A Gift from the Gods

by Martin Gunn

  “It’s not your fault,” comforted Slater, “believe me, he was convincing.”

  “But why carry out such an elaborate deception? It makes no sense.”

  Slater had been pondering the same question and he came to only one logical conclusion.

  “It makes perfect sense, if you want to draw attention away from somewhere else.”

  “That would imply that the bastard is still alive,” mused Perez, “but where?”

  Slater shrugged; he could be anywhere in the world, even the USA. He put that thought out of his mind and stood up and started to make his way to the bedroom – he needed some sleep.

  “Did you kill him?”

  “I didn’t get a chance,” replied Slater from the doorway, “besides, what would be the point?”

  ***

  Waking up with a start at 0900 hours, Slater could hear Perez in the bedroom next door, speaking into his two-way radio set. He got up and went to the bathroom. Perez finished his call and waited for Slater to reappear.

  “I’ve just been in contact with the Argonaut,” he uttered with a frown, “the captain said that they won’t be in the bay until dusk today.”

  “Crap, that means we’ll have to sit it out for nine hours or more,” mused Slater, “we can only hope that Nazi efficiency isn’t what it used to be.”

  Unfortunately, Nazi efficiency was as exceptional as it ever was, and by 1600 hours a delegation of two black Mercedes W170 saloons were entering Theo’s property. The two cars drove to within a hundred feet of Theo’s aircraft and eight men alighted and stood in a line with their arms folded. They were all young, in their mid to late twenties, and were dressed all in black except for a grey polo-neck sweater underneath a leather jacket.

  Theo, working on the damage to his plane, stopped what he was doing and smiled nervously, he wasn’t the kind of man who was easily intimidated but this didn’t look good.

  “Gentlemen,” he offered amiably, “can I help?”

  One of the men stepped forward, removing his sunglasses.

  “Indeed, I hope you can,” he simpered calmly, with menace, “in fact your life may depend on it.”

  The man’s name was Luki Albrecht, a Waffen-SS soldier who had followed the Nazi ratlines into Argentina like so many of his comrades. He was lean, fit, and ruthlessly loyal to the cause; following orders without question.

  He motioned for two of his men to move forward and stand beside Theo.

  They each grabbed an arm and Luki punched Theo hard in the stomach. Winded, the hapless pilot’s feet buckled under him and the two men held him firm, preventing him from collapsing to the ground.

  “What do you want?” gasped Theo trying to get his breath back.

  “We want to know who you took to the house last night and where we can find them.”

  “I didn’t take anyone. Why do you ask me this?” lied Theo.

  Luki slapped him hard across the face with the back of his gloved hand. A laceration began to bleed on Theo’s left cheekbone.

  “Don’t take me for a fool,” shouted Luki, “your plane is riddled with bullet holes.”

  The Nazi composed himself and produced a commando knife. He ran the tip across Theo’s right cheek until a thin red line appeared. A little blood oozed out and ran down the side of his face.

  “Now, I will ask you one last time and your answer will determine whether you live or not.”

  Realising that he had no choice in the matter, Theo relented.

  “There was two of them, I only know that they came from San Antonio Oeste.”

  “Names – I need names,” insisted Luki.

  “I only know one,” uttered Theo, “Santino Perez. The other one I don’t remember.”

  “Ah yes, the American,” pondered Luki, “and did they tell you what their mission was?”

  “No, they didn’t tell me and I didn’t ask,” Theo blurted, then offered one last piece of information which he thought might save him, “they are driving a red jeep. That should be easy to find.”

  Luki nodded to the two henchmen, who released Theo, then turned and walked back to the cars. He took an object from one of the other men and walked back to the plane. Theo had stumbled away from the plane in the hope that this was an end to his interrogation. But Luki tossed a grenade into the cockpit of the aircraft and casually walked away. Seconds later, to Theo’s horror, his plane exploded throwing wood and fabric in all directions. Then a second detonation blew the plane apart as the fuel tank went up.

