by Brian Parker
“Let’s not keep the man waitin’ all day, then,” Sean said. “He’s through here?”
The priest nodded his head and swept his arms wide. “Please, come inside.”
They filed past him and Sean heard the rectory door lock firmly behind the priest, who then shuffled past them once more and led them into the parlor where a cloud of choking grey smoke nearly obscured a large male sitting on the sofa. Even sitting down, Sean could see that the man was massive, easily two meters tall, probably more than eighteen stones. His nose was crooked, remnants of having been broken multiple times over the years, but the man’s dominant feature was a large scar running from his chin to the corner of his mouth and then continuing across his face to disappear in the hairline above his ear. Sean wouldn’t want to get in a scrap with that one.
“Ah! You must be the agent Dominic has sent to me to learn how to make bombs,” the man stated with a thick accent that wasn’t quite like what Sean had heard German tourists use in Derry before the Troubles began and drove them all away. He wondered if the big man was one of them “transported Germans” living over in South America. Didn’t really matter to him, though. If Dominic trusted the man enough to have two of his deepest operatives meet with him, then he must be on the up and up about helping the republicans put an end to the British occupation.
“Aye, that’d be me.” He stuck out a hand. “Sean O’Connor. This is my partner, Colleen Kavanagh.”
“Women aren’t good fighters,” the German muttered, not bothering to introduce himself or shake Sean’s hand. “What do you know about shape charges?”
“I… Uh, I know how to use Frangex and some old clock parts to make a time bomb.”
“You’re bomb is not good,” the German declared. “Shape charge can tear through armored vehicle, the side of a building, the only thing limiting you is your imagination.”
“I’ve heard of shaped charges—the British Army uses ’em.”
The big man leaned over the arm of the sofa and picked up a canvas satchel. “This is how to make a shape charge. Very simple.”
He swept his forearm across the coffee table, sending the ashtray, empty cup and saucer, and even a bible falling to the floor.
“Excuse me,” the priest protested.
“Go away, little man. I wouldn’t want you getting exploded.” He dumped the contents of the satchel onto the wood and turned back to Sean. “Is that how you say it: exploded?”
“Close enough,” he replied, eyeing the familiar parts on the table. “Father, would ya please excuse us?”
“Yes, of course. I’ll be in my office with the door closed.”
The German watched the priest leave and then nodded his head approvingly when the office door clicked shut. “I know you’re planning on bombing a disco in a few days,” he stated.
“How—?”
“It’s my job to know. A shape charge is perfect for this. Place it near a support pillar and the roof will collapse, causing much more damage than a simple fragmentation bomb like you know how to make.”
The wheels began turning in Sean’s head. The Droppin Well did have a pillar supporting the roof in the middle of the dance floor. If he could time it to detonate when the British soldiers from Shackleton Barracks were there with their sympathizing whores…
“Does this make sense to you?” the big man asked, lighting another cigarette.
“Aye, the concept makes sense.”
“Good. Let me teach you the proper way to make a shape charge. I hope you are a fast learner.”
“Going somewhere?” Colleen asked.
“Ja. I have a plane to catch. I have a meeting with the leaders of several Mujahedeen tribes thirty-seven hours from now and then I’m going to Indonesia to a teach a few of the East Timor nationalists how to make the shape charge as well.”
“Muja-what?”
“Mujahedeen. They are a collection of warrior tribes in Afghanistan. They’re fighting against the occupying Soviet Army—much like you are fighting against the British occupation of Northern Ireland.”
“Busy man, aye?” Sean smirked, picking up the curved piece of metal from the pile of supplies on the table.
“You don’t know the half of it,” the German winked. “Everything is harder these days. I’ve been dead for seven years and still people in the airport recognize me. Damn television.”
Sean squinted his eyes, trying to determine who the man was. “I’m sorry, you never gave me your name,” he said.
“Skorzeny,” the brute replied, laughing as he said it.
