“Station Nineteen, this is Hawk, over.” The Marquis had an agent near Nancy, not far from Hiram’s current location. He tried several times before anyone answered his call.
“Hawk, this is Station Nineteen, over.” They kept the transmissions short to avoid triangulation of the source from anyone monitoring HF communications.
“Station Nineteen, have my packages been delivered? Over.”
“Hawk, affirmative. Primary package delivered along with sky jockey to an Anglo sewer pipe four days ago, over.” Sarah had boarded a sub, along with a pilot.
“Station Nineteen, status of the second package? Over.”
“Hawk, secondary package lost in transit. No additional information, over.”
“Roger, Station Nineteen.” What happened to Maria? Hiram provided the location where he’d hidden the last eight crates of 40mm grenades, and signed off.
He had a few hours to kill before travelling again, so he headed back into the pod to grab a snack and a few more pain killers. As he reached the bottom of the ladder, pain shot up his leg. It occurred to him that he might be doing more damage to his ankle hobbling down into the pod after each flight than landing in the wingsuit. His body had no time to recover from the injury and each minute he spent inside the pod ensured that any effort to heal his body was negated. At this rate, his ankle would never heal. Parachuting to the ground might provide less impact. He looked up at the ceiling-mounted portal, and then over at the aerial portal. I wonder…
Four hours later with his head pounding, Hiram tightened the last bolt, locking the portal that led to his backpack to the frame that held the aerial portal. If it worked, he could jump directly from his backpack to the sky above without having to climb down into the pod. It meant leaving the backpack behind after each jump. The pod allowed him to pick up another, as many as he needed. Remote activation of the self-destruct mechanism with the C2ID2 ensured no trace of the backpack or portal would be left behind.
Now I have to get out of here so I can test it. He’d prepared by retrieving Jacob’s backpack. He opened a portal to Jacob’s pod from inside his own and climbed down into it. From there, he jumped into the night sky from Jacob’s aerial portal. His headache blossomed and his stomach churned from just the few moments he spent in Jacob’s pod.
He landed in the meadow once again, then limped to the tent. Once inside, he picked up an uneaten protein bar and tossed it though the portal in his backpack. Without any wind to push the bar away from his location, he expected it to fall the five thousand meters from the open portal in the sky straight to the ground. About a minute later, the bar bounced off the outside of the tent. It works. Now for something living. He spied a large beetle on a nearby tree and scooped it into a plastic bag. He blew into the bag, inflating it as much as possible, then sealed it. The beetle earned its airborne wings a moment later. The bag drifted about a hundred meters on the way down, but Hiram easily tracked it with his night vision goggles. The beetle scurried away with no apparent injury when Hiram released it.
Hiram heard the distinct whistle of a nearby train. A bridge on the main railroad line through the Vosges Mountains required crossing trains to slow down to a few kilometers per hour. Hiram jumped once more, this time aiming for the roof of a slow-moving boxcar. On the way down, he used his C2ID2 to close both portals and initiate the self-destruct sequence for the backpack he left behind.
With the clunky cast on his left leg, he lost his balance and sprawled onto the surface of the moving target, grasping for any handhold that would prevent him from rolling off the roof. He caught the protruding upper edge of the boxcar’s sliding door mount just before he would have slid off and fallen to the rocky valley below. He crawled to the hatch, lifted the small door, and slipped inside, hoping the train would carry him west, in the direction of Hitler’s Atlantic Wall.
* * *
0600 hours, Sunday, August 9, northeast of Loches, Indre River Valley, Vichy France.
Hiram caught three separate trains to get within five kilometers of Team Bravo’s campsite. On the first train, the dark provided enough cover for him to slide into a box car filled with personal belongings. Suitcases had been packed on one side of the car in tight rows stacked almost to the ceiling. On the other end of the car lay neat piles of fur garments, organized so that coats remained separate from stoles, muffs, and gloves. Several flattened and beady eyed critters stared back at him as light filtered in from outside. He settled in near the doors, a wall of suitcases to one side of him and a stack of coats on the other. The second train carried Gentile passengers through occupied France, unaware of the horrors taking place around them except for the occasional inconvenience of having to show papers to a policeman strolling down the aisle. Hiram peered through a small window between the cars where he clung to the ladder leading up to the car’s roof. During the night, not even the policeman cared to check the outside of the train. It was ill advised to flash around a torch during blackout hours. The third train was on its return trip from dropping off a large group of Jewish prisoners somewhere outside of France. The Star of David had been painted on each of the box cars. Hiram chose a car near the rear of the train. A strong odor of excrement mixed with the scent of decaying meat remained inside the boxcar. The car had been poorly cleaned at some point and the doors left open to let the air do the rest. Despite the boxcar being an easy target, Hiram regretted his decision and found himself vomiting out the open door as the train clacked along the iron rails.
