by Brian Parker
Two blocks from the bridge, a few local toughs stopped them, demanding payment for passage. Again, the mention of Psycho Shane caused the men to stop. Their leader told James’ little party that they had to go see Double D at the Union Temple Baptist Church if they wanted to continue traveling through the neighborhood.
“Who is this Double D guy?” James asked, pushing hard on his wheels to keep up. His hands were in agony from the repetitive motion and his shoulders and forearms seemed like they were about to fall off. But, he’d told himself that if Gloria could make it without complaints, then so could he.
“He’s the man who’s gonna say whether you live or die, cripple.”
“Well, that’s just lovely,” Gloria muttered.
D’onta helped push James up the small ramp to the church’s double glass doors and Gloria held the door open wide. The heat abated slightly inside the building’s thick, brick walls. James hadn’t ever thought much about the magnificence of air conditioning, but if they survived this ordeal, he would never take it for granted again.
“You wait here,” the teen ordered, indicating the general lobby area. He disappeared down a hallway before Gloria could give him a snarky comeback.
“Well, this brought us about half a mile further,” James stated, rubbing his palms in an effort to massage some of the soreness away.
“And it was in the right direction,” Gloria agreed. “They could have taken us back toward the city, so it’s a win in my book.”
“Are we still going to be allowed to leave?” D’onta asked.
“Of course,” Gloria replied. “They won’t keep us here. Mister Double D just wants to meet with us before we go.”
James hoped she was right. People that use a church as a base of operation can’t be all that bad, he consoled himself. Right?
Gloria’s explanation seemed to work, so the boy led his younger sister, Phelisha, to explore the lobby. Lakeisha stayed near James and Gloria. The girl was extremely shy, and over the last few days she’d refused to leave their side. It worried James. He hadn’t been prepared to become a father figure to more than the little one in his wife’s stomach, now he had an instant flock of kids that he was responsible for keeping track of.
Whoever Double D was, he didn’t seem concerned with people roaming around his headquarters building. The children explored every nook and cranny, discovering a supply of building blocks and coloring books. Lakeisha detached herself from Gloria and wandered over to her siblings where she began to color.
Within ten minutes, the teen returned and ordered Gloria and James to follow him. The kids grabbed several books and a handful of crayons each before they followed behind the adults.
The youth led them to an office labeled ‘Pastor’. Inside, a black man of around thirty sat behind the desk. Several tourist maps of the city were laid open on the desktop, some of them with large circles drawn on them. From his lower vantage point, it looked like some of the circles were around buildings and some were at other locations, like the bridges and street corners.
The man at the desk covered the maps with a few blank pages of paper. “Hello,” he greeted them.
“Hi,” James replied meekly.
“What’s the meaning of detaining us?” Gloria demanded.
Like a goddamned wrecking ball, James moaned in his head.
“I’m sorry,” the man answered. “My name is Devon.”
He offered his hand and James shook it. “Are you Double D?” Gloria asked.
The man winced. “The street kids call me that. I’m Deacon Devon, from the church.”
“Oh,” Gloria chirped. “I wasn’t expecting that.” James knew his wife; people seldom surprised her, but this was one of those rare times.
Double D smiled. “I’m sorry. Should I have affected a gangster pose and wore a sideways hat?”
She laughed. “No, Mister Devon. I—”
“Devon is my first name; Devon Johns.”
“I meant I wasn’t expecting the man to be running the street gangs to be a man of the church,” Gloria plowed on through his interruption.
“I don’t run the street gangs, ma’am,” the deacon disputed. “They choose to work with me so we can get rid of those motherfucking Nazis—excuse my language.”
Gloria nodded her head. “Motherfucking Nazis is right, Devon. We’re trying to get away from them too.”
“Oh, let’s be clear, ma’am. I ain’t running from them,” Devon answered. “I’m gonna do whatever I can to make sure they get what they deserve for attacking my city.”
