Grudge: Operation Highjump

by Brian Parker

  “Alright,” she said, sitting down on a folding chair. “We’ll stay put. But if the Germans come down here, we don’t know the colonel. Understood?”

  James nodded and Gloria looked back at Albrecht. “Before that interruption, you said the Führer trusted the Aryan. Hitler? You’re talking about Hitler, right?”

  “Of course,” the German replied. “There is no other Führer.”

  A ripple of excitement coursed through Gloria. “Did he… Did he commit suicide in 1945 like everyone believes?”

  “No. The Führer would never have done anything so cowardly.”

  “I knew it!” she said, clapping her hands. “How’d he escape? Was it a deal with the Russians?”

  “No, he hated the Slavs until the day he died.”

  “Oh. He’s dead? I thought you just got done saying that you had a regeneration serum and everyone got frozen.”

  “That is true. However, Adolf Hitler died in 1946. The serum was not finished until the mid-1960s.”

  “So he died before Operation Highjump,” Gloria stated, intrigued by the new information. “Didn’t you say that the Aryan had the formula? Why didn’t he give it to Hitler?”

  “Because it was not ready…”

  “But the Aryan must have had some to copy the formula from—what did Hitler die of?”

  “A heart attack.”

  “Hmmm…and you say it was almost twenty years later that the serum was available?”

  “Yes. Roughly that.”

  “Long enough for all of the senior leadership of the Third Reich who’d made it to Antarctica to die of natural causes,” James surmised as if he’d read her mind.

  A look of confusion passed across Albrecht’s features. It seemed to be a line of thought that he’d never explored. “No. It just took that long to duplicate the serum in our labs. It was…” He faltered, unable to continue.

  “I think it’s entirely possible that this Aryan fellow is playing his own game,” Gloria concluded. “One that he didn’t want any of the original members of the Fourth Reich to discover. He must have waited for them to die of natural causes.”

  “Generalfeldmarschall Mueller has been there from the beginning,” Albrecht said, ignoring the machine gun fire that erupted once more. It sounded like it was directly in the front yard. For all they knew, it was. “He was the man who shot the Jews to fake the Führer’s death. He is as connected as any man could be.”

  “Was he a senior party member at the time?”

  “No. He was only an oberjäger.”

  “Quite a meteoric rise in rank,” Gloria stated. “That’s what, a sergeant in the German paratroopers? All the way to the highest ranking officer.”

  The colonel smiled. “I’m impressed, Miss Gloria. You know a great deal about the Wehrmacht and secret German history. What do you do for the Army?”

  “Frankly, that’s none of your damn business, Colonel.”

  He held up his hands in front of himself. “I’m not meaning to be difficult. It’s simply that the ranks within the fallschirmjäger formations is fairly obscure, probably the least understood of any German unit. You’re something of an expert on the fallschirmjägers, are you?”

  “I’m a generalist,” she stated truthfully. “I just happen to be interested in early airborne operations, which, as we all know, the fallschirmjägers perfected.”

  He nodded. “Well, I can’t tell you exactly how Mueller rose to power, he was our leader and already frozen by the time I was just a few years old.”

  “So—”

  A loud explosion shook the basement walls, raining down dust and particles from the old ceiling tiles. Gloria held her breath and covered her nose. The older tiles contained asbestos and the basement didn’t look like it had undergone and renovations over the years, so they were likely the original tiles. She didn’t need the baby getting that mesothelioma cancer bullshit from asbestos.

  When her air supply ran out, she pulled her shirt up over the bottom part of her face and breathed through the fabric. It took a few minutes for the dust to settle, everyone content to listen to the sounds of battle outside, which alternated from sounding near to far away.

  Finally, the air looked clear enough to talk, but Gloria kept her shirt up, not giving a damn that the lower part of her stomach was exposed. “So, as I was saying,” she began. “It seems like the Aryan is using your people. An entire generation of people fooled into believing that he has your best interests in mind—generations of people apparently.”

  “Sixty-seven generations to be exact. Although only fifty-six are in the invasion force.”