  “You bastards. Why did you have to do this?” sobbed Theo in anger.

  Luki approached the man, who to him looked pathetic and broken in spirit.

  “Consider yourself lucky to be alive, old man.”

  Then he turned and walked back to the cars and Theo watched in dismay as they kicked up a trail of dust and disappeared. He looked at the burning wreckage of his beloved plane and gave out a cry of anguish.

  ***

  Every half hour, Slater nervously looked out of the window overlooking the street. This was taking too long, but they needed confirmation by radio that the submarine was close. By 1800 hours there was still no contact, and as Slater looked out of the window yet again, he noticed two black Mercedes saloons parked a few hundred yards down the street. The light was getting dim and Slater squinted to see if he could see any movement of men. He saw a few men move up and hide in doorways down the street.

  “I don’t like the look of this Santino,” he shouted, moving to his bedroom to find his pistol, “we need to leave here now.”

  At that moment the radio sprang into life.

  “The sub is in the bay,” confirmed Perez.

  At that moment the door was kicked down, and one of Luki’s men entered and fired a short burst of machine-gun fire at Perez, who was thrown across his bed with several bullets in his chest. He lay there still; the radio was still crackling.

  Knowing he would be next, Slater pressed himself tight against the wall close to the bedroom door. It too was kicked open and as the man entered, Slater stuck his pistol into the man’s stomach and pulled the trigger. As he collapsed, Slater grabbed his MP40 submachine-gun and climbed out of the window to the fire escape. Within seconds he was on the ground and pulling the tarpaulin off the Vincent motorbike. He opened the choke, tickled both carburettors to prime them with petrol, pulled back the valve lifter lever and kicked down hard to start the machine. The engine rumbled then stopped. He looked up at the fire escape and could see another man clambering out of the window.

  “Start you mother fucker,” he muttered, adjusting the choke a little.

  He pulled back the valve lifter lever again and pressed down hard on the kick starter and the bike roared into life. Without hesitation, Slater opened the throttle and headed for the alleyway which led out into the street. It wasn’t a moment too soon as a hail of bullets came ricocheting through the metal railings of the fire escape, missing him by inches. Speeding through the short alleyway, Slater kicked over a soldier caught off guard, and then he sped down the street.

  Luki watched from his car further down the street, infuriated as he saw the bike emerge, the rider with a machine-gun strapped across his back.

  “Get after him!” he shouted at the second car.

  Two men sped away in pursuit of the bike. Slater glanced back to see the car gaining on him. He screeched to a halt and turned right down a side street then braked hard, about fifty feet in. The bike’s rear end slid round and Slater removed the machine-gun just in time to spray the oncoming vehicle with bullets. He saw a burst of red splatter the windscreen and the Mercedes crashed into a side wall and ground to a halt. Putting the machine-gun back over his shoulder he continued down the back street, only to find the other Mercedes had joined the chase. This one however was shooting at him from the passenger window; as bullets were flying past him, he knew he h
ad to get off this street and fast. Up ahead he saw a narrow side alley; skidding the bike to a halt he sped down it knowing that his assailant couldn’t follow.

  “Back up,” shouted Luki frantically, “he’ll be out on the main street.”

  Emerging from the side alley, Slater recognised where he was and took the route which headed for the coast road. Again, bullets were whistling past him, but it was dark now and luckily none of them were hitting their target.

  Speeding through the town, Slater picked up the coast road and sped along as fast as he dared. He had left the lights off, so as to make himself a more difficult target, but it also made navigating the bumpy track tricky. It wasn’t much better for the Mercedes however, and a glance over his shoulder saw the saloon falling behind.