Hiram established communication with Team Bravo’s Icarus drone twenty minutes before sunrise. He pushed through the coordinates of his targeted stopping point. An hour later, he jumped from the train as it neared the stop in Loches. Agnes waited for him at the edge of the tree line with her railbike.
“Agnes, I left an Icarus drone and a surveillance drone flying over the northern Vosges Mountains.” Hiram said. “Can you contact them?”
Agnes said something in French. He held up his hand, asking her to wait. He poked a few icons on his C2ID2, bringing up the Babel Fish. He despised the thing, but with Sarah in England, hopefully, and Deborah out of contact, he’d have to rely on it. When the ready symbol appeared on the device, he spun his hand in a circle, indicating she should repeat what she’d just said.
For a moment, Agnes stared at him. Then she spoke. “We were worried when we didn’t hear from you,” the translator repeated in halting Hebrew.
“The plan did not go as intended. I left an Icarus drone and a surveillance drone flying over the northern Vosges Mountains. Can you make contact with Deborah and Danette?” The software proved to be a slow tool. “Hurry! You need to find them. If they survived the blast, they’re somewhere in those mountains near Lutzelbourg right now.”
Agnes nodded and turned her attention to the C2ID2 display, punching in a set of codes she read off Hiram’s C2ID2.
He let out a breath of relief. “Sorry. It’s been a long two days.” He touched Agnes on the shoulder.
She glanced up and offered a smile. Then, she climbed into the sidecar of the railbike and signaled Hiram should drive. Once Agnes contacted the drones, she would search for Deborah and Danette.
Team Bravo’s camp rested about thirty-five kilometers southeast of the confluence of the Le Cher, Indre and Loire rivers near Tours – a scant five kilometers south of the demarcation line between Occupied and Vichy France.
With no more than a set of coordinates from Agnes, Hiram drove the railbike toward the group’s temporary campsite. Team Bravo’s camp had been nestled in a shallow valley in the woods. Upon arrival, Ida stepped out from behind a large tree wielding an M22 and pointed toward a well-hidden path. The rest of Team Bravo – Nathalie and Isadore – gathered around, anxious for more information before Hiram had time to dismount. Even with Deborah and Danette still missing, having the others gathered here lightened the fear and exhaustion that he had been building since the event in Saarbrücken.
Ida slung the M22 behind her and embraced him. �
��Is everything okay?” She looked down at the cast on his leg.
“Bad landing. It’ll heal.” He hoped it would heal. “We had trouble getting close enough to the target,” Hiram said.
Ida gasped when the disembodied voice floated out of Hiram’s C2ID2.
“The border was more heavily guarded than I expected. The winds were all wrong when we arrived in Spicheren.” The Babel Fish struggled to keep up. “Deborah detected a Holocaust train approaching, so we had to act fast.” He fumbled with his C2ID2, hoping for a message from Danette and Deborah. Once again nothing. “I jumped across the border, the landing nowhere near the intended target. In order to impact the rail crossing, I had to dial-in a much larger yield than initially planned.
“After the detonation, I made it to the rendezvous point, but they never showed. I tried to contact them via C2ID2.” He looked over Agnes’ shoulder, scanning her display as he talked. “Then I launched an Icarus drone, trying to expand the range. Wouldn’t work either, too much interference in the upper atmosphere.”
“What about Vera?” someone asked. Hiram waited while the translator interpreted her words.
He looked up at the women. I forgot; they don’t know. “Elle est morte.” She’s dead.
Agnes stopped looking at her screen and turned to Hiram. She shook her head, disbelieving as her eyes reddened. He thought he’d need to set someone else on the task of finding the missing members of the Alpha team. “Danette et Deborah?” Isadore asked.
