at the castle. Now, he dug into the pack, beneath the climbing ropes and grappling hooks, and fished out his canteen. For the moment, he wasn’t going any farther until the steam crawler got on its way.

  The crawler’s commander climbed down from the metal hull, leaving the top hatch open. He was obviously impatient, yelling at the farmer in an animated fashion. The farmer—Rucker assumed, since he didn’t know Hungarian—pointed out that he was doing the best he could. The red-faced commander looked at his watch.

  These Germans and their punctuality, Rucker thought.

  The commander returned to the front of the steam crawler. This time he spoke in German, which Rucker could follow.

  “Get the squad out here. Shoot the horses and dump this cart over the side of the bridge. If the owner gives you any trouble or resistance, shoot him as well,” the commander said. “We have a schedule to keep.”

  Rucker was furious. Born and raised on a ranch, he had a soft spot for two things—dogs and horses. There was a time to think and a time to act. And for him, this was no time to think.

  The rear door of the crawler started its slow opening.

  Rucker was already in motion when he saw a solution that solved two problems. He pulled the climbing rope and grappling hook from his pack, along with one of the grenades. With a quick toss, he hooked the branch that spanned the bridge, then wrapped the rope around his left wrist and tested the weight. The crawler’s rear door was now more than halfway open. He yanked the cord on the grenade, lined himself up and leapt forward.

  The rope caught Rucker’s weight, and he swung out directly at the crawler. The commander—standing beside the crawler—stopped and froze, befuddled. As Rucker swung above the crawler, he dropped the grenade into the open top hatch. His momentum carried him away from the bridge, and he said a silent prayer that he’d timed it right. At the apex of his arc, the grenade exploded. The horses reared and the farmer threw himself under the cart. The force of the explosion was amplified by the close quarters, the shrapnel bouncing around inside the crawler’s steel belly. Rucker knew that no one inside could have survived the carnage.

  As he swung back toward the now smoking hull, the commander of the crawler wrestled with his belt holster, trying to pull his Lugar. But he was a heavy armor man, rarely using his pistol for anything. His first two shots went wide. As he was lining up his third, Rucker pulled his own Colt and squeezed off a shot while still swinging, hitting the German dead center. The commander crumpled to the ground in a lifeless heap.

  Rucker released his grip on the rope and dropped to the bridge. For good measure and a little spite, he shot the commander in the forehead, just to be sure.

  He went to where the farmer was cowering under the cart. The man didn’t know what to make of him. After all, he wore black SS trousers and boots, a dirty black undershirt, an old-fashioned flier’s leather jacket, a crimson scarf, and—of all things—a battered black cowboy hat. The farmer’s ears still rang from the explosion and the gunfire. The acrid smell of cordite and the crawler’s ruptured coal furnace burned his nose.

  “Hello, friend,” Rucker said. He tried French, then his spotty German, and then the few words of Greek he’d picked up from Nick.

  The Greek worked. He used the very first phrase Filotoma had taught him.

  “Have I got a deal for you, friend,” Rucker said, holding up a gold coin from a hidden pouch in his pistol belt and pointing to one of the horses.

  The confused if grateful farmer was shaken up, but he smiled when he realized what Rucker was proposing.

  In the prisoner enclosure, Terah was rolling her eyes at this miniversion of the 1926 Nuremburg rally. “God, they lay it on thick,” she said.

  “You should see what they do for formal gatherings,” Deitel said dryly.

  The prisoners—including the local villagers who’d been captured—had slowly and inconspicuously formed a semicircle around Amria, blocking her from the German’s view. On her knees, she worked her hands out of the manacles. She drew a deep breath and concentrated, starting to recite the words to the spell she’d been working through the last day. Her chants were drowned out by the thrumming and hiss of the machinery.

  Dr. Übel made the final adjustments to his infernal machine, and the power rose. The orb at the center of the platform was a plasma globe fully six feet in diameter. Coils and cables connected it t
o a large, flat octagonal device, which in turn was connected to the body of the large machine. The machine itself was connected to the control panels, back near the observation stage, and the one master control panel on the stage, which stood a good hundred yards away. Tendrils of purple and pink danced inside the orb and its glow steadily increased, as did the thrumming sound. The orb would capture and amplify the spear’s ambient energies, projecting them out to the Death’s Head Legionnaires who now stood surrounding it.

  Filotoma spat on the ground.

  “Little Amria, if you are going to do something, better do it now,” he said.

  Amria’s head rolled back and her eyes closed as she chanted her mystical incantations. Her hands fluidly traced shapes in the air. Deitel couldn’t quite be sure—it had to be a trick of the light—but it looked as though her hands were starting to glow.

  “I don’t think Fox is going to make it back,” he whispered to Terah.

  “He said he’ll be here, so he’ll be here,” she snapped at him.

  Deitel put his hand on her shoulder. She placed her own on his.

  Dr. Übel returned to the machine connected to the orb. The light bathed him in an unholy glow. He clutched the Spear of Destiny in his gloved hand and surveyed the scene around him. The humming from the orb grew louder in proximity to the spear. The stoic faces of the legion volunteers looked skull-like in the orb’s glow. Übel plunged the spear into the device and stepped away. He walked as fast as he could to the observation stage, climbed onto the dais and settled himself behind the master control panel. Then he pulled his goggles over his eyes and looked to Major Hoffstetter. The major nodded his assent.

  “For the Reich!” Dr. Übel shouted, and pulled the master switch.