– Adolf Hitler
CHAPTER
THIRTEEN
Aftermath
SCHLOSS GEISTERHAUS, ALSENZ, GERMANY, 1943
LATER THAT AFTERNOON the Devil descended upon Alsenz.
The Lieutenant-Colonel’s staff car came to a halt with a squeak of brakes. The driver opened the door, and Engel Teufel got out.
Something crumbled beneath his jackboot and he looked down, a bored expression on his knife-sharp face as his eyes lighted on a powdered stone.
Major Isla von Haupstein at his side, he surveyed the scene of utter devastation that welcomed him.
Schloss Geisterhaus had once been a grand estate comprising some hundred hectares. The house itself was a fine example of Romanesque architecture, and boasted a dining room that some said rivalled the Hall of Mirrors at Versailles.
It had made the perfect base for the German army’s 28th Panzer Division, and had been appropriated by the Nazi party when Hitler had set his master-plan in motion when he declared war on the rest of Europe. And it had looked glorious with its Romanesque façade draped with the flags and banners of the Third Reich.
Now it looked as though it had been the victim of a strafing run by the Magna Britannian Royal Aeronautical Corps.
The gatehouse was gone, little more than a pile of bricks and broken stone, the twisted and blackened remains of an exploded jeep lying amidst it. A few puddles of oil still burned, splashed over the spoil heap.
Taking careful steps, Teufel climbed the nearest mound of rubble to better survey the devastation beyond.
Much of the front wall of the main house was gone, the grand atrium behind it exposed like the innards of some gutted beast.
To his left, smoke coiled from the broken windows of the west wing. To his right, a row of burning vehicles filled the air with choking black smoke.
Standing at the Lieutenant-Colonel’s shoulder, Major Haupstein cast her feral gaze over the ruins, as if searching for something. Then she paused, and sniffed the air, sharply, twice.
Behind him and around him, Teufel’s own crack squad of Stormtroopers spread out to secure the devastated courtyard, scoping the piles of debris, on the look-out for danger, in case the ones responsible for the attack were still there, hiding in the ruins, a sniper’s rifle aimed at the Lieutenant-Colonel’s heart.
A shout from the house on the other side of the devastated courtyard. The Stormtroopers’ rifles rattled as they were raised and trained on the meek-faced clerk – his hair grey with plaster dust – now standing in what should have been the doorway of the mansion.
His cry for help turned into a yelp of panic. He hastily raised his hands, shouting, “Don’t shoot! Don’t shoot!”
Teufel peered through the drifting smoke and brick-dust, his face an impassive mask.
“Bring him to me,” he instructed.
“AND YOU SAY this was all done by one tank?” Teufel said, as though he couldn’t quite take in what the wretched individual had just told him.
“Y-Yes, sir,” the clerk stammered.
“One of our own, you say?”
The man nodded, unable to speak, his mouth suddenly dry.
Teufel turned his disconsolate gaze from the quivering clerk to his adjutant. “Major?”
“They were here,” Isla von Haupstein said, inhaling deeply, her head jerking from side to side as she sniffed the acrid air. “Two males. One young and smelling of risk; the other smelling of anger and fear.”
“I see,” Teufel breathed.
The Lieutenant-Colonel and the Major descended the mound of rubble. “They weren’t alone,” Haupstein offered.
“They had help, I can see that,” Teufel said.
Haupstein sniffed at the smoke-wreathed air again. “Females. I’m picking up several different scents.”
“Driving a tank, no doubt,” Teufel pondered, as he considered the possibility that the Resistance or another, as yet unidentified party of interested individuals were also operating behind the German front line.
The thought made him both unhappy and delighted at the same time. The thrill of the hunt to come filled him with a crackling excitement that energised every fibre of his being.
“Females, you say?” he mused, stepping through the crumbling façade of the house and into the partially-demolished atrium beyond. “Like this one, perhaps?”
