Man with the Iron Heart

by Mat Nastos

  Once he focused on the song, it was impossible for MacAndrew to tune it out. The words, uttered in an ancient, vulgar dialect that had no right to be spoken in civilized times, began to call out to him. They threatened and cajoled, whispered and seduced. The song beat down into the man’s head until nothing else seemed to exist but the three decrepit figures calling it out and controlling the devils beneath MacAndrew’s feet. More than once, the Scot felt himself falling to the power of the puppeteers’ siren call… but he resisted. He knew his duty.

  A slow squeeze on the trigger by a hand shaking so hard it jeopardized accuracy. The rifle’s report and painful recoil against his shoulder snapped MacAndrew back to reality in time to see one of the gauze-wrapped necromancers fall to the ground, its head exploding like a ripe melon in a mist of dark red vapor.

  No sooner had the now headless figure dropped lifeless to the ground, from somewhere below, a squeal of triumph bounced up to MacAndrew’s ears. Gabcik’s reed-thin voice confirmed the outcome of the Scotsman’s actions. The instant the now-deceased necromancer’s voice had been removed from the unholy song, the body of one of the attacking necrogolems collapsed in on itself. Stones, loosened by the barrage of heavy Nazi munitions being flung at them, began to fall in response to a conquering roar from Grimm as he renewed his aggression. MacAndrew couldn’t help but grin at the sound. If this ‘little Celt’ killed the necromancers, his men stood a chance… albeit a slim one.

  The thick glass of the telescopic sight pressed firmly against MacAndrew’s eye revealed a mad dash for cover taking place below. The Nazi soldiers had no idea where the shot had come from and each to a man suddenly forgot every inch of discipline they had been taught. It was every man for himself as the Scotsman slowly swung his weapon around for another shot, searching with eyes and ears for the dark calling of the loathsome necromancers.

  Raven cloth, flowing like smoke caught MacAndrew’s attention. It flitted and flickered nearly fifty yards out, dancing in the breeze, betraying the hiding spot of his next target. A smile formed unbidden.

  The Karabiner’s second shot wasn’t quite as clean or as accurate as its first. The steel-jacketed round punctured the front of the necromancer’s throat, leaving a tiny hole just under his jaw and a gaping, tattered wound lined with bits of bone from the his spine in the back. After a few ragged breaths, the necromancer twitched one final time before giving up the ghost.

  MacAndrew couldn’t believe his luck. He had no idea how the sorcerers were controlling the monsters but the Scotsman was glad to see they could die as any other men. With two of the enchanters down, and their necrogolems with them, it was only a matter of time before the soldier would get the last one in his sights. If only his luck would continue to hold.

  “Where are you, you black-hearted bastard? Poke your head up for a second and you’re mine!”

  Luck was a fickle mistress and it seemed she was ending her love-affair with the Scot.

  From behind a tall pile of bent iron and crushed stone, the squat form of a German lieutenant screamed out from behind a pencil-thin mustache scrawled across a pinched face, “There!” The man nearly leapt up and down, gesticulating and pointing wildly at the splintered window frame MacAndrew had slunk behind with only the long barrel of his rifle visible. “In the window!”

  In a puff of black powder smoke, MacAndrew was able to plant a finger-sized slug dead-center of the German officer’s chest, blasting him back. The action was not fast enough to save him as the turrets of both Panzer tanks rotated quickly to his direction. Not far away, edging into the corner of Ian’s peripheral vision, the last necromancer revealed a crooked grin and continued his chanting.

  “Ah, shite…”

  Both twenty-five-ton tanks fired in unison, the voices of their main guns joining together in a deep-throated burst. Blistering-hot shells pummeled into the ceiling above and the floor below MacAndrew, covering him in smoke and sending his world topsy-turvy. The once-stable floor jerked out and slid away from him even as debris from above battered his body with rubble and stone fragments. A heartbeat later, the beleaguered body of Ian MacAndrew slammed into the main floor of the Karel Boromejsky Church with a sickening thud. Eyes filling with blood watched as the entirety of the roof ripped free from the supporting walls and plummeted toward him and his men in slow motion.