  She glared at the German. “Why are you defecting again, exactly? You said you’d been sentenced to death, but it’s obvious that you love your country, or homeland, or whatever you call it. Why are you willing to betray them?”

  “My home is called Argus Base, but we still refer to the entire continent as Neuschwabenland,” he answered, infuriatingly polite. “And, yes, I love my people without question. However, even though I am distrustful of the American government’s motives and was raised to believe that you were savages, I do not agree with the wonton sacrifice of German life to carve out a new Fatherland.”

  James snorted. “We’re savages? Have you ever heard of Auschwitz? Birkenau? Buchenwald? Hell, fifty other places just like them?”

  Albrecht tilted his head in thought. “The names sound familiar. Were they training camps or—no, wait, they were prisons in old Deutschland, correct?”

  “Concentration camps,” James amended, “where your precious Führer ordered the murder of millions of Jews, Poles, political dissenters, homosexuals and the like. The Nazis are the savages. Americans liberated those camps, rescuing the ones we could. I may be in a wheelchair, but I’ll kick your German ass if you dare say that we were the savages.”

  “You Americans are so self-righteous,” the colonel scoffed. “You are the only nation in the world to use nuclear weapons in warfare, dropping them as a test run on the Japanese and then again in Neuschwabenland, destroying our primary base and condemning us to live in the cramped Argus location and forcing us to freeze people alive so we wouldn’t starve.”

  He stood and pulled down on the ends of his uniform jacket. “Don’t talk to me about savagery.” The colonel stalked off to the farthest corner of the room and sat back down, obviously finished with the conversation.

  “Well, looks like he’s done talking,” Gloria muttered.

  “And he still didn’t answer the question about why he was defecting,” James added.

  “No, I think he alluded to it. He said he didn’t agree with their methods to create a new Fatherland. The Nazis are planning to keep what they’ve taken.”

  *****

  14 July 2025

  Anacostia, Washington, DC

  Devon’s hands shook uncontrollably. This was different than the tremors that went through him when he was scared, and unlike the tingle that ran up his spine when his wife nibbled on his ear. It wasn’t even the same type of feeling when he shivered in the darkest days of winter, waiting for the bus. Although, he was cold. So cold—and thirsty.

  “I— Water,” he moaned.

  “I don’t think it’s a good idea, Double D,” one of the kids he’d helped to raise said.

  “T-thirsty,” Devon managed to croak. He tried to stop shaking, to make it seem like everything was alright. He even held his hands over his stomach to hide the stain, so they’d give him some water. But the blood continued to come up from his stomach as he burped, trailing down his dark skin.

  Deacon Johns had been shot in the stomach during the last Nazi attack. They’d come at the defensive line that his men created to keep them in from breaking out of the city, firing thousands of rounds into the old neighborhood. Finally, the defenders had forced the Germans back and they had a few minutes reprieve.

  Devon knew they couldn’t hold out against the entire German Army for long. Soon enough, they’d bring their tanks and UFOs to t
he fight and it would be game over for the resistance and all of the Anacostia residents, regardless of whether they’d fought—or not.

  He could feel air seeping into his stomach. That was why he continued to belch. He just needed a little bit of water to quench his thirst, and to clear his throat of some of the blood. Devon reached out a trembling hand and laid it on King’s arm, imploring him with his eyes to give him just a sip. A few drops were all he needed…

  “Dammit, King,” a voice behind him cursed. “Give him the fucking water. It don’t matter what we do for him. He gonna die.”

  No, I’m not! he wanted to yell. Instead, he bucked his shoulders against the man’s leg in protest. Interestingly enough, the pain had subsided and all he felt was cold.

  A plastic bottle of water appeared in his line of sight and someone pressed it against his lips. He drank, swallowing the warm liquid greedily.

  “Stop!” the voice behind him said. “All it’s doin’ is going down his throat and them pouring right out the back of him.”

  He felt himself lifted on his side and the person whistled. “His back blown open. He ain’t got no stomach for the water to go to.”

