On the Edge of Darkness (Special Force Orca Book 1)

by Anthony Molloy

  * * *

  The German corporal heard the drunken laughter before he saw the three men stagger around the corner and enter the square. He looked in the direction of the sentry post, calling “Werner!” before turning back to face the drunken men, he couldn’t handle this lot alone, where was Werner! Quick anger welled up inside him. He turned and marched rapidly back to the hut, past the sandbags. Suddenly his head wrenched back, his feet left the ground, He kicked and struggled, tried to call out, he could hardly breathe. His chinstrap was buried deep in the fatty folds of his neck crushing his windpipe and vocal chords. Something flashed in the bright light, stroked his exposed throat, warmth spilled down his neck. A terrible pain jerked at his spine. A loud crack echoed in his brain and then he saw an infinite tunnel of diamond bright light stretching back into an endless blackness.

  * * *

  Chapter 18

  The Mentor

  Bushel’s breath came in quick gasps… cold air froze his lungs, exhaustion was draining his mind. For one crazy moment he thought the Germans could follow the steam of his breath. They wouldn’t need to, his ski tracks in the fresh snow were enough. He snatched a quick look behind; they were still there, lights bobbing and weaving in the night.

  All hell had broken loose as they’d left the village. The German patrol had shot out of nowhere, three tracked vehicles, for Christ’s sake! They were still there, right up their arses and gaining, stuck to him like shit to a Pusser’s blanket.

  What a bloody mess… it couldn’t be worse…It could; maybe enemy patrols were already ahead of them… if they were equipped with wireless. If only he’d had the men he had asked for, he could have dropped them off at intervals on the way in… they could have warned him of any patrols on the way back… A lot of ‘ifs’…Frantically he swerved right…it was a job to see the bloody trees… They seemed to charge out of the dark… any darker and… The enemy were using their headlights… When they topped a rise, they shone out like searchlights, probing the sky before dropping back into the trees with a jolt. Suddenly he thought he could hear the sea…He listened as they crested the next hill…There it was again, or was it the sound of their skis, thrown back from the trees…No!…It was definitely waves… with a bit of luck… and they’d used up a lot of that tonight…

  The old man was keeping up well…at least they had him… he must be fifty, if he was a day…probably born on a pair of skis.

  He skidded to a halt in front of ‘Fort One’, spinning through a hundred and eighty degrees. Blake had dropped off; he was already at work frantically rubbing out their tracks from the tree line. Good man… no need to tell him anything. He’d have to be good…No ‘Snake’…If they had been short handed before, now, with Stilson gone…He could already be here… He could be anywhere…He could be dead…The Norwegians would have to man one of the Forts… Would they have the nerve to hold their fire…he’d shoot the bastards himself if they fucked it up.

  * * *

  Jager Leutnant Wieland Sieg’s helmeted head hit the butt of the MG42 as the speeding, bucking reconnaissance half- track jumped a bump in the dirt road. Cursing under his breath, he crouched lower. Through the forward gun slit, he could see the ski tracks clearly in the fresh powdery snow and the yellow glare of the headlights. They seemed to weave in and out of those of the half-track ahead of his. Who the hell were these men? They knew how to ski, that was for sure…but then everyone did in this verflucht country…Enemy Alpine troops…It was possible…Norwegians? Most definitely…If they were, then there would have to be reprisals… Unpleasant stuff…He didn’t want to get involved in that side of things. He preferred to leave that to those who enjoyed it. There were enough of them.

  He leant forward and shouted in the driver’s ear. “If those ski tracks turn off sharp or disappear altogether brake fast, you hear me?”

  “Jawohl, Herr Leutnant!”

  Skiers could turn a lot sharper than this half-track, especially when it was driven by this dolt. If they disappeared completely it could mean an ambush. He had been in the Alpine Troop long enough to know that. He had learnt that the hard way from those sadistic sods of instructors in the forests of Bavaria.

