Stahl took a moment to do exactly that, and realised than more than a hundred US infantrymen had now taken up position all around on their western and southern flanks, finding cover in the houses and front yards and beneath the trees lining the road. All of them were armed with assault rifles, several carried Bazookas, and as he glanced upward, the lieutenant-colonel also noted that two of the Chickasaw helicopters hovering nearby were the AH-9C gunship variant, armed with rocket pods and rotary machine guns mounted to their fuselage sides. As his eyes took in the level of firepower facing them, instincts of self-preservation finally broke through the mind-numbing rage surging through his system.
“You make a strong argument, Hauptsturmführer…” he eventually relented with great reluctance, taking some time to force his temper under nominal control with several deep breaths. “Very well; we will withdraw.” He added as Strauss released a hidden sigh of relief. “There would be no benefit in sacrificing good German lives so pointlessly today…” …meaning his own, primarily.
“You indeed appear to have the upper hand today, colonel,” Stahl continued, directing his next words toward Finley in English, adding with a sneer: “we will withdraw as you have so politely requested… Enjoy this while it lasts, Mein Herr… success can be very fleeting…”
“Yeah, well I’ll take that under advisement, son…” Finley retorted with a smug grin. “You just goose-step your ass back over that bridge, and I’ll worry about mine…”
“Herr Oberst…!” Stahl snapped in return, hiding his disrespect behind perfect regimental precision as he came to rigid attention and executed an about face. “Hauptsturmführer…! Fall the men in and we’ll…”
Mein Herr, watch out…!” Strauss called a sharp warning in that moment, throwing his shoulder hard into Stahl’s body and pushing him sideways as a small, fast-moving figure launched itself from the bushes and shattered remnants of a stone wall by the side of the road.
Samuel Lowenstein howled something primal and wordless as Levi burst from cover with a roar of animal rage and threw himself at Pieter Stahl. He fought against the hands holding him, but they were too strong and too many, and he could only watch in complete helplessness as the scene unfolded before them all.
Strauss’ actions probably saved Stahl’s life. The jagged piece of wood in Levi’s hand that flashed downward as he sprang had been intended for the SS officer’s throat, but instead sank deeply into his left shoulder, and he screamed in shock and fear and agony as the pair crashed to the asphalt in a tangled heap. The sound of four quick, muffled gunshots were almost inaudible against the background noise of the circling helicopters as 9mm slugs ripped through Levi’s chest and abdomen, bursting from his back in a bloody spray.
“Stand down, stand down…!” Finley shouted loudly, holding his men in check as several of the nearer riflemen took a few angry steps toward Stahl with rifles raised. “Hold your fire…!”
Strauss too was bellowing something similar at his own men in German, desperately trying to retain control of a situation that could all-to-easily descend into a bloodbath at that moment. For his part, Stahl considered none of this as he kicked and struggled wildly to free himself, casting the boy’s lifeless body aside and sending it rolling across the road like some huge rag doll.
“I’ll kill you…!” Lowenstein screamed hoarsely, the rage in his voice diluted by broken sobbing as he continued to struggle against the restraining arms holding him. “You fucking bastards, I’ll destroy you all…! Every last fucking one of you…!”
Tears welling in his own eyes, Kransky noted with growing concern as Finley cast a silent nod to the lieutenant standing behind Lowenstein, who in turn passed it on to Gianelli. With one short, sharp movement, the sergeant lifted his rifle and brought the butt sharply down against the back of his captive’s neck, just hard enough to stun Samuel and silence his hysteria. Still sobbing incoherently, he sagged to the ground between them and they immediately dragged him away toward the same landed helicopter that had dropped Finley off.
“Time to leave…” Sean Michaels whispered suddenly in the American’s ear, appearing as if by magic at his side and pushing past Turner.
“They knew who he was…” Kransky muttered, trying to make sense of what he’d just seen.