James crossed his arms over his chest and said, “So, you’re not a gang member then?”
“No!” the deacon said, standing rapidly and then cramming his hands in his pockets. “I am not a gang member. I am a community organizer; I lead our community in organized resistance. I didn’t want the role at first, but when they murdered Pastor Kelly, the Nazis forced that on me.”
Devon stared out the window, through the bars. “What is your story?” he asked. “How did two white folks with black children get the blessing of Psycho Shane?”
“We needed help getting from the Rosslyn Metro Station to the other side of the river because of James’ wheelchair,” Gloria answered. “Shane helped us get the wheelchair down the stairs and his men got it out at the other end.”
“What did you have to pay him off with?”
“Nothing—” Gloria stopped. “You don’t approve of his ways, do you?”
“Of course not. The man is a lunatic. This church stood as a beacon of hope for our youth, giving them a shot at education and fellowship without joining a street gang. We were bitter enemies with the gangs until the Nazis came; now we’re in an uneasy truce. I’ve got the police and a lot of military members—”
He stopped suddenly. James thought he knew why. “We’re not collaborators, Devon,” he offered. “We hate them just as badly as you. Those three children are without parents… I’m crippled for life… Hundreds of thousands of people are dead. All of that happened because of those motherfucking Nazis. You don’t have to worry about us.”
“You still haven’t answered my question,” Devon stated, sitting back down. “What did you give Psycho Shane in exchange for his help?”
“I’m an officer in the US Army,” Gloria replied. “He was trying to shake us down and saw my ID card. He used to be in the Navy and offered to help us, free of charge.”
“No joke? That guy was in the Navy?”
“That’s what he told us,” she confirmed.
“We could use more military leadership. Would you be interested in joining our cause?” Double D pointed at Gloria’s stomach. “Obviously, not in the field, but you could help out with planning and tactics.”
She shook her head. “I’m sorry, Devon. I have to leave the city and get in touch with my leaders.”
Gloria stopped and looked sidelong at James. He nodded. “It’s okay.”
“I may have information about where the Nazis came from so we can nuke them into oblivion.”
The words hung in the air and the silence was palpable.
“You know a way to end this earlier?” Devon asked.
Gloria grimaced. “I may have the information, based on historical data. They were definitely there at one point, but they may be gone now.”
“Anything is better than nothing.” The conversation ceased once more and Devon folded the corner of a piece of paper. He was worrying over something.
Finally, he said, “I—we—have a favor to ask you.”
“What is it?” James asked guardedly. He wasn’t in the habit of agreeing to favors without knowing what was being asked of him.
Devon stood and said, “I’ll be right back. Hold on.”
He rushed out of the room and closed the door behind himself. James glanced back at the kids to see what they were doing. They sat on the floor, coloring the books they’d taken from the lobby. He turned back to Gloria. “What’s that all about?”
S
he shrugged. “I don’t know. It has something to do with our knowledge about the Nazi base though. I’d just about guarantee that.”
There were two quick knocks on the door and Devon reappeared. “Sorry to keep you waiting—although you’re probably better off waiting until the morning to leave. We can keep you safe here overnight.”
“What do you want from us?” Gloria asked. “You weren’t all that willing to help out until you heard about my occupation and why we wanted to leave the city.”
Devon ducked his chin and turned slightly back into the hallway. He reached out and then gently guided an older man, thin with age, into the doorway. “Let me introduce you to Colonel Frederick Albrecht. He’s a Nazi defector and he knows what they’re planning to do.”
*****
13 July 2025
Naval Surface Warfare Center, Dahlgren, Virginia
“You need to snap out of it, Gabriel. There’s nothing you could have done. This is war; shit happens.”
Gabe looked at his commander as if he’d never seen the man before. He wasn’t dumb enough to get mouthy and then get in trouble, but shit happens? That’s what he got for losing eighty men. Men whom he was responsible for; some of them, like First Sergeant Thomas, had been his friends.