“I don’t know. Agnes is trying to find them. If they survived, they’d be moving south from Spicheren towards the rendezvous point in the Vosges Mountains.” He pointed to a spot on Agnes’ map display.
She nodded her understanding and went back to work. He told them how Vera had died and about the small unmarked grave where she now rested. “Deborah and Danette hid on a farm in Spicheren. I’m afraid they may have been too close to the blast.”
“There is some good news.” Nathalie handed Hiram her C2ID2 display as the Babel Fish chattered along. “We found Rosette while you were away.”
“Is she with her family?” Hiram asked.
“No, we’re not quite sure what happened. Dumb luck we found her. Nora was flying the drone in circles around her home. She spotted a policeman watching the house and decided to follow him when he left.”
“Go on,” said Hiram.
“He drove to a farmhouse about a hundred kilometers southeast, in the town of Saint Chamond. She went in for a closer look and saw Rosette. It could be a hiding place.”
“Good work. Tell Nora I said so. Any word from Sarah yet?”
“Nothing,” Ida said.
“Without Sarah, this whole plan is FUBAR,” Isadore said, the translator repeating.
Hiram smiled at the use of the term “FUBAR” It was an English term they’d picked up from him, although he hoped no one knew the literal translation.
“Fucked up beyond all recognition,” the Babel Fish said at the conclusion of Isadore’s translation, then helpfully added French and Hebrew translations for the benefit of all those present. Hiram blushed. The others did not seem surprised.
“I tried to contact the Spanish Maquis yesterday for an update. Took me all day to reach the contact they provided in Lyon. I heard back from him a few hours later.” Four anxious faces stared back at him.
“Sarah boarded a British submarine with a wounded RAF pilot Tuesday night. Maria didn’t make it that far. That was all the contact could tell me.” The news added to the emotion of the group. Most now teared up. “I’m sorry.” Around him, the women began talking. The Babel Fish grabbed a few words from their mixed conversations, spewing gibberish back at him.
After a few long moments, Agnes looked up, puzzled. “Why can’t we reach Sarah?”
“I don’t know the answer to that question. I think we have to assume that Sarah made it to England, and that our plan is still a go. She’s got the rendezvous coordinates. And, the Americans can’t have missed what happened to Saarbrücken.”
“Are you sure the bomb detonated?” Ida said.
“No question,” Hiram said. “The destruction extends for five kilometers in every direction. Sarah will find a way to make contact. Otherwise-”
Nathalie cut him off. “Otherwise, there’s Barbara’s plan.”
30
2045 hours, Sunday, August 9, 1942, over the Indre River Valley, Vichy France
“Hawk, this is Raven, over,” Sarah said for the fiftieth time since the navigator told her they flew in orbit over the Indre River Valley. Still no response. She intended to keep trying until the B-17 Flying Fortress turned back to England. Cruising at about seven thousand meters, her insulated and heated flight suit remained her only protection from the frigid air both inside and outside the aircraft.
Sarah looked out through the large, multi-faceted nose window. The dark night sky cloaked everything beyond the nose of the plane. She looked back at her C2ID2.
The aircraft’s other passenger, Captain Joseph Trembley of the American OSS, said, “Two P-38 Lightning fighter planes out there. Sneaky bastards, just the way we like ‘em.”
“Raven to Hawk, come in Hawk,” Sarah tried once more. If they didn’t make contact on the next orbit, the P-38s flying alongside the B-17 needed to break off and head back to England before they ran out of fuel. She expected a second set of P-38s to take their place. Soon, the B-17 would turn back to RAF Uxbridge as well.
“Hawk, this is Raven, over.” The C2ID2 covered a range of only a few kilometers, but Teams Bravo through Golf would be within range, somewhere in the valley beneath them, based on the rendezvous coordinates Hiram had sent to the C2ID2. Where in the hell are they?
“Raven, this is Hawk. What’s your status, over?” Sarah jumped at the sound of Hiram’s voice, the welcome sound bringing her to tears. She wiped her eyes, smiled, and returned her attention to the C2ID2.
“Good to hear your voice, Hawk.” Sarah blinked back tears that had turned sour. “My companion didn’t make it, break. Your demonstration convinced the high command to proceed with our plan, over.”
Captain Trembley huddled with the navigator in search of a convenient drop zone. He held up a signboard with a set of map coordinates written on it while she waited for Hiram’s response.