“That they did,” Michaels agreed darkly, having witnessed the same events, “and he wasn’t supposed to be here… but we were…! Fookin’ Hayes and his boys used us as bait… do you think the Yanks bein’ here is a bloody coincidence…? We weren’t supposed to survive this… how long you think we’ll last once they start workin’ out who’s who?”
“But… but they’re Americans…” Kransky stammered, quite uncharacteristically lost for words as his mind threatened to fade into shock. “…Americans…!”
“Aye, and right now we don’t look all that different to any other bugger here,” Michaels pointed out. “Let’s get outta here before they all remember who we are…!”
“He’s right, mate,” Turner chimed in softly with a faint nod. He too had noted the way Lowenstein had been treated, and was far more sceptical of the Americans’ motives than Kransky. “If we’re wrong then we’re wrong, and we can always return as the prodigal sons later. If we’re right, though…”
Kransky stood silent for a moment, his mind unwilling to accept the concept that his own countrymen could possibly mean him any harm. Yet the nagging doubt of self-preservation – that same nagging doubt that had kept him alive for many years in the face of untold dangers – was now starting to make itself heard at the back of his mind, and he couldn’t fault the logic in either man’s words.
“You got it,” he answered finally, throwing a quick glance about to either side and noting that they were for the most part standing behind the bulk of the nearby US troops. “Let’s go…”
As slowly as their nerves would allow, all three men turned and began to make their way between two of the houses, collecting Seán McCaughey as they disappeared out of sight. At the rear of the group, Turner paused for a moment, allowing the rest to move off ahead. For reasons he himself couldn’t have explained, he veered off momentarily and stepped through the gate of that front yard, searching for a moment along the side of the road until he found what he was looking for.
Reaching down, he lifted Bauer’s discarded Walther from the grass, safed it and pocketed it before turning and quickly moving back the way he’d come, catching up with the rest of the group near the rear of the house. With all eyes fixed firmly on the developing situation in the middle of the road, not a single man nearby noted their departure.
5.Warnings
Essendon Airport
Melbourne, Australia
October 17, 1942
Saturday
Melbourne: home to over a million people and capital of the south-eastern state of Victoria. Also the nation’s seat of government at the time of Federation in 1901 – the year Australia officially became a nation – it remained the national capital until 1927, when the Australian Federal Parliament moved north to its permanent home in the purpose-built city of Canberra.
Situated along the northern shore of Port Phillip Bay, Melbourne lay on the border between the hot Australian inland and a far cooler southern ocean, and the ever-changing, unpredictable weather that combination produced had long earned the city a reputation for regularly being able to give its residents all four seasons in one day.
The sky was clear and bright over the city on that particular October morning… a sky that across the northern suburbs was currently filled only with the thunderous sound of heavy aircraft above. Anyone out and about that early might have caught sight of a huge, four-engined transport as it circled about on final approach above the suburb of Essendon – the site of Melbourne’s main airport.
Generally-speaking, the sound of aircraft overhead was a quite commonplace occurrence for most residents, being wartime and all. To the south-west lay RAAF Williams at Point Cook (the country’s oldest airbase), with fighter and
bomber aircraft flying regularly from of that strip on daily patrols and exercises. On the southern bank of the Yarra River, far closer to the CBD (the Central Business District), the Defence Aircraft Plant at Fisherman’s Bend also frequently tested new or prototype aircraft. The sound of engines overhead was therefore no strange occurrence for the average Melburnian.
This particular set of engines was quite different however. Rather than the ‘sports car’ howl of a Mustang’s inline V-12 or the clattering ‘crackle’ of a Sea Fury’s radial, the sound overhead that morning was more like the roar of a cyclone. As residents below turned their heads skyward, event those with more than an average knowledge of military or civilian technology found the aircraft circling above them to be as unusual as the sound that preceded it.
