by Bryan Young
A lemon drop would have been a reprieve.
“Any idea what this might be about, Preston?” he finally asked me.
“Of course not,” I told him.
“As well you shouldn’t. I do try to run a tight ship, free of leaks. Take on too much water and the whole thing sinks.”
“I can imagine that being the case,” I said.
I found it hard to concentrate on what Lorick was saying. I didn’t want this to end with my being pressed back into service. I didn’t want to see him, or his desk, or the papers and maps in neat piles on the conference table. I wanted to be with Sara… Maybe in a park I’d watch her laughing and rocking back and forth on a swing set in a bright red sundress, her legs kicked up in the air, smooth and firm, into the sunlight.
Sadly, Lorick’s droll voice carried on. “We’ve had our eye on you for the last week or two, Preston. I want you to know that. We take this work very seriously and it wouldn’t do at all to have a man on an operation like this who didn’t have his nose clean.”
“Really?”
“No doubt you’ve noticed the odd man lingering about here and there.”
“I have. That certainly explains a few things.” I said, thinking back to the man purloining my discarded papers and the other man, watching Sara and I on the street. There must of have been more, but I was blinded by Sara then.
“Well, it’s routine, and you’ve passed with flying colors. You haven’t met with anything remotely close to a suspicious character and you keep to yourself,” he said, pleased with himself.
“I’m certainly grateful to you for saying so.” I wondered if these men had spied on Sara and I as we made love in the afternoon.
“Do you know an asset named Thompson, by chance?” Lorick said. “Foreign service? He was attached to our intelligence gathering in Belgium.”
“I’ve never heard his name before in my life,” I said.
“Good.” Lorick patted his hands on his belly, satisfied with himself. “He’s a good man, a bit too much of a penchant for booze and women, but he does an excellent job.”
“I’m still not sure what in the world this has to do with me. Did something happen with this Thompson character?” I cocked an eyebrow. This sort of briefing was nonsense to that point. I couldn’t imagine how they could possibly make me understand, and I had no idea what use I’d be.
“Indeed. He was chasing some information into an occupied French town and was picked up by German agents. He managed to pass along half a story and, honestly, we aren’t sure if he’s alive or dead, now. But, for the sake of the intelligence operation in unoccupied France, I hope he’s dead. I’m well aware that sounds harsh, but that’s the line we’re in and we can’t afford to be squeamish.”
“I suppose I understand that. But the part I don’t understand is why I’m suddenly privy to this information. It seems above my pay grade. Substantially above my pay grade.”
“It was, until this morning. You see, what we’ve learned from Thompson before he disappeared was quite startling...”
The nervous British gentleman who had led me into this meeting poked his head into my peripheral vision. “You must understand before we proceed, Preston, that this is eyes only. You aren’t to repeat any of this outside of this room.”
“Surely you’ve got someone more qualified than a scarred and limping veteran for all of this intelligence stuff.”
“Perhaps,” Lorick continued, “but you’re the man we need, whether any of us like it or not.”
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“What it means,” the British gentlemen interjected, “is that we are in a situation that requires the unique physical and cultural qualities that are to be found in you, and not anyone else at our immediate disposal. Since your unit was disbanded and you were still currently awaiting orders, all we did was assign you here to our section.”
“So I’m yours whether I like it or not?” My throat constricted and my chest tightened.
“That’s the long and the short of it.” Lorick coughed and pulled from beneath the desk a file folder brimming with secret documents, then slid it across the desk at me. “Now, if you don’t mind, I’d love more than anything to get on with the briefing.”
“Yes, sir.” I tried to temper my sarcasm, but I don’t think I fooled anyone.
“Very good.”
I opened the folder, scared of what I might find between its covers. There were no pictures. It was a massive report. Some of it was in tightly typed pages full of blocky letters, others were scraps of journal entries in cursive torn out of who knows where. Other bits of it were on official stationary and hastily scribbled. It would take quite a bit of going through to figure out exactly what it all was.
Lorick continued, “As an Aeronaut–”
“–former Aeronaut,” I corrected him.
“As a former Aeronaut, you understand how rocketry and chemical propulsion works, yes?”
“I’m familiar enough with what I needed to know to keep me in the air.”
“And you know how difficult staying on the proper course is?”
“Why don’t you try it sometime?”
“Well, and I don’t say this lightly and, again, it doesn’t leave this room…” Lorick looked back and forth, as though there might be someone behind his back. Satisfied no one was around, he lowered his voice and continued. “The Germans are close to developing long range control mechanisms for rocket propelled incendiary devices.”
“That sounds like any other German weapon. What does that mean exactly?”
“It means they’re developing rockets that can accurately hit a target a thousand miles away. It means suddenly London and Paris are easy targets from the safety of Berlin. Or Munich. Or any other German city. And it’s technology they could put into aeropacks of their own. How would that be? We used the Aeronautic Corps to devastating effect while it was active. Imagine that same technology working for the Germans against us. ”
My throat was suddenly dry. “Surely, you must be joking.”