The woman had been pinned to the back wall of the hall by a thick splinter of wood almost five feet in length.
Haupstein froze, a fearful hiss escaping her bared teeth. With a frisson of excitement, Teufel saw the stiff hairs on the back of her neck rising.
He turned his attention to the body pinned to the wall. “We should be grateful that the doors of Schloss Geisterhaus were made of natural wood,” he said, smiling darkly.
Gesturing to two of his men he said, “Take the body down and burn it.”
Teufel turned from the corpse, mounted on the wall behind him like a bizarre hunting trophy, and strode out of the shattered building, back into the sunlit courtyard.
So, their quarry had been here, but once again, they had caught up with them just a little too late.
They had followed a circuitous trail from the zeppelin crash-site, west of Valkyrie post 7, through woodland and rolling fields, as far as Alsenz. At Alsenz the local party official had informed Teufel that the men he was hunting had been taken to Schloss Geisterhaus by the Gestapo’s Agent Kaufman.
Teufel, Haupstein and the rest of the hunting party had arrived at the manse only a matter of hours later. A pillar of smoke had led Teufel to the initial crash-site earlier that day, and another column of greasy black smoke had told him what awaited them at Schloss Geisterhaus; that their prey had already escaped.
Stirring himself from his reverie – seeing again the shattered gatehouse, the burning hulks of tanks and troop transports, the buckled, burning wreckage of other vehicles, the smashed masonry and collapsed façade of the house itself – a bitter grimace upon his face, he turned to his adjutant.
“They have escaped us again, my dear Isla,” he said thoughtfully.
Her own expression set like concrete, as hard and as perfect as marble, the Major said, “They shall not escape us next time.”
“Lieutenant-Colonel!” a private shouted, running over the rubble towards them from where their convoy of vehicles had pulled up beyond the broken gatehouse.
“You have them?” Teufel anticipated.
“Yes, sir. The fugitives have been spotted twenty miles east of here.”
A slow smile spread across Teufel’s lips. The cyber-eagles had done their job. “They’re heading for the Darmstadt Dam,” he muttered.“You are right, my dear,” he said, addressing his adjutant again. “They shall not escape us a third time.”
He turned to his men. “Radio the dam. Tell them the fugitives are heading their way. And signal the nearest Landsknecht squadron. Tell them to back up the forces at the dam and engage the enemy on sight. Tell them to look out for a Jotun-class tank and make it clear that they are permitted to shoot on sight.”
Teufel shared an excited look with Haupstein as they climbed back into his staff car.
“No,” he said, “they won’t escape us again.”
CHAPTER
FOURTEEN
Monstrous Regiment
“WHAT ARE THOSE?” Cookie said, putting her binoculars to her eyes again.
Missy raised her sniper rifle and peered through its telescopic scope.
“Just birds,” she said, lowering the rifle again.
The team leader turned her attention from the sky to the road ahead. The stretch of countryside through which they were passing was eerily quiet. The distant twitter of birdsong could be heard from the trees on the horizon, but there was no sign of another human being for miles around.
It was strange; if it had not been for the fact that they were making their way across Germany, behind enemy lines, with the intention of destroying a super-soldier manufactory, right at that moment she might almost hav
e described their journey as pleasant. It was a little nippy, admittedly, but then it was October. And of course, being out here, even under these desperate circumstances, was better than the alternative.
No, Cookie thought, legs swinging over the edge of the tank’s top hatch as if she was six again, she would savour this moment for as long as it lasted. After all, she never knew when she might get the chance again – if at all. Life was all about the little moments.
“You keep watch up here,” she told Missy before climbing back into the cramped confines of the tank’s interior.
The cabin rang to the clattering of the tank’s steam engine and the rattle of its caterpillar tracks, as Jinx – seated up front and looking out at the road through a narrow slit in the plate-shielding at the front of the tank – fought its unresponsive controls to pilot the Siegfried towards their ultimate destination.