With a wingspan of 130 feet and a length of almost a hundred, the Lockheed YC-29 Hercules was substantially larger than a B-17 bomber or Sunderland flying boat, and as such it was probably the largest aircraft many had ever seen as it settled into final approach on Runway 08/26. A small, remotely controlled gun turret sprouted from the aircraft’s nose, along with two more fitted in dorsal and ventral positions midway along its fuselage. All were fitted with twin .50-calibre machine guns, while a similarly-controlled barbette in the very tip of its high, beaver-like tail mounted a pair of more powerful 20mm rotary cannon.
Painted in a plain overall scheme of mid-grey, the aircraft carried faded, RAF-style roundels on its wings and fuselage, but also carried stencilled black lettering down each side displaying the words:
Pacific Aerospace
On either side of the nose, level with the forward turret, the Hercules also carried the official Pacific Aerospace logo: a stylised, head-on view of a fighter plane in black silhouette, the tips of its wings touching the inner edges of a perfect circle that enclosed the dazzling blue of an ocean sky above the glow of golden sands. Beneath the logo in small, florid lettering was the aircraft’s unofficial name: Forever Now.
The four powerful turboprop engines fixed to its slender, shoulder-mounted wings screamed shrilly as the YC-29 finally touched down in a cloud of blue smoke and its main wheels caught the tarmac. Everything was obscured momentarily as the pilot reversed pitch on its curved, scimitar-like, six-bladed propellers, instantly throwing up clouds of dust and debris from each side of the runway as the stink of burning kerosene filled the air. Coming to an abrupt halt, the Hercules then turned onto a nearby taxiway and proceeded at a far more leisurely rate toward the hangars and main airport buildings on the western side of the strip.
Originally a grass airstrip on private property and used predominantly by the Royal Victorian Aero Club of the time, the site that became Essendon Airport had been claimed in 1921 by the Commonwealth Government. Aviator Charles Kingsford Smith flew from the site several times during the 1920s, and sixty thousand people gathered at the airfield in 1926 to view the arrival of pioneer pilot Alan Cobham’s DH.50 floatplane after his epic flight from England to Australia.
The airport expanded during the 1930s with the acquisition of surrounding land, and further plans were put into place to again upgrade the facilities in the middle of 1940 as war spread across Europe and the threat of a German invasion of Britain loomed. The airport had become a hub of aerial activity since, with the addition of a pair of 7,000-foot runways, numerous administration buildings and workshops, several quite large hangars toward the south-western corner of the property, and No.3 Fighter Squadron RAAF having also taken up residence.
The largest private company to set up facilities was Pacific Aerospace (often known simply by its acronym of ‘PAe’). Its three large hangars, all painted a drab, khaki green, were the northern-most buildings in the main line of structures running north-south on the western side of Runway 17/35, with two workshops and a small office building clustered behind. Above the main doors of the middle hangar, the company’s name was emblazoned in large, block letters along with an identical but far larger version of the logo carried by the landing Hercules.
A number of spectators looked on – military, civilian and ground crew alike - as the YC-29 came to a final halt on a large, circular hardstand in front the two-storey main administration building. The Hercules was still in prototype status (hence the ‘Y-prefix’ at the head of its designation), and the US aircraft registration code painted in a similar black on either side of its tall rudder (NX10003) indicated it was the third such prototype of its series. Pacific Aerospace had been directly involved with the design of the aircraft for Lockheed, and that particular Hercules had been appropriated straight off the Lockheed production line. It had since been refitted to serve as the personal luxury transport of the owner and managing director of Pacific Aerospace himself.
A downward-opening door lowered from the side of the Hercules’ fuselage just aft of the cockpit, and that very same director appeared a moment later, squinting against the light of the bright, sunny morning. Appearing to be in his mid-forties, Max Thorne was of slightly above-average height, with a stocky build and short-cut dark hair that hinted at flecks of grey. Shielded against the sun, a pair of sharp and intelligent eyes watched impassively, glancing down momentarily to confirm his position above a set of steps that formed the inside wall of the opened door.