The pair of them looked at each other, then looked at me, and I swear they must have blinked in unison, as if to say, “We’re not the joking type.”
I’m not sure why the concept of rockets capable of traveling hundreds of miles to hit a target with any accuracy seemed so laughable to me. Every day I spent in the Aeronautic Corps I strapped a rocket of a sort to my back and did the same thing on a miniature scale. Of course it made perfect sense for the scientists to be working on the next, most ridiculous, bit of weaponized gadgetry they could think of. It must have been all the heat from the steam engines they worked far too close to.
I was properly convinced then and there that all of those scientists had gone well and properly bonkers.
“You know of the Paris Gun, yes? The one the Germans had ready early on to shell Paris from miles out at sea?”
“I thought that was just a rumour.”
“The rumours were true. All the small explosions and rubble in Paris that aren’t caused by zeppelin bombers have been verified and attributed to this Paris Gun. We can’t seem to locate it. It makes its way from behind enemy lines out to sea and back again in a pattern we’ve been unable to discern.”
“That’s comforting.”
“Hardly. But the Paris Gun isn’t terribly effective and certainly not the centerpiece of an assault. An annoyance at best. But imagine they took this concept one step further. That’s what we’re facing. They could have one of these guns or a launching pad of some sort so deep behind enemy lines we’d be helpless. Then imagine that German Aeronautic Corps following up on the carnage. To my mind, it’s nothing short of a full blown nightmare scenario.”
“I’ll be honest, it sounds far-fetched to me.”
Lorick continued, “If only it was. But it doesn’t matter if it sounds far-fetched to any of us. That’s not our line, above our pay grade, as it were. I assure you, the Germans are close to this type of technology, but they ar
e not there yet. They are missing plenty of information and many of the required calculations.”
“That’s where you fit in, chap.” The nameless Brit slapped me on the shoulder.
“I don’t know anything about making calculations, I wouldn’t be much of a help with all of this in any way you can think of.”
The Frenchman smiled the patronizing smile of one who has something on another fellow and wants to talk down to him. “You jest, but surely we don’t.”
“This is no laughing matter, Preston.”
“I didn’t think it was, sir.”
“Good,” Lorick said. “You’re needed for a number of reasons, but your mathematical acumen is not one of them.”
“If you don’t mind my saying, sir, I’ve been here a long time and I’m still wondering what it is you do need me for. Aside from my experience with rockets, I can’t imagine how I could be of use to you.”
“I was just getting to that portion of our briefing.” Lorick filled his chest with air and leaned back behind his desk, tenting his fingers as though he was waiting for me to take things seriously. “This is the most sensitive portion of your briefing. You see, Preston, we had a Belgian scientist here, working in French laboratories, working with French resources, and with a foundation of French science. Over two years of working during the war and he had risen in duties to more of our top secret projects. Just three days ago, he declared a major breakthrough in rocketry and then simply vanished, taking with him an entire box full of data cards of computations for the data engine. We believe, without a shadow of a doubt, that the box of punch cards he absconded with is the key to rocket power and the Germans will stop at nothing to have it.”
The Brit’s face tightened and he raised a finger as though I was going to interrupt, but I caught the thought in my mouth and shut it.
Lorick cleared his throat and continued. “As I’m sure you were wondering, it is at this point Thompson sent in his final report before disappearing as well. The contents of his last report document the method by which the Kaiser’s men would contact our Belgian friend so he might sell those punch cards to the highest bidder. In this case, the German High Command. He was to meet an American working for the Germans that he’s never had any contact with. Since you’re American, have a good head on your shoulders, and are the closest thing we have handy, we need you to meet him and convince him that you’re his German contact. Then you’ll persuade him to give you possession of the precious data cards.”
My jaw fell open. “You’re kidding. You have got to have someone in the service capable of playing an American.”
“We do, and we would send them, but Dr. Jamert traveled and studied extensively in the United States, so the chances of him recognizing a fake are much higher. As they say, à beau mentir qui vient de loiny.”
“The Germans knew it, too. It’s really a very clever move on their part,” the British intelligence agent said. “You’re from the area and know exactly what makes it tick. It puts your odds at giving yourself away for those reasons at exactly zero.”
“There’s another detail, too.” Lorick sighed. “In our work digging things up about this American agent we found that he had a unique identifying marker that would be difficult to reliably fake at the close proximity you’ll need to get to Dr. Jamert.”
“And you expect me to fake it?”
“You won’t have to. His unique identifying mark is a scar running from his left eye back to the right side of his skull. Just like yours.”
Without thinking about it, my fingers traced along my scar, reminding myself that it was there. “But there are a thousand other ways to give myself away. I am simply not a confidence man. A scar isn’t going to sell this ruse. And neither is my country of origin. You’re going to have to find another monkey to dance to your organ. They’ll skin me and eat me alive.”
“You’re too hard on yourself. I’ve read your record and saw that business with the zeppelin...”
“...that almost got me killed and gave me this scar in the first place.”