Cat and Dina had positioned themselves behind at the trigger paddles of the port and starboard sponson guns while Trixie was monitoring radio traffic on a portable receiver, headphones in hand.
They all looked very different from how they had been attired when the British agent had first arrived at the Alsenz bierkeller. They had exchanged the tight-laced corsets and flouncy skirts of the dancing troupe for more practical leather jackets and tight-fitting trousers. Judging by the looks he kept giving the other girls, the Department’s man found their new outfits even more appealing.
Jinx was also wearing a peaked cap, to keep her shoulder-length auburn hair out of her eyes, or so she claimed. Cookie thought it more likely that she liked how she looked in military dress.
Jinx’s shirt sleeves were also rolled up to the elbow and she was wearing thick leather gloves in case she ended up buried in the guts of the tank again, having to tinker with the engine as she had done twice already.
Cookie favoured the hat method of hair management herself. Leading a team of crack commandos behind enemy lines didn’t allow much time for her to worry about her appearance although, perversely, it was precisely how her team looked that had got them all this far without attracting any undue attention.
That had been until the raid on Alsenz, of course. Now every Nazi for miles around would be looking for them. She only hoped that they could complete their mission before their pursuers could catch up.
Cat’s long blonde hair was kept tidy and out of her face in a tight plait. It was as neat and controlled as the rest of her, matching her lithe grace and remarkable flexibility. These were what had made her a natural cat burglar – that and her spoiled, and ultimately unfulfilling, upbringing.
Of course Dina’s dark hair was cut in a short bob, so that she didn’t need to worry about how she was going to keep it out of the way. After all, she didn’t list hair care as one of her hobbies; dynamite and primer cord were more her short of thing.
Trixie’s mousey hair wasn’t long either, but she still kept it tied back. It distracted her otherwise, and got in the way of her glasses. And when she was working against the clock to break open another vault, crack another safe, or hack into another Babbage Engine, distractions weren’t an option.
It was only Missy who wore her hair down, a pair of goggles pushed up on top of her head, keeping the naturally curling tresses out of her face.
Cookie glanced back up at the sniper through the circle of the hatch in the turret of the tank. Missy had her rifle to her shoulder again as she scanned the rolling landscape through the scope.
“Anything?” Cookie called up through the hatch over the chugging purr of the engine.
“Nope,” Missy replied without taking her eye from the scope as she continued to sweep the rifle left and right.
“Anything?” she asked Jinx, bending down.
“Not so far as I can see,” the team’s driver replied.
“Anything on the radio?” Cookie asked.
Trixie looked up through her large framed spectacles. “Nothing yet.”
“I don’t like it,” Dina whispered, from her position behind the sights of the port-side sponson.
“I know what you mean,” Cookie came back. “It’s too quiet,” she said, although having to raise her voice to be heard over the rattling tank.
“Too damn quiet,” the explosives expert muttered to herself.
Cookie smiled. Dina preferred to be surrounded by noise – loud as a landslide or an explosion in a munitions factory. That was more her style.
“So, what’s the plan?” came a man’s voice from out of the darkness behind her.
Cookie turned and, using the exposed pipework of the tank’s cramped interior to support herself, made her way towards the back of the cabin. It was the younger of the two men who had spoken; the handsome one.
“That’s on a need-to-know basis,” she said, smiling, to Hercules Quicksilver. He was devilishly handsome. If they had met under different circumstances…
“This is our lives you’re playing with,” came another voice, tinged with discontent and a Scottish burr. “If we don’t need to know, who does?”
Cookie silenced the other with a looked that could have curdled milk. “And have you not heard of culpable deniability?” she said. “If you’re captured again by the Nazis you might spill the beans on the whole operation.”
“What if they take you alive?” the doctor countered.
“With all due respect,” the handsome one said, interjecting, “if we’re captured this mission’s as good as over anyway, so what have you got to lose?”