  His thoughts returned to the pursued, who where these people? Was there any sense in wondering? Whoever they were, they definitely weren’t on his side, the blood trail proved that…he remembered the corpses …Oh yes, there would be reprisals all right.

  * * *

  Bushel shot back across the snow… his men were in place… the enemy headlights were cutting through the trees, sending ghostly shadows flickering and dancing in front of him. He seemed to be racing them as well as Jerry.

  The first Jerry turned the bend in a flurry of snow and came crashing along the last stretch. He skidded to a halt; almost fell through the doorway of the HQ, his skis still attached to his legs. His tired brain fought to cope with the task at hand to remember the plan. Catch the first half-track… block the way, that was it. He struggled to control his breathing. Through the slit the harsh headlights muted to a warm red glow in his ski glasses.

  Now! a blinding flash of orange light illuminated pieces of the half-track flying up in an eruption of white-hot flame. Behind the destroyed vehicle the other half-tracks swerved off the track to the left and right, soldiers leaping from them. Seeking cover, running, crouching low, harsh silhouettes against the white light of the flames and the snowy backdrop. A secondary explosion sent shadows jumping and dancing across the forest floor. The first fire had became a steady roar, exploding ammunition sending flying sparks bursting from its glowing centre.

  He belly-crawled rapidly out of the emplacement and along the drainage ditch fumbling inside his ski suit, he drew the Very pistol and fired the signal. Even before it exploded, he was on his way back. The flare sailed high above the flames and exploded into white light. Immediately Olaf’s machine gun opened up. A noise like mad static blended into the roar of the flames and exploding ammunition. Back in the HQ, Bushel waited by the firing slit. The Norwegian’s Bren, opening up on cue, had sent the enemy troops wiggling and scurrying round to put the trees between them and the machine gun. The entire flank of the enemy troops now lay under the sights of his, so far, silent gun.

  He moved his head slightly to peer along the sights, smelling the oiled metal rank in his nostrils. He squeezed the trigger, the figure in the sights twitched in time to the burst. He swung quickly to his right, another two-second burst, another twitching figure. He worked his way systematically from the enemy rear, killing as he went.

  The gun was hot in his hands before they realised what was happening, then they began to run, at first in twos and threes that in seconds had turned into a rout. Caught between two murderous streams of fire, outflanked, nowhere to hide, they ran and they died in a slow-motion nightmare of deep leg-dragging snow.

  The flare died, hiding the contorted dead, the bodies writhing in the snow and the tree cover that had been no cover at all.

  * * *

  Jager Leutnant Sieg thanked his God that when he had run, he had run to his right. The enemy guns, now thankfully silent, had concentrated their fire on the other side of the blazing half-track. He had been lucky to escape the secondary explosion as they exited their vehicle, his driver had taken the full blast, his body a tower of squirming flames.

  There were two guns beautifully positioned, well thought out, too well positioned to have been a spur of the moment ambush. Light machine guns, probably Brens. He was looking at a professionally executed and pre-planned ambush, either that or a defensive position that had been in place for some time. The first thing he must do was to get the other Sonderkraft half tracks and all the spare ammo off that verdammt road. He waited for a loll in the firing before yelling, “Hofmann!”

  Oberjager Hofmann lay some distance behind his officer waiting the expected call. He took another long pull at the second water bottle, the one half full of ‘Hero’s Piss’. He rose warily and began moving forward from tree to tree,
crouching and ducking as he went. With a last sprint, he dived into the thick snow at Sieg’s side.

  “A nest of vipers we’ve stumbled on here, Herr Leutnant.”

  Sieg nodded, “We are going to need more men. Find me some drivers, if there are any still alive! Get those half-tracks back up the trail, reverse them mind, keep to the old tracks. The whole road could be mined for all we know. Inch clear, use the half-track’s radios to call up reinforcements. And, for the sake of Christ, tell them ‘no garrison troops’ we don’t want any careful old men, this is going to be work for heroes.”