  Slater looked at his watch, the luminous dial showed that he had been riding for just under one hour. He turned left and picked his way over the dunes until he reached the beach. Hoping he was close to the pick-up point he switched on his lights to flash a signal out to sea. There was nothing; no sight nor sound, just the rush of waves crashing on the sand. As Slater continued to flash his lights in the hope of being seen, he heard the noise of his pursuers’ car drawing to a halt above him. They had seen the red tail-light of the Vincent glowing in the pitch black. Pulling the bike round sideways to give himself some cover, Slater took the machine-gun off his back, crouched down and waited. Within minutes bullets started hitting the bike, sparking as they ricocheted off. He rested his gun on the saddle and sprayed gunfire into the night in the direction of the barrel flashes. This continued for a few minutes until suddenly his gun stopped. He was out of ammunition. It wouldn’t be long before they would realise this and start advancing on him. The gunfire ceased and he guessed they were moving forward to capture him, but it was in this moment of silence that he heard the sound of two outboard motors, as two US Navy dinghies slid up onto the beach. Marines immediately disembarked, spreading themselves out, and began to return gunfire. Three Nazi henchmen were killed instantly and Luki, who had held back in the dunes, dropped to the ground and waited. Slater saw his moment, stood up and made a break for the sea. Luki gave a short burst of machine-gun fire and Slater felt like he had been hit by a brick in his back. As he slumped to the sand, the Marines advanced, causing Luki and the remainder of his men into a forced retreat.

  Slater was hurriedly carried down to one of the dinghies but he was in a bad way. One bullet had hit him in the stomach and another punctured his right lung. Ten minutes later he was on the sub and being marshalled to a bunk. They laid him down as he coughed and spluttered blood.

  “He’s losing too much blood,” whispered the medic looking up at the captain, “I don’t think we can save him.”

  Slater tried to speak through the blood rising up through his throat.

  “Not real,” he gurgled weakly, “fake!”

  “What did he say,” asked the captain, “it sounded like fake.”

  “Not real,” was all that Slater could utter one last time. And in his dying moments his last thoughts were of his wife and the child who would have to grow up without its father.

  “Sara,” He whispered with one last gasp, then finally lay silent.

  “He’s gone,” stated the medic, “we didn’t have a chance.”

  “What do you think he meant by fake?” enquired the puzzled captain.

  The medic shrugged and covered Slater’s body with a sheet.

  “Right, let’s get outta here,” ordered the captain, “and get this guy home.”

  ***

  Waiting impatiently for news, Kolbeck and Bormann stood over the radio willing it to crackle into life. Eventually it did so around 2000 hours. Luki reported one agent dead and another shot, believed dead.

  “Believed dead,” reiterated Bormann, “not ideal news.”

  “It could have been worse,” quipped Kolbeck, trying to stay optimistic.

  Bormann poured himself a drink and slumped onto the couch.

  “I think our time here is over,” he observed, “I would have liked to stay here longer, but I think it’s time that we moved to the States.”

  “What shall we do with Juergen?” enquired Kolbeck.

  “Well, he’s outlived his usefulness,” considered a pragmatic Bormann, “and we can’t take him with us.”

  “Sooner we get this over with then, the better,” sighed Kolbeck, picking up his Walther p38.

  “No, leave it to me.”

  Both men turned around to see Liesel standing there. She had overheard the conversation and understood what had to be done. Later that evening Juergen was handed a glass of whisky laced with a sleeping draught, and while he was out for the count, she administered a lethal injection. Juergen quietly slipped away, to finally join his brother Jakob.

  CHAPTER TEN

  The Eagle Will Rise Again

  Downtown – Los Angeles, California

  11th July 1985

  Stepping out onto South Broadway and 8th street from the Tower Theatre, von Brandt squinted into the late afternoon sunlight. As the sun dipped low, it shone through the tall buildings, casting long shadows down the street. The theatre dated back to the 1920s; von Brandt felt at ease with its period exterior design, and its interior resplendent with ornate golden furnishings. He had been curious about a new movie that seemed to be showing everywhere all of a sudden, so decided to check it out for himself.