  The final sight burning out of the cotton-filled darkness encroaching upon MacAndrew’s world was that of Donner Grimm’s form, blazing like a white-hot star charging at him with arms open wide. Then, thankful oblivion took him into its breast, numbing all pain and worry.

  CHAPTER 9

  RESURRECTION

  May 28, 1942. 6:30 AM

  By the time the pale light of the sun crested the hills that dotted the landscape between the small runway that lay just west of Prague Castle and Bulovka Hospital, Heinrich Himmler had already decided he detested Bohemia and its capitol city more than almost any other place in the Sudentenland… possibly more than any other location he had visited in his role as Reichsführer of the SS.

  The land was already far too hot for the thick black uniform the small man had ordered pressed and cleaned for the trip, and the clock hadn’t even struck time for breakfast yet. Add to that the humidity, which caused a fine bead of sweat to dislodge his wire-frame glasses from their perch atop his nose, and the overwhelming smell of cattle and peasants, and the Reichsführer was convinced he had come to the armpit of the German Empire.

  If there was a worse spot on the planet, Heinrich Himmler wasn’t convinced it had yet been discovered by civilized man.

  Of course, after having to endure a two-hour flight from Berlin on a small plane before being shepherded into the back of an armored transport that reeked equally of diesel fuel and rotten eggs, nothing short of the announcement of total victory over England would have been able to improve Himmler’s sour mood.

  Adjusting his spectacles for what seemed like the hundredth time, Himmler mused that he’d have berated Reinhard Heydrich for ruining his day if the poor man hadn’t already been near death at the hands of the Czech rebels. Although, if the German was being honest, it was all Reinhard’s fault. A tighter leash with the locals might have prevented the entire mess from getting as far out of hand as it had.

  There would be time for reprimanding his protégé once he had recovered. Himmler sighed through the thin brown hairs lining his upper lip. Until then it was his job to insure that Bohemia and its gypsies paid for the attack.

  A particularly strong jolt from the constant bouncing of the large vehicle caused Himmler to be thrown sideways in his seat. The dirty, rubber-coated floor of the truck scuffed the instep of his right boot, marring its nearly mirror-perfect polish and tearing a vehement curse from between Himmler’s tightly-clenched teeth.

  Before the Nazi leader could launch into a tirade against the poor private assigned to drive him to their destination, the soldier called out from the front compartment in a booming voice that was completely unaware of how close its owner was to a firing squad.

  “Bulovka Hospital, Reichsführer!”

  Resting as it did atop of a large rise and surrounded by acres of manicured lawns, the walls of the hospital stood in stark contrast to the smaller buildings around it. Seeing the end of his long and uncomfortable trip relaxed Himmler enough to forget the annoyance caused by his driver.

  The bouncing, jostling, and jerking Himmler had been forced to endure for the seven kilometers the truck had carried him from the landing strip – and three-hundred and fifty miles in the air from Berlin on a small prop plane – seemed to continue to shudder through his body even as he dropped his feet onto the solid ground of the parking zone. If left to his own devices, Hitler’s second-in-command preferred to travel in far more luxurious modes of transportation.

  A loud thud just over his right shoulder announced the presence of his finely-crafted Italian luggage as it was dropped o
ff the still-rumbling rear gate of the truck that had borne him. Himmler was barely given enough time to wave for one of the numerous SS soldiers milling about to collect his bags before a deep-throated cough revealed a congregation of men and women dressed in civilian garb. To Himmler’s eyes – and sensitive nose – all eight members of the hospital staff who awaited his arrival stank of the sort of low birthright that had plagued so much of Bohemia: dim eyes, slack jaws, hunched posture. Not a single one worthy of the National Socialist Party or its ideals.

  Once this mess with Reinhard is over, I’ll have the entire lot carted off and their offal hosed out of the hospital. Himmler struggled to fake a half-smile for those attending him. Perhaps the Führer would allow him to make use of that sweet-smelling perfume he’d liberated from Paris two years earlier. The French may not know how to fight a war, but they did know how to hide the stench of the mud-races rather well.