  “Ya Herr Jager Leutnant.” replied Hofmann, without enthusiasm he backed away on his beer belly, thinking it was as well he had brought the ‘piss’ with him; he was going to need it.

  * * *

  The snake slid silently from the path into the tree cover. All night it had kept the prey in sight. There was no need to move quietly, the roar of racing half-tracks drowned all other noise. It peered through slitted eyes; the defences around the HQ had given a good account. The two surviving vehicles were being reversed away from the blazing wreck of the lead vehicle. In a welter of snow they skidded to a halt fifty yards in front of it. Three men climbed down. They stood talking. One a, N.C.O, left quickly, one took guard by the wheezing hot vehicles and the third climbed on and into one half-track.

  A burst of small arms fire from the right, the snake recognised the splutter of a German MG42. Tracer ripped through the trees. The snake attached his ski sticks in his pack. No need for them on the slope down to the half-tracks. He slid the safety on the Lanchester forward and pushed off. The skis slid silently over the compacted snow, gaining speed all the while.

  The trooper on the ground took the short burst in the chest. The surviving man rose to his feet, reaching for his abandoned machine pistol. His headphones stopped him short. In a panicked filled second he had struggled free and swung his weapon towards the snake. These were vital seconds, seconds that could have saved his life, and didn’t. The snake struck first. Miniature crimson volcanoes erupted across the man’s heaving chest and he slumped back into his seat. The noise of the distant MG42 had drowned the noise of the snake’s swift strike. It slivered to a halt, a bow-wave of snow covering the sentry’s body. Removing the skis with quick glances to right and left, it opened the engines of both half-tracks and snatched out the ignition wiring, stuffing it deep, into the pocket of its white overalls. Next it smashed the valves of each of the radios and dragged the warm bodies of the prey to the edge of the tree line.

  It tore a branch and returning covered all traces of its presence, carefully working back to the seclusion of the trees. It removed the ground sheet and sleeping bag from the backpack. Carefully choosing a site, close to the two bodies. Pulling the white sheet over its long body it merged into the snow covered forest floor. The bait and the snake waited for more prey.

  * * *

  Bushel was beginning to enjoy himself, like a composer at the first night of his concert; months of creativity were blossoming into a symphony of noise and light. His only worry was the Norwegians on his flank. Kristiansand and his father were no soldiers and could not be relied on to defend a position for long, not in the face of these seasoned mountain troops. He would be happier if Olaf was here, closer to the tunnel and their escape route. He reached a decision and taking the flare pistol crawled out of the HQ and along the shallow drainage ditch, twenty yards; there was no point in drawing Jerry’s attention to the log HQ, flare signals fired from there would do just that, Jerry would soon realise it was not just another gun position. He fired the two flares in quick succession. Immediately a German voice called from the trees, bursts of heavy machine gun fire kicked earth and snow in around him as he crawled, head low and body flat back to shelter.

  * * *

  Suddenly two flares lit the night sky to Sieg’s front. He turned on his side and yelled, “Dautel! Bring your fire to bear on that flare position!” The MG42 gunner commenced fire, tracer tracked through the trees sending splinters of wood flying.

  Sieg rolled over on his back as Hoffman slid in beside him. “That could be their HQ,” he yelled, jerking one thumb over his shoulder, “That’s the second signal from there. Any word from HQ?”

  “Not yet, Herr Leutnant.”

  Sieg frowned, “They’re taking too long, send someone to the rear, check they’re in contact.”

  * * *

  The HQ runner backed away from the position and turning in the snow, crawled on his elbows for another fifty yards, stood up and crouching double ran back towards the vehicle park.

  He saw the two radio operators sitting, their backs against the trees. He ran straight up to them. “By the Gods, you two would have been for it if I’d been the Ober…”

  A hand appeared from behind his head, he had time to see a tattooed snake on an exposed wrist, before his throat contracted beneath a sinewy arm. He heard the crack of his own spine and then a painless void enveloped him.