Clean shaven, well-rested and dressed in an immaculate, dark grey Brooks Brothers suit and matching fedora, his appearance was very different to how he’d looked and indeed felt just two weeks earlier, as he’d recovered from the physical and mental strain of having barely escaped with his life from the collapsing war zone of North Africa, only to be immediately thrown into a desperate chase to save the life of a teenage girl from a violent serial killer.
His body still ached in places, and a large white bandage showed on his neck just at the collar line of his shirt. The healing bite wound beneath and a number of superficial scratches on his face and arms were the only obvious reminders now of the ordeal of the last few weeks. Those ordeals had included a vicious struggle with a crazed SS officer during a wild sandstorm (which had resulted in the wound to his neck), and the painful memories of the man who’d died in his arms moments later still haunted his dreams and his waking hours.
Thorne stood in that hatchway for a moment or two and stared out across the panorama of runways, hangars and city before him, also noting a large, black Packard 180 touring sedan with military licence plates parked just a few yards away, two uniformed men waiting patiently beside it. The Packard sported a pair of small flags on its front fenders, one the Australian national flag and the other the gold-embroidered insignia of a general’s staff car: a crossed sword and baton on a khaki field. His arrival in Melbourne had been expected, yet he nevertheless found it interesting that the army had bothered to send an officer of such high rank to meet them straight off the plane.
As a wave of heat struck him in the form of a warm, northerly gust, Max started to rethink his decision on wearing the suit as he stood at that hatchway and marvelled at the sight of the northern suburbs of a city that was so different to the Melbourne in which he’d grown up. The suit and waistcoat had been no discomfort inside the aircraft’s air conditioned, pressurised interior, however all that had changed dramatically in that moment as he‘d been met by the outside world.
It was a hot morning for October and the temperature was already nudging eighty degrees (around 27º Centigrade). Heat mirage was shimmering above the concrete and asphalt all around, and it was a quite sudden and substantial shock to the system for someone who, prior to his recent adventures in the Egyptian desert, had spent six months experiencing the northern hemisphere’s run into winter. Sweat had already broken out in light beads across his forehead, and he was feeling the power of the reflected heat of the sun off the tarmac below.
He’d become accustomed well enough to hot climates, having spent the last few weeks sweltering through the heat of the North African desert, yet for all that there was an undefinable ‘difference’ to the feeling of that Australian sun… a sensation
that was at the same time both strange and incredibly familiar. Memories of a childhood filled with successive days of 40ºC or more were barely a blur that had been casually forgotten over the last few decades of Thorne’s life. Those memories of his time in Melbourne came flooding back to him quickly enough now as he stood on that platform, taking in the world around him.
There was also the distraction of multitudes of flies that would happily swarm in on man or beast at any opportunity, congregating in hordes on arms, backs and bare necks. The frantic waving of hands and shaking of heads might dislodge them momentarily but the determined insects would instantly return after any attempt to send them packing. Indeed, Max had been assaulted by a squadron of native bush flies the moment he’d appeared in the hatchway and was forced to wave his hand back and forth incessantly before his face in a time honoured ‘Aussie salute’ to discourage them.
“Fuckin’ flies…!” He growled almost plaintively under his breath. “The sooner we get some dung beetles onto you little bastards the better!” Thorne had already had discussions with the Australian Council for Scientific and Industrial Research (an organisation that would one day become known as the CSIRO) regarding the benefits of the introduction of several specific foreign species of dung beetle into Australia, something that had been done to great effect in another reality, now long gone. There were important benefits to be gained for primary industry and agriculture in the beetle’s introduction, one of which being a substantial reduction in general fly populations throughout the country through effective removal of the primary breeding sites: cattle dung. As he waved his hand once more before his eyes, Thorne decided that couldn’t happen quickly enough.
The Dead Alone (Empires Lost Book 3) Page 21