  “Welcome, Herr Reichsführer!” exclaimed the leader of the group, a man whose girth seemed to exceed his height by a rather large amount. “I am Professor Diek, administrator here at Bulovka. My staff and I are at your full disposal!”

  Himmler’s half-hearted return salute to the professor was interrupted by the alto-toned voice of a soft-faced young man in a uniform whose cleanliness and press was nearly a rival to the Nazi leader’s. The bear skull emblem of Heydrich’s elite Schwarzbär unit glistened in crimson and silver on the newcomer’s shoulders and the bronze band on his chest named him as Eicke, a private.

  “Heil Hitler!” exclaimed the youth.

  It took precisely two words for Himmler to realize he despised the immaculately-groomed soldier. “What is it, Private?” Himmler looked down his nose at the young trooper whose height soared six inches or more over the Nazi leader’s own modest five-foot-nine-inch frame.

  “Hauptsturmführer Hagan has been awaiting your arrival, Herr Reichsführer,” proclaimed the soldier, saluting even more fervently than he had the first time. “He’s waiting in the west wing with the men of my unit and has demanded I bring you at once!”

  Himmler’s eyebrow raised nearly off his head upon hearing those words drip from Eicke’s lips. “The Hauptsturmführer has ‘demanded’ my presence?”

  Eicke’s eyes widened at the realization of his misstep with the supreme commander of the SS. As youthful and inexperienced as he was, he knew immediately he was on a slippery slope that could cost him his career and, in all probability, his life.

  “Requests… Herr Reichsführer,” said Eicke, snapping back to ramrod-straight attention and whispering what had to be a prayer as he did. “My captain merely wishes to apprise you of the situation here at Bulovka and of Herr Heydrich’s care. Hauptsturmführer Hagan ordered me to bring you at once.”

  A smarter, more experienced man would have shut up and promptly made himself absent from the scene. Eicke proved himself to be neither. “I have neither the time nor the patience to meet with Hauptsturmführer Hagan, Scheütze Eicke.” The words were forced from between Himmler’s clenched teeth. “I am sure you have more important things to do. You are dismissed.”

  Confusion radiated from the immature soldier. Eicke was inexperienced in dealing with politics or someone of Himmler’s stature and it showed openly on his dumbstruck face. “But… but… the Hauptsturmführer is expecting you,” was all the private could say.

  On another day, Heinrich Himmler might have responded more calmly or taken pity on the youth. This was not such a day. With Eicke blocking the only route leading to where Himmler’s closest friend lay wounded, possibly dying, he had reached the end of his tolerance at the interruption and slammed down the heel of his boot hard enough to crack the pavement beneath his feet.

  “What has been done about the attack on the Reichsprotektor, Schüetze Eicke?” asked Himmler, locking the young soldier in place with an unblinking stare that threatened far more effectively than any words.

  “‘Done,’ Herr Reichsführer?” Eicke was visibly confused by the question. Surely his superior had already been briefed as to the situation. “The men responsible for the brutal assault on the Reichsprotektor have been tracked to a small church in the city. They are being dealt with as we speak.”

  “And the others?”

  No sound came from Eicke’s open mouth as he tried to comprehend what Himmler was trying to say. The realization that the men of Heydrich’s Schwarzbär unit – as effective as they were – weren’t recruited for their mental prowess did little to deflect Himmler’s growing anger.

  “The ones who allowed this attack to take place. The peasants who aided the assassins. The ones who housed them. Who fed them. What have you done to ensure this assault on the Fatherland and its valiant warriors never again takes place?” Himmler worked himself up into a fury fierce enough to cause Professor Diek and the group gathered about him to step back as if struck. There was no place safe from Himmler’s wrath in all of Prague.

  “W-we have no idea where to even begin,” stammered Eicke. Sweat seemed to ooze out of every pore of the man’s skin, coating his face with a fine glaze of the salty liquid. “An investigation of that magnitude will take days, or weeks!”