  * * *

  The snake surveyed its handiwork from the comfort of its hideaway. The trap was a thing of beauty, a diorama worthy of any exhibition. The three corpses were propped against the trees. It took time to enjoy the way the fat man’s hand rested gracefully on the shoulder of his neighbour. It raised a hip flask in the direction of the trio and took a swig of the fat man’s Schnapps. Fat soldiers always carried little extras, little tit bits to enjoy.

  It could be the last kill here… it might be necessary to move again. The dirt track to the rear? The tongue flicked across the wet lips in anticipation. It took a last look at the art of the Mentor before smiling slyly and sliding back deeper into the folds of the ground sheet.

  * * *

  It was as he had sensed, the others had come in strength, too strong a force, come to see his handiwork. No chance of a quiet kill. They would send a messenger now. The Mentor had made sure of that, they had no radio. Another move in the game, how it enjoyed anticipating the ‘others’ move. How it would enjoy countering it. The long body slid smoothly, slowly from cover and then swiftly through the trees. As it went it laughed quietly, a hissing sound, humour absent in the sick eyes.

  The snake had already chosen the position, a sharp turn in the path. The prey would be cautious here. It would check the road ahead making sure it was clear; its whole attention would be on that. Strike time! It laughed again. It was laughing a lot lately, a sign the Mentor was enjoying the work, was pleased with him. Knew the snake did not want to return to England with the others. It smiled, nodding in understanding. Here it was no crime, here it could kill at will. Here there were hundreds, thousands of prey… enough for even the snake’s insatiable needs. He must remain here with the Mentor, they must never be parted.

  * * *

  The Norwegian Sea, 0550 hrs, Monday, 28th May, 1940.

  ‘Eddy’

  Grant cursed; the moon had appeared from behind thick cloud. In the ghost-white light he could see every detail of Crosswall-Brown’s boat as if it was day. The M.T.B. leapt over the waves like a racehorse taking fences, eager to be taking the next.

  Abruptly the coast of Norway appeared from the sea, peaks of snow capped mountains shrouded in mist tipped with silver from the setting moon.

  Too much light, by entering the Inlet now he was risking the secret base, the Network’’, just about everything they had worked for. In any other circumstances he would have veered off, abandoned the mission, and returned home. This time was different, he had no choice, his orders were to get their people out.

  As dawn’s first light painted the sky, quenching the darkness behind the rugged silhouette, the line of the coast began to grow in stature. Ten miles to go, at thirty knots, twenty minutes. They would make it now, but only just.

  “Ship! Green two five!” the lookout’s cry shattered that brief moment of triumph and relief. As he whipped his binoculars up, struggling to focus both the glasses and his tired brain, a star-shaped light, winked its challenge. Beyond the loom of the l
ight he instantly recognised the sleek head-on silhouette of an enemy destroyer.

  * * *

  Inlet

  It had grown cold as the dawn approached; already the sky had started to lighten in the east. Sieg surveyed the enemy’s position through the powerful Zeiss binoculars. He had hoped that the reinforcements, he had sent for, would arrive before dawn, unlikely now. He had set sentries in the rear to counter any more of the dissident behaviour that had cost him valuable men. He lowered the glasses and turned round to continue his briefing of Hoffman.

  “I will attack at zero six-thirty hours even if the extra men have not arrived. I am certain there are no more than eight or ten men against our thirty. It is enough…the fewer of us the greater the glory, No?”

  Hoffman’s eyes flashed momentarily to his leader’s face. He was serious. The blue eyes flashed back to the tree above Sieg’s shaven head. “Yes. Herr Jager Leutnant!”

  “I want you to take half the men around to the right flank, go well to the rear before moving across, I don’t want the enemy to know of your movements. At zero six-thirty, precisely, we attack together. That will give you plenty of time to move into position, no skis until you are well out of ear-shot.”