  No stomach? he thought. That’s not right. Of course he had a stomach. He’d been a healthy man, serving the Lord for his entire adult life. There was nothing wrong with—

  Then he remembered being shot. Someone had shot him. Shot him in the stomach. He needed a doctor. Instead, a bunch of street thugs and gang bangers who’d banded together under his leadership surrounded him. There were no doctors. Only certain death.

  He batted weakly at his pocket until one of his men noticed what he was doing. The gang banger reached inside, pulling out a scrap of cardboard with a quickly jotted note written across it. Devon had received instructions to move the colonel this morning, but he hadn’t returned to the safe house to tell them where to go.

  He wanted to tell the man what to do with the note—he also wanted to get up and walk away, which he knew would never happen. He’d have to trust that the instructions would make it to the woman and the colonel.

  A calm settled over Devon and he knew that his work on Earth was done. He spent his remaining time in prayer, communing with the Lord above. He prayed for his family and the community, and for the end of this horrific occupation. Most of all, he prayed for the redemption of his soul.

  EIGHTEEN

  15 July 2025

  Fort Ricketts ruins, near Anacostia, Washington, DC

  His men spread out along the crumbling walls, forming a perimeter of modern weaponry. Getting through the overgrown weeds and underbrush had been harder than Gabe would have expected when they were ordered to go to this site and await contact with the Nazi defector. Dozens of scratches and cuts of dubious origins covered his bare arms, making him wish he’d chosen long sleeved civilian clothes instead of the t-shirt and jeans he wore now.

  He’d grabbed a pamphlet from the historic site marker on the way into the woods, stuffing it into his pants pocket. There was no telling how long they’d be in position, so he figured he might as well have something interesting to look at. Surprisingly, the unkempt wilderness around them had been a defensive position during the Civil War, part of a ring of forts built to protect the city. Now, it was a place where murderers dumped their victims and druggies hid from the world, while prostitutes sold their bodies for a few dollars.

  “Get a drone in the air,” Gabe directed Lieutenant Wilcox. They needed to have a bird’s eye view of the immediate area to avoid any surprises.

  “Mendoza, get Spartan Six on the horn,” he ordered his driver, now radio operator. He needed to tell Higher that they were in position and attempt to determine how long they’d be in this mosquito-infested “park.”

  “Hey, sir. Saw you slappin’ at your neck,” Sergeant Kelley, one of the two snipers that battalion gave him, said. “I’ve got some bug juice in my pack. Hold on.”

  Gabe accepted the insecticide repellant gratefully, spraying his exposed skin and the shirt he wore with a dense layer of DEET. He hoped it would keep some of the bites down, he sure as hell didn’t want a mosquito bite from a bug that had just been sucking on a hooker.

  “Here you go, sir,” Specialist Mendoza said, holding out the radio handset.

  He waited until the radio crackled with the brigade commander’s voice. “This is Spartan Six.”

  “Sir, Berserker Six. We’re in position at the rendezvous point.”

  “Good work, son. We got the message to our contact two days ago. Zero communication since then, so we don’t know if the asset is on the move.”

  Gabe chewed at his lip in frustration. That’s the same thing he was told yesterday when they dismounted their vehicles and began walking toward the rendezvous point. They didn’t have any updates in twenty-four hours?

  “Understood, sir. Any change to the situation in DC?”

  He could hear sporadic gunfire coming from the northwest, in nearby Anacostia proper. Farther away to the southeast, likely across the river, the echoes of large, booming explosions rolled across the land.

  “Satellite imagery shows street fighting all across southeast DC, unknown combatants, and we’re in a tank fight out near the Occoquan. The damn Nazis are using drone swarms to take out our helicopters, which is taking away some of our momentum. Otherwise, we’re doing good. Hold on.”

  The colonel paused and then said, “Alright, Berserker. The asset is holed up in the basement of a house on 14th and V as in Victor Street and he can’t get out without support because of the street fighting. It’s just a hair over a thousand meters to the northwest of your current position. I need you to go get him.”