  On Himmler’s periphery, a cloud of long, ebony hair dragged his raging eyes away from the soldier squirming helplessly in his grip. Shapely feminine curves could not be hidden beneath her hospital-issued clothing .

  Himmler called out to the raven-haired beauty who had been walking on the edge of a group of Bulovka employees. “What is your name, my dear?”

  “R-R-Rela…” she stuttered, trembling to her core with fear. “Rela Fafek.”

  “Do you know who I am, Fraulein Fafek?”

  The woman called Rela bit her bottom lip before she answered. Her eyes darted back and forth looking for someone – anyone – to save her. “Yes,” she replied. “You are Herr Himmler. The Reichsführer”

  Smiling, Himmler leaned over to take the woman’s shaking hand. He lifted her fingers to within a hair’s breadth of his lips and snapped his heels together in a mock salute. “So very nice to make your acquaintance, Fraulein,” he purred. “And now that we know one another, where are you from, my dear?”

  Licking her lips in what appeared to be an effort to calm her nerves, Rela responded timidly, “Královské Vinohrady, Herr Himmler.”

  The smile disappeared as the Nazi leader yanked the young woman around and pushed her into the waiting arms of Rudolf Eicke.

  “There, Schüetze Eicke. Now you have a place to begin,” growled Himmler, his patience with Eicke and the entire situation wearing dangerously thin. “Make an example of the zigeuners. Start with this pretty one’s family.” With a glare, Himmler finished with, “Now get out of my sight.”

  Rela’s screams as she was forcibly removed from the area by Private Eicke were the first thing to lighten Himmler’s mood since he had touched down in Prague that morning.

  He returned his attention to the waiting Professor Diek and nodded for him to continue without further interruption. “Take me to Doktor Gebhardt and the others.”

  “Of course. Follow me, Herr Reichsführer. They are waiting for you on the upper level now.” The administrative head of Bulovka invited him with a wave of a pudgy white hand.

  By the time Himmler and his escort reached the topmost floor upon which Reinhard Heydrich’s body was being worked on, his frame of mind had spoiled once more. Vowing to have the facility demolished and replaced by something without a seemingly endless array of stairs, the Reichsführer burst through the doors of the operating theater and demanded to know the condition of his friend. The sight sucked the breath from Himmler’s lungs and caused his eyes to swim. A mass of strange machines, long glass tubes filled with neon-colored gas, and acres of wiring, all surrounding the large marble and steel table upon which lay the bloody sheet-covered body of Reinhard Heydrich.

  After a moment of distraction, Himmler’s wits returned and
he located the men in charge of saving the Reichsprotektor from passing through Death’s doorway.

  “What is going on here and what are you people doing to Reinhard?!” Spittle flew from the German leader’s mouth, spraying the area as he stomped across the hard tiled floor to where Frank, Wittgenstein, Doktor Gebhardt, and a veritable cadre of SS and Czechoslovakian doctors watched and worked as his friend’s chest rose and sank with shallow breaths hardly strong enough to fill the damaged lungs contained within.

  Before either Gebhardt or Frank could form a reasonable answer to the outraged Himmler’s question, Wittgenstein tossed a bored glance at the man and fired off, “We’re teaching dear Reinhard to polka, Herr Himmler… perhaps you’d like to take the next dance?”

  * * *

  Panic struck Frank square in the stomach, tearing his senses loose and sending dreams of being herded into a dark gray railway car bound for pain, humiliation, and death. Tiny beads of sweat formed at the base of his skull, just beneath where his barber had taken a razor to the edges of his hair, and began to run down his spine in tiny rivulets.

  This is not good. He tried to control the nervous twitch his left eye had been afflicted with since his early years as a teen in Austria. Ludwig had promised, had sworn, to keep his saber-sharp tongue sheathed in the confines of his desire for a long life; and it had taken the philosopher-scientist less than thirty seconds to completely forget that oath with a handful of words that could very well result in the end of both of them.

  Before full realization of the sarcasm hit the second most powerful Nazi leader – a man likely to have them killed in exceedingly imaginative and painful ways – the older scientist smiled warmly and fired off as proper a salute as he could manage.