“What’s your location, over?” Hiram asked. The navigator took the signboard and wrote on it, then showed it to Sarah.
“Angels twenty at thirty-one Tango Charlie November four six two six.” She knew what the words and numbers meant. Hiram had spent hours preaching proper radio procedure during the long walk to Spain. Both Sarah and Maria had been prepped so they knew what to expect. Hiram had also given the women a safe phrase that could easily be weaved into the conversation if the interests of their new allies diverged from their own. The stakes remained high. Hiram’s weapons promised destruction. After the Saarbrücken display, Sarah wasn’t sure she wanted to see more, but she trusted these men to make the right decision. And, she mused, Hiram would verify the intensions of the Allied players before he allowed anyone to handle such power. “We have a package for you.” Sarah read from the signboard again, “Drop coordinates thirty-one Tango Charlie November five four five two six four. Codename Falcon, over.”
“Copy that Raven.” Hiram mapped the coordinates on the C2ID2 and replied. “We’ll be in position to retrieve the package in about forty-five minutes.” Sarah imagined Hiram signaling those with him to start moving.
“Raven this is Hawk, over.”
“Raven, over,” she said.
“Raven, can you launch a communications drone from England when you return, over.”
“Negative, Hawk,” she replied. “Lost everything except the C2ID2. Will be able to establish communication once you retrieve the package.”
“Roger Raven. I’ll call when we are in position, over.”
“Roger, out.” Sarah broke the connection.
* * *
Time passed like molasses. She had gotten b
ack in touch with Hiram and the others and she wanted to be the one to jump, to be reunited with them all. Forty minutes later Hiram called to say they were in position to cover Captain Trembley’s jump.
The aircraft made a turn to the right, then the plane slowed as the bomb bay doors opened behind her, the noise deafening. Trembley rose and gave her a thumbs-up before moving into position in the bay. The navigator held up an open hand and counted down by curling in one finger at a time. When he closed his fist the OSS captain plummeted into the darkness below.
31
2055 hours, Sunday, August 9, 1942, Indre River Valley, Indre-et-Loire Department, Vichy France
Hiram trusted no one with the Mark XII weapons and portal technology. He feared American or British commandos waited in the shadows ready to swoop in and seize the bombs once Falcon confirmed their existence. And, if the weapons fell into enemy hands, they could torture the arming secrets out of him if they tried hard enough. So, he’d resolved to bring the weapons through the portals himself. Only he could arm the devices.
But, the OSS man expected six hyperbaric nuclear weapons.
“Agnes, have Team Foxtrot conduct a patrol around this field where the American OSS officer will land. Tell them to be careful, and make sure there are no surprises waiting for us.” Once the translator repeated his words, he listened as Agnes relayed his instructions over her C2ID2 to Team Foxtrot.
“And have Team Golf join us here, please,” he said.
Five minutes later Team Golf’s railbike pulled up. Justine and Emma straddled the bike. Ellen held Myriam in her lap. Myriam’s legs rested over the side of the car, kicking at the wind like a little girl. He smiled at the site of them until the memory of Vera, who had been held in much the same way, crept into the moment. His attention returned to the Mark XII devices.
“Okay ladies, we need to pull six Mark XII’s through my portal and disarm them. They’re waiting in my pod. Should only take a few minutes to extract them with the pulley system. We have to work quickly.” Not just because of the visitor on his way. Hiram wasn’t sure how long he could stand to stay inside his pod. The headache had died down, but his ankle felt like the bones had been shattered. If he kept going into the pod, he feared at some point his ankle would shrivel up, his foot along with it. The image of that damned, helpless dog kept swimming through the back of his mind. The mutt had wandered into his camp one night as he crossed the Sinai desert, and hung around after Hiram threw him a few scraps. It was a lonely crossing, and Hiram welcomed the company. A few nights later Hiram absentmindedly tossed an empty pod food wrapper through the portal in his pack. The dog darted after it, his font legs and head breaking the milky white surface of the portal before Hiram realized what was happening. He remembered the way the remainder of dog’s body had relaxed an instant before sliding all the way through the opening. By the time he got down into his pod, the dog was a shriveled-up husk on the floor.
The Maids of Chateau Vernet Page 14