*****
12 March 2020
Argus Base, East Antarctica
“In one week, we will strike! We will remind the Americans of what it means to fear,” Frederick shouted to the other senior officers in the meeting room. “The camera footage will be invaluable as a motivational tool for the Wehrmacht as we begin the unthawing process next year.”
“But don’t you think we risk showing our hand too early?” Joseph Schwartz, the chief engineering scientist, asked. “If they track your small demonstration force back to Argus, then all is lost.”
“Have you done your duty to the Reich, Herr Schwartz?” Oberst Albrecht demanded.
“Excuse me, sir?”
“Have you done your duty to the Reich?” Frederick repeated without elaborating.
“I… You know I have. I live for the glory of our Reich. Every day in this environment is a sacrifice that I willingly make, Oberst. You have been inside this base your entire life, but I have been to the outside world—and chosen to return. I have helped our teams to infiltrate military bases and steal the most heavily guarded of technologies. I have been to the corporate headquarters and marketplaces of the capitalists to purchase products that we can’t manufacture ourselves. I—”
“Enough, Joseph!” the oberst cut him off. “I know the sacrifices you’ve made—the sacrifices that we’ve all made,” he amended.
Frederick took a moment to suppress his feeling of loss. His beloved Greta had committed suicide in front of him two months ago. Once their sixth child was frozen, she told him that her duty to the Reich was complete. He asked her what she meant and she plastered the wall of their quarters with the insides of her skull.
That was the way of things in Argus Base. When someone’s usefulness was complete, they were encouraged to end the burden upon the food supplies.
Now, the only thing Frederick Albrecht had was his command of the 938th Training Brigade and the Fourth Reich, which he’d spent his entire life establishing. The Reich was finally ready, in his opinion, to strike against the Americans. They were complacent, undisciplined, self-centered and arrogant. He would lead the first strike against them and then unthaw Generalfeldmarschall Mueller. Frederick believed it was his destiny to fight for the Reich, not to die without ever having taken up arms in support of it.
“What I meant,” Frederick finally continued, focusing his eyes on the chief engineering scientist, “was to ask you if the stealth technology is complete.”
Joseph inclined his head. “Yes, sir. With the help of the Aryan, I have been able to finalize the shrouding device. I must warn you, it draws so much power, that it can only be placed upon a large cargo ship. We’re decades away from figuring out batteries that are efficient enough to generate that much energy, but small enough to be transported by a düsenjäger.”
“That is of no concern,” Frederick stated, slicing his hand across the air, both to dismiss the fact that the flying discs were too small for the device and to remind the scientist that he didn’t want to hear anything further of the Aryan. The man was an enigma to him, refusing to divulge the truth of where he came from or how he knew so much about technologies that Frederick couldn’t comprehend. The man had an agenda of some sort, but no one else could see it. He was the only one who seemed distrustful of the Aryan.
“Arriving undetected is of utmost importance,” Frederick continued. “The jet fighters do not need their own shrouding dev
ice. The Americans have nothing capable of competing against them in aerial combat.”
“Or so we believe, Oberst,” Andreas Wolff, the oberstleutnant in charge of the Luftwaffe training battalion, interjected. “We do not truly know how the düsenjäger will perform against the F-35 or even the older F-22. Neither plane has engaged in non-simulated combat.”
“You’re making my point for me, Andreas. We need to engage the Americans with a small expeditionary force to determine their response capabilities. The last time our forces fought against the Americans, they were new to jet engines—using stolen plans and kidnapped German scientists, I might add. Since then, they’ve gone on to create different types of engines of their own and have had air superiority in every war they’ve fought in since the Korean War.”
He took a deep breath. “They have not been tested. And neither have we.”
“Treason!”
“It is not treason, Joseph,” Frederick countered. “It is a fact. The Luftwaffe has not engaged in combat in more than sixty-five years. When the Americans destroyed Neuschwabenland Base, we made the decision to go completely underground and abandon combat with them, to let them believe that they’d annihilated us. So, as I said, it is a fact that the Luftwaffe has not been tested.”
