War Mountain

by Jerry Ahern

  “A clone?” Manfred Kohl repeated.

  “Zimmer’s new scientific abilities—new to me, at any event—were the determining factor which dictated that this temporary alliance was necessary. If there is God, Zimmer has taken to himself God’s powers. Zimmer can create life, endow that life however he chooses. There is a report, most secret until now. I understand that Zimmer is using this report as the means by which he will entrap the entire Rourke family. When I learned of the report, I realized that if Zimmer triumphed, and the world survived that triumph, he would be master of the world for all eternity.”

  James Darkwood’s cigar had burned out. He looked at it, then at Croenberg, Croenberg watching his eyes. “Colonel, I’m not following you. I mean, I did all right in my science classes at the United States Naval Academy at Mid-Wake, but I trained for the Navy, not the laboratory.”

  Croenberg turned back to the draped windows, staring through the crack he’d made into the night. “Picture it this way, gentlemen. Deitrich Zimmer has perfected the means by which he can duplicate human beings, and also the means by which he can record the human mind. He can then transfer the data in such a recording to a new mind. Undoubtedly, Deitrich Zimmer has cloned himself many times over. By use of cryogenic sleep, Zimmer can have a fresh body waiting for him whenever he needs it, either for spare parts or as a replacement for the whole.

  “Ever since man first began to contemplate his own mortality he has contemplated somehow being able to defeat it, to be immortal. Deitrich Zimmer has made himself immortal. The report touched only at the procedures.

  “But, I know Deitrich Zimmer as few men do,” Croenberg told them. “With his new abilities, he will live forever unless he is stopped now, his work totally destroyed. This is how it would work