The brigade unmanned aerial systems had finally been able to fly down to Montross, where the first sergeant’s convoy had stopped when they saw the Nazi planes. They’d found the burnt-out wreckage of two Humvees, a big yellow school bus, four sedans and one pickup truck; there was no sign of the second truck. Bodies were clearly visible as the UAV dropped lower and decreased its speed enough to keep it aloft, barely.
Gabe wanted to scream obscenities at the callous man standing beside his truck. “Uh… I get it, sir,” he replied instead. “I know that it was all a matter of luck, but I’m still the one who ordered them to go that way.”
“Then believe that it was me who ordered them to go,” Lieutenant Colonel Calhoun offered. “I’m the one who told you to come to Dahlgren. Blame me. Do whatever you need to do to get your head back in the game because I have a mission for you.”
The captain’s head snapped up. “A mission?” Revenge, he thought.
“Yeah, it comes all the way from the President of the United States. Division was given the mission to secure a high value asset. Seems the Nazis have a senior defector who knows their capabilities and their battle plan. We need to go get him before they snatch him back up. Division gave the mission to our Brigade, Colonel Graves gave it to me, and I’m giving it to you, Gabe. This is a matter of national importance, if you can’t do it, then—”
“We’ll do it, sir!” Gabe replied hastily. If he could get his hands around the neck of one of the senior Nazi officials, he’d wring every bit of information out of him that there was. In the flash of an instant, he imagined himself as an interrogator, leading the defector through mental and physical anguish in order to get the needed information.
Colonel Calhoun slapped a large, meaty palm on Gabe’s shoulder, stirring him from his victorious musings. “Good, I knew I could count on you. This is top priority, so I’m giving you the battalion eighty-ones and our snipers. I know you lost half of your heavy weapons, so Alpha company is giving you soldiers to round out your company.”
Gabe held up a hand. “Sir, that’s what got my men killed the first time around. If there’d only been a handful of them, the Germans probably wouldn’t have even noticed them. I think going up as a full company is a bad idea.”
“Well, give me your suggestion, then.”
“No more than a platoon—in civilian clothing, with civilian vehicles. Once we get within twenty or thirty miles of the city, we dismount and go in on foot. I doubt many people are driving toward DC, so it would send up a warning immediately. We go in with a very small footprint, pick up the defector and then get the hell out of there.”
Calhoun rubbed at the day’s stubble on his chin. “In and out quick, like a Ranger platoon, huh?”
“Yes, sir. Just like the Rangers.” Gabe knew his commander didn’t mean to compare Berserker Company to the Rangers—who’d taken one hundred percent casualties in the first days of the war attempting to parachute into the city.
“It sounds good on the surface, but what if you run into—hell, into just about any size enemy element?”
“We’ll have our FO and I’d want the battalion JTAC,” Gabe replied immediately, saying that he had his own company artillery observer, but he also wanted the battalion Air Force Joint Tactical Air Controller, or JTAC, to control close air support.
Calhoun shook his head. “I can’t give you the JTAC, Gabriel. The belief that you could call in fast movers would be potentially disastrous. So far, the only thing our jets have been able to do against the Nazi UFOs is get killed. Until we can figure out a way to gain air superiority, the Air Force isn’t flying.”
“So no CAS,” Gabe muttered. “I can live with that as long as the long guns are up and ready to go.”
“I’ll get with Spartan Six immediately after this and try to get dedicated artillery…” Lieutenant Colonel Calhoun trailed off, staring at a spot on the ground. After a few seconds, he slapped the hood of Gabe’s Humvee. “Alright. Approved. I want you to pack body armor and helmets though. Their benefits outweigh the risk. Pick your men. You have the pick of anyone in the battalion. I don’t think you’re going to want to take the 81s if you’re humping it; your company 60s can handle the job. But, I want you to take a sniper team.”
“Yes, sir. I’m also gonna need some 240 gunners and A-gunners, but other than that, I should be good to go. I’m taking Lieutenant Wilcox’s platoon.”