“We fly missions weekly, Oberst Albrecht,” Andreas reminded everyone.
“Yes, to gather intelligence and make supply runs—not to engage in combat. I am confident in every generation of our pilots, frozen and unfrozen, but the truth remains that they are untested. That is why I propose a mission to attack the southern coast of the United States, during their so-called ‘spring break’. We can effectively wipe out a large portion of their educated university-age youth in one small-scale attack, risking only the soldiers currently assigned to the training brigade.”
Several of the men around the table argued amongst themselves, while Frederick leaned back to listen, gently steering the conversation when he needed to. He would have his way. He hadn’t worked his way to the top of the Reich’s High Command without knowing how to manipulate others.
“Without the full power of the Wehrmacht at our disposal, I believe we may show our hand too early,” Joseph said.
He’s clearly the leader of the opposition, maybe he should suffer an accident on the ice, Frederick thought.
“We will not show our hand, Herr Schwartz. I will have the Luftwaffe markings removed from the düsenjägers and I won’t take the panzers. We’ll have limited men on the ground, just enough to destroy any of their surface-to-air missile sites at the point of invasion.”
He turned his attention back to the assembled council. “Gentlemen, this is the time to test our forces and the tactics that we’ve trained generations of pilots to perform. We have reached the quota of two million fighting men and will begin unthawing them soon. There is no better time to attempt this than now.”
Frederick leaned forward. “The time for talk is over,” he said. “I propose a vote whether we will authorize a limited, preemptive strike against the Americans utilizing the cadre of the 938th Training Brigade and Generation Fifty-Eight.”
“I second the motion,” the voice of Doctor Michel Kuhn, the Chief Breeder, reverberated off the walls of the small meeting chamber.
“All those in favor of attack, raise your hand,” Frederick directed. His eyes roved across the men assembled before him as he counted. “I believe the number to be eight. Including myself, it’s nine. With a council of fourteen, there is no need to vote in opposition.”
He stood, causing the scientists and engineers in the room to jump. “I will personally fly a düsenjäger and lead the attack. We will draw first blood in our renewed conflict with the Americans. Then, we will thaw the entire Wehrmacht and truly avenge our ancestors.”
They cheered his theatrics and he smiled. The blackness that had settled over his heart since Greta’s suicide would finally have an outlet. He would make the Americans suffer as he had been forced to suffer.
INTERLUDE
03 July 2025
Aokigahara, Mount Fuji, Japan
Timbak walked amongst the giant cypress and hemlock. Their branches effectively blocked the sun from penetrating to the forest floor, creating a deep gloom that made him wonder why so many of the Terrans commit suicide here at a higher rate than anywhere else on their planet. He particularly enjoyed the feeling of depression and sadness; it reminded him of home.
He’d been stuck on this miserable planet for too long and petitioned, unsuccessfully, for his retrieval. The High Council refused his request, citing his placement amongst the Reich as a perfect place to sew discontent and establish the conditions for their return.
Timbak had thought the time was ripe for the return at the conclusion of the Second World War. Most Terran nations were weakened and weary of war; the others would have easily been suppressed. Once again, the Council refused, causing him to think it was a problem with their leadership, not the fleet’s ability to fight.
The sounds of a couple talking around the next bend made him pause in his journey. He could kill them easily if it came to it, but there was always the chance that they weren’t alone and part of a larger group that would miss them, causing a search for their bodies—and potentially complicating his meeting.
It was best to let them live, he decided. They weren’t worth the problems, so he continued. Rounding the bend, he saw two of the small people, the male with his hand under the female’s shirt. They noticed him immediately and turned away from the path, staring into the trees as he passed, ignoring him. The sting of embarrassment was almost palpable. He wondered how the Japanese had devolved into such a shy race.
Terra had been seeded with the same stock as a hundred other planets across the solar system. The diversity that developed here was truly remarkable, not occurring anywhere else that he knew of. Not only physically, but socially and spiritually as well.