  Entering an Italian bistro, he sat down and ordered cannelloni, garlic bread and a bottle of Chianti. One of the aspects of living in modern day America that he was still getting to grips with, but enjoying nonetheless, was the variety on offer.

  Whilst he was waiting for his food to arrive, he contemplated the film that he had just seen. His curiosity was piqued by the fact that the story revolved around a time machine. It amused him somewhat that this particular time machine was portrayed by what to him looked like a futuristic, nuclear powered silver automobile, with gull wing doors. Although nuclear fission was a technology lost on von Brandt, he did raise an eyebrow at the notion of buying such potent materials, with relative ease, from Middle Eastern terrorists. More interesting to him however, was the way this film portrayed both post-war and modern-day America. It gave him an insight in to how the country had evolved over a twenty-five-year period socially, culturally and technologically. But the one aspect of the film which really got him thinking was the concept of temporal paradoxes created by time travel. He watched with fascination as the hero’s family began to fade from the photograph, the more the hero interfered with the past. As he sipped his wine, von Brandt wondered how his presence in the future might affect the space-time continuum.

  After his meal von Brandt drove back to the motel that he called home, in his white 1984 Volkswagen Rabbit. With his spending power, he could more or less have any car he wanted, but wisely decided to stick to something inconspicuous. The last thing he wanted to do was attract attention. Later that evening as he sat on the bed staring at the portable TV, but not really paying attention, von Brandt decided that tomorrow he would find a library and make a start on some proper research.

  ***

  The tree-lined walkway which gradually stepped up to meet the Central Library, was clearly designed to show off the magnificent architecture to great effect, with its two statues standing like silent sentinels above a large arched entrance. Von Brandt was impressed as he took in the imposing edifice. Above the statues in large capitals, was a Latin phrase – ET QUASI CURSORES VITAI LAMPADA TRADUNT. With his classical training, he had no trouble translating it – ‘And Runners Pass the Torch’. Entering through the large door, von Brandt was relieved to feel the cooler air of the building’s air conditioning. He walked through the main lobby, looked at the information board and discovered the history section was four floors down. Approaching an elevator, von Brandt pressed the down button and waited for the doors to open. As they did
so he stepped in and was about to press the fourth-floor basement button, when he heard a female voice.

  “Wait,” she shouted, as von Brandt paused, “thank you. I’m in a real rush this morning.”

  “Not at all,” replied von Brandt gallantly with a smile, “which floor?”

  “Oh – fourth down please.”

  “That’s my floor too.”

  An awkward silence fell between them as the elevator descended. Von Brandt sized the woman up. She was in her late twenties, attractive, with long straight mousy hair. Of average height in cream two-inch slingback heels, she wore a green summer dress with a floral pattern. The woman smiled awkwardly at von Brandt as they approached the fourth floor. She found this stranger very striking. He was tall, obviously fit, with an aloof countenance which suggested someone completely at ease with himself, and with those around him. Though trying not to show it, she was captivated by him.

  “Are you going to the history section?” enquired von Brandt.

  “No,” she replied, “genealogy.”

  With that the vision of beauty stepped out of the elevator and walked away. So, von Brandt turned his attention to the rows of books in front of him. He was particularly interested in books concerning the Second World War and its aftermath. Eventually he found a number of books and sat at a table to study them. As he read, von Brandt discovered with dismay how his beloved country had been ravished by war. All the major cities reduced to rubble. The death of Hitler also saddened him, and the knowledge that half of the fatherland was currently in the control of the Soviet Union simply horrified him. After reading with great curiosity about the two nuclear bombs that were dropped on Japan, he needed to find out more and learned of the cold war that had developed between the two super powers.

  Nearly three hours had passed, and he was feeling hungry, so von Brandt decided to make his way up to the lobby and use the café that he had passed on the way in. Soon, he was sitting down in the cafeteria with a cup of coffee, and a sandwich. Sipping his coffee, he looked up to see the woman whom he had met earlier in the elevator. She was carrying a tray with some food.