  Gabe pulled his cell phone out and tried to bring up a map, but there wasn’t any signal in the middle of the park. “Roger, sir.”

  He checked his watch. It was about ninety minutes to an hour until darkness. “We’ll begin prepping and move out within the hour.”

  “Solid copy, Berserker. Spartan Six, out.”

  He passed the handset back to Mendoza and called out, “Lieutenant Wilcox, change of mission. I need you and Sergeant Cheng over here now.”

  The lieutenant and his platoon sergeant walked rapidly to where he sat on his ass with a paper map close to his nose. The damn thing was printed off the internet before they left the brigade area and the finer details—like street names—were hard to make out. He wished he got some type of cell reception or that the BFT in his pack wouldn’t light him up like a Christmas tree to a German signals interception unit.

  “Shit, I can’t see anything on this map,” he admitted, handing it to Wilcox. “Your eyes are better than mine; can you make out V Street or 14th Street? If we can get one of those, we’ll have an idea of where to start.”

  “I’ll look, sir,” Jake Wilcox replied, taking the map.

  “What are y’all seeing on the drone?” he asked the noncommissioned officer.

  “We’re alone in this stretch of woods as far as we can see, sir. There’s a lot of activity over that way,” he gestured toward the heart of the city, “but we can’t make out what it is yet. We were gonna start expanding the perimeter and flying the drone in a large circular pattern. That should get us a better picture.”

  Gabe didn’t want to tip anyone off that they were here. “Hold what you’ve got. Let’s not take the drone wider than the immediate area just yet.”

  “Roger, sir.”

  “Uh, sir,” Wilcox muttered as he examined the map. “You said we had a change of mission. What is it?”

  “Yeah, sorry,” Gabe replied. “The asset is holed up in a house in Anacostia and can’t meet us here like originally planned. We’re going to need to go the rest of the way and pick them up.”

  A long burst of nearby automatic weapons fire interrupted him. He waited until it was finished and continued. “As you can hear, there’s street fighting all around us.”

  “Who’s fighting, sir?” Sergeant First Class Cheng asked.

  Gabe shrugged
. “Before we left, there was talk of some kind of organized resistance against the Nazis, but to be honest, we don’t know who’s fighting right now. It could be the resistance fighting against the Nazis or it could be rival street gangs duking it out now that the police aren’t a concern. Satellite imagery can only show us so much. The colonel said the tanks were fighting out near the Occoquan, which is a river to the southwest, and didn’t say anything about armor in the Anacostia neighborhood.”

  “I think I’ve got it, sir,” Lieutenant Wilcox said. “I can see 13th and 16th, but can’t make out what’s in between them. It should be 14th, though.”

  Gabe looked where Jake had indicated on the paper. If he squinted his eyes he could make out the street labels that the lieutenant pointed out were there. He cross-referenced the location of Fort Ricketts and measured a thousand meters northwest from the park.

  “Somewhere on this block,” he stated, drawing a circle around a small area, “is where the asset is located.”

  He held it out for the two men to see. “We need to get there without drawing attention to ourselves, get the German defector, and get the heck out of there.”

  “Damn, we’re close, sir,” Sergeant Cheng stated. “We could try sending a couple of guys up there, it should take less than an hour for them to go get the guy and come back—as long as they don’t run into any problems.”

  “That’s what I’m worried about,” the commander replied. “I like your idea of a smaller force though.”

  Gabe paused and thought about his options. He had forty-six men with him, but a smaller force would be less likely to draw attention from enemy drones or spotters. A few men, maybe a squad-plus, could provide enough firepower to break contact if they got into a hairy situation. The rest of Berserker Company could stay here to secure the ruins. They’d use the cover of darkness to slip out of the city and beat feet as far as the defector could make it. Then they’d find a place to stay for the daylight hours.

  “Okay, I’ve made up my mind. Jake, you’re going to stay here and secure Fort Ricketts. I’m taking Sergeant Paredes’ squad with me to the target. I want the sniper team ready to move out ahead of the squad to find a position they can provide overwatch.”