This was the only planet in the known universe where humans believed that a higher power rewarded or punished them for their actions. Throughout their history, they’d slaughtered themselves by the billions for the sake of those ideologies—surely the stock was flawed. Timbak blamed the earlier generations of scientists for involving themselves too much here, allowing themselves to be seen instead of simply observing.
A light began to blink on his retinal overlay, indicating that he was close to his destination. He turned and broke through the brush beside the path, hoping the Japanese couple were too embarrassed at having been caught fooling around to follow his trail. Another three hundred meters and he arrived at the predesignated meeting place.
“Good morning, Timbak,” a fleet officer he’d never seen before stated when he emerged from the trees into the small clearing.
“I don’t know what you think is so good about it,” he replied.
“Is this forest not beautiful to you? Can you not feel the power?”
“I can feel it. I’ve been on this planet, living amongst the Terrans, for eighty-two years. I’m sick of it.”
The officer glanced down at his lapel and then back at Timbak. “I wondered if my rank had fallen off, Science Officer Timbak. It hasn’t. You’ve been an invaluable asset for the fleet, advancing our goals without allowing them to develop planet-killing weapons, however, don’t forget your place.”
The man’s arrogance made the Aryan want to punch him. Maybe if he did that, he’d have a chance at leaving this planet.
“I’m sorry, sir,” Timbak emphasized the honorific. “I meant no disrespect. I’m simply ready for the High Council to grant my appeals to return home.”
“Soon, Timbak,” the admiral assured him. “The experiment here is complete. We are sending forces to cleanse Terra for our use. The invasion fleet is large, but as you know, it is much easier to destroy a weakened enemy than a healthy one. The American military is formidable and focused. It has shown the capacity to garner support from other nations and provide unity of effort through leadership. Therefore, it is imp
erative that you convince your hosts to begin the war against them. With the Americans distracted and embroiled in a fight of their own, they will not notice problems elsewhere until it is too late.”
Timbak smiled broadly. It was the first time he hadn’t faked it in years, possibly decades. “The Americans are greatly diminished on the global stage from what they were when I first came to Terra,” he stated. “The Reich launched their attack vessels a week ago. They are waking their troops as we speak. I gave them enough information to develop weapons and reduced-capacity aerial fighters—although they are much more capable than the jet planes of their enemies. This will be a blood-letting unlike any in Terran history.”
“Good. The High Council wants this planet cleansed in a matter of weeks,” the admiral replied. “And Timbak?”
“Yes, sir?”
“Your loyalty to the Council will not be forgotten.”
“Thank you, sir.”
TEN
04 July 2025
Near Malmstrom Air Force Base, Montana
“Two minutes!”
Oberleutnant Gregory Wagner felt the transport plane begin to slow and his stomach dropped. He and his men had rehearsed several simulated jumps from harnesses inside a hangar at Argus Base, but before today, he’d never been airborne. They’d been given drugs to combat the potential for sickness. The Luftwaffe didn’t want their precious aircraft getting dirty.
“One minute!” the transport crew chief shouted into the headset he wore, which was transmitted into an earpiece in the leutnant’s helmet. “Opening doors now.”
The transport slowed even more as a set of cargo doors cracked open in front of Gregory. The fallschirmjäger platoon commander ordered his men to stand up and then hook their static line to the long cable running the length of the transport’s body.
“The navigator just said the base is alerted to our presence. You must go as soon as I say.”
“I understand, Feldwebel,” Gregory replied woodenly. As far as German intelligence knew, there was a half squadron of older F-15 fighters, split between their target and a base in North Dakota. The other base was the objective of an entire company of fallschirmjägers, so they shouldn’t run afoul of the American jets. The Americans below also had an advanced Phalanx system that engineers assured the pilots and paratroopers couldn’t acquire them if the transport dropped the shroud directly over the base long enough to accomplish the jump.