“That was just bad luck. Don’t let that poor officer you attacked hear me, but you did the right thing there. Your record is full of judgment calls that a soldier might find questionable but they’re perfect for intelligence work.”
“And besides,” the Brit said, “it isn’t as though we’re asking you.”
“He’s right,” Lorick agreed, handing another stack of official looking documents to me from across the desk. “Your orders are official. You are ours, whether you approve of the assignment or not. It’s a tough break, but it’s how the cards have been dealt.”
If I was concerned about being shot for my antics to take down the zeppelin, refusing this order would certainly be treason. The last thing I wanted to do was lull some poor scientist into my confidence, but I had to consider what was at stake.
It didn’t take much imagination to wonder what sort of havoc the Germans could cause if they could reach London with a bomb or a rocket without having to risk life, limb, or matériel to do it. It took even less imagination to think of what destruction they could inflict with their own brand of Aeronaut.
I walked home from the briefing with a sinking feeling, as though any of my next steps could be my last. My gait was considerably slower on the way back home than on the way to the briefing, which surprised me. I wanted to get back to Sara as quickly as I could, but French intelligence had just handed me bags of proverbial lead shot to carry.
If what they were saying was true, and if I took the mission and succeeded, would I be helping to end the war more quickly? Or would I be prolonging it indefinitely?
They had seemed quite careful not to imply that they were close to such technology. Maybe they didn’t know. They were intelligence agents, not scientists. The cards could have been anything, it didn’t matter. To them and to me it was nothing more than an objective.
The rest of the way home I practiced ways to tell Sara that I’d have to leave in a day or two for a little while. Based on the briefing, it hadn’t sounded as though this Belgian doctor was totally convinced he needed to give the cards to the Germans, and I had no idea how long it would take to contact him and convince him not only that I was a German agent, but that it would be in his best interests, financially, spiritually, and morally, to commit such an act of patriotic infidelity.
Infidelity was something beyond my reckoning, and it made me sick to think of someone taking their loyalty and purity and placing it somewhere else.
Those were the weeds creeping into my flower bed.
19
That evening, I found Sara not at home but at the hospital. The Germans had launched a massive attack on the line and there were a hundred boys there being treated for their suffering from gas burns and burning lungs.
The reprieve I had fought and won for them in the sky above their trench was only temporary. All I had done was prolong their agony in the trenches.
It was no way to live, and it had become a way of life for an entire generation. I wondered if any of them could remember what life was like before living in a trench. The only reason I’d rediscovered that joy myself was my newly minted domestic life with Sara. We made meals together, slept in a bed, drank red wine by the cask, and cut ourselves off from the rest of the world. It had none of the public misery of a trench. The floor was dry. I wasn’t constantly concerned about my feet soaking to death and rotting off. Fleas were a thing of the past. I didn’t have to worry about grenades or gas or bombs launched from steam-powered catapults, or whatever other bit of nonsense they cooked up in their labs.
I was no longer an animal, but the thought of acting like one raised my blood pressure and brought flashing glimpses of those memories.
Sara asked about that life now and again, but I never had the heart to tell her how it really was. She saw enough of its consequences at the hospital. The thought of talking about it twisted my innards with angst.
When I caught up to Sara, she was dressing
the wounds of a fellow burned by the mustard gas, his skin bubbling up over his face in a criss-cross pattern. He hadn’t got his mask on in time and didn’t get a seal on it, so it stung him where the gas found ways in to attack him.
He wheezed and coughed as she did her work.
It was uncomfortable for me to watch her so delicately care for another man. His shirt was off and his skin was doughy white, flecked with stains of dirt and dried blood. Watching her caress him with the cool wash rag and offer him her undivided attention was trying, to say the least.
We’re capable of the most horrible things, doing them, saying them, in the heat of the moment. It’s a fatal defect in the internal cogs, machinery, and piping that make up the tiny computational engines we call humans. It might be one of the most stunning design flaws in our make-up.
Despite those feelings churning up, I choked them back. This poor chap couldn’t hurt a fly and he was a brother in arms. He needed a nurse. How could I deny him that, just because I happened to be married to the nurse looking after him?
I stood by patiently, waiting for her to finish, careful to stay out of the way of the doctor buzzing about the room, assigning triage tags to every patient.
I felt ashamed to be thinking jealous thoughts at a time like that, with the moaning agonies going on around me.
I stepped in to talk to her anyway. “Sara.”
“Can we speak later?” she said.
“Do you have to put me off?”
“I don’t want to put you off, but I have to do this.”
“I understand.” Of course I did. “Completely.”
“Why don’t you go visit Andre?” she suggested. “He’s so wonderful and always so happy to see us. If he’s around, he’s always a perfect tonic for you.”
She leaned in, placing her hand on my chest and standing up on her tip-toes to kiss me. I could smell the antiseptic on her. It vexes me considerably nowadays, after all that’s happened, whenever I smell what I think is something associated with her, that sharp smell of antiseptic comes back to my memory, filling my nostrils with a scent I know isn’t there.