“I have my orders,” Cookie pouted.
“And so did I,” Quicksilver replied, “but I had to start improvising long ago. And I would hazard a guess that it’s the same for you, since the good doctor and I missed our original appointment with you.”
Cookie met his intense stare, her own eyes narrowed in suspicion.
“So come on, tell us,” he said, smoothing his moustache with one hand. “I can be very persuasive.”
“I’m sure you can,” Cookie chuckled, registering the scowl Cat was giving the two of them.
“Can’t we at least be on first name terms?” Quicksilver persevered as they were jostled together in the back of the tank, as the armoured vehicle bumped and bounced along the rutted road.
“I’ve already told you mine. I’m Cookie.”
“Cookie? Really?”
“Really.”
“Just Cookie?”
“Just Cookie.”
“That’s a codename, am I right?” he said. “Let me guess, you’re the leader and you’re called Cookie because you cook up all of your team’s crazy schemes. Am I right?”
Cookie laughed. “And what sort of a name is Hercules Quicksilver?”
“A very fine and honourable name,” he said, bristling, but with a twinkle in his eye.
Before Cookie could come up with a reply, all on board the tank heard the whistling whine coming from above, growing ever louder and lower.
“Oh –” Cookie began.
“– shit!” Hercules finished for her.
The bomb hit a split second later, the explosion deafening them with its primal, hungry roar.
And then bodies were tumbling about the confines of the cabin as the shock-wave hit the tank.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
The Dam Busters
FOR A MOMENT the tank was powering forward on its right tracks alone. Drive-shaft squealing, it crashed back down onto the rutted ground as another bomb detonated at the road’s edge away to the right.
“Floor it!” Cookie shouted at the driver. “Get us out of here!”
There were loud protests from the gearbox as Jinx changed gear and stamped on the accelerator with both feet. The chugging steam-engine gave a throaty roar and the tank took off along the road, throwing the already disorientated passengers backwards again.
Cookie tensed her grip on the bar she was hanging from to stop herself being thrown into Hercules’ lap.
She glanced up and out of the hatch to see Missy, still somehow clinging onto the t
op of the tank, lining up the sights of her rifle on something above them. As the tank bumped through a pothole she caught a glimpse of a distant, black shape against the monotonous white of the washed-out clouds high above. It was unmistakeably a large bird; a raptor of some kind.
“Missy, get down here!” Cookie shouted over the growl of the engine as the dull sound of another explosion threw clods of black earth rattling against the hull of the Seigfried.
“I’ve almost got one,” the sniper hissed back through gritted teeth, the scope of her rifle pressed tight to her eye. “If Jinx could just keep this bucket of bolts steady…”
If Jinx heard Missy’s snide remark over the roar of the steam-engine, she clearly chose to ignore it.
“How many are there?” Cookie called back.
“Four that I can see.”
The sniper’s finger tightened about the trigger.
“Missy, come on. Leave it.”
“Just one more second,” the other hissed.
The knuckle of her index finger whitening, she squeezed the trigger very gradually.
Cookie felt her throat tighten as she saw one of the raptor shapes swoop past overhead, just as a bulbous object dropped from its hooked claws.
The tank jolted as it ran over a gouged rut in the road surface, accompanied by the crack of Missy’s rifle. Several unbearable moments later, preceded by the same ominous whine, the third bomb hit the ground.
It hit the road behind them, detonating on impact. All on board the tank were thrown forwards, to a chorus of shouts and expletives as the explosion lifted the back of the armoured juggernaut clear of the ground. Missy fell into the tank, landing on top of Cookie. The hatch slammed shut behind her.
For them to be carried by the birds, or whatever it was that was hunting them, Cookie thought, the bombs couldn’t be that large, but then they didn’t need to be. One direct hit would be all it would take to put the tank out of action. And if one detonated inside the cramped confines of the cabin it would kill them all outright.
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