“His dad died at the Pentagon, didn’t he?”
Gabe nodded. “We think so, sir. He was a colonel on the Army staff and at work when the building was destroyed.”
“Does he have any other family?”
“A mom in one of the DC suburbs, but he doesn’t know if she’s alive either.”
“This is a shitty mess, any way you cut it,” Calhoun stated. “I’m gonna go tell the Three that you’re in the planning stages of your mission and make that phone call to Spartan Six.”
Gabe’s commander walked a few steps and then turned back. “You need to be on the road by tomorrow morning, zero eight hundred. Good luck, Gabriel.”
“Thank you, sir,” he replied and grabbed the radio handset once the older man was gone.
“Jake, it’s Berserker Six. We’ve got a lot of planning to do. I need you and your platoon sergeant at my victor in five minutes. We’re going after those sons-a-bitches.”
*****
13 July 2025
US Port of Entry, Loring, Montana
Gregory stumbled and sat heavily on the ground, scraping his elbow on a rock. If he were honest with himself, he’d actually fallen, but he would never admit that it happened. Fallschirmjägers don’t get tired. Especially from insignificant things like exhaustion, dehydration, hunger, and sunburn, he told himself as he wiped the blood onto his trousers.
He’d traveled nearly three hundred kilometers, 190 miles according to the road signs, from Bravo Flight near Lewiston to the Canadian border. He’d quickly shed his uniform top, hat and all but his pistol, which he kept in the holster under his shirt instead of on the outside. Gregory absently patted the weapon to ensure it was still there, instantly regretting it as his hand brushed across the chaffed skin around his waist where the nylon had dug into his unprotected skin.
Growing up inside Argus Base hadn’t prepared Gregory for the heat and the dangers of the sun. He didn’t even know that a sunburn was possible. Within hours of his initial flight after his platoon was roasted alive by the secret American weapon the skin on his arms, face, and neck was bright red and hot to the touch. In places, he even had blisters filled with fluid. He figured out that it was the sun on his bare skin and sought cover. Since that day, he’d traveled only at night, paralleling the road steadily northward.
And now he’d made it t
o Canada and freedom.
Gregory pulled the binoculars from his pack and scanned the large, squat building less than half a kilometer away from where he sat. Big, black block letters on the front of the building stated that it was the United States Port of Entry. His English was passable, but he had no idea what a “port” was. He determined it must be another word for building and put the thought out of his head. It wasn’t important.
He looked at the parking lot to see if there were any vehicles present. It looked like there were only two; one sedan and one of the smaller lories the Americans preferred to drive—although as far as Gregory could tell, they rarely carried anything in the cargo area.
“So, two vehicles,” he mumbled aloud. “That means there could be six or seven people in the building.”
His mind worked the math. He had twelve bullets in his pistol and three more magazines in his pack, bringing his total number of rounds to thirty-six. More than enough to kill seven guards, but they likely had rifles for standoff distances as well as other defenses. He shuddered at the memory of his men roasting, their skin bursting open as the meat inside of them cooked.
Gregory watched the station for a few more minutes with interest. No one entered or left the building and besides the vehicles, there didn’t appear to be anyone present. He shifted his view, following the road beyond the building. There was a checkpoint of sorts, with a draw arm that was painted with the colors of the American flag. Beyond that was another draw arm painted with the Canadian colors. Both were lifted out of the way of traffic, indicating to Gregory that the border was open.
The border-crossing site seemed incredibly welcoming, surprising Gregory. As a child, he’d learned the Americans were some of the cruelest creatures on the planet—the weapon at Bravo Flight was certainly indicative of that—while the Canadians were hapless tree farmers, dragged into the war by their treaties with England. The only martial thing about the entire border crossing point was a three-meter tall barbed-wire fence, which ran for about a hundred meters on either side of the road before terminating as if both parties thought the entire attempt at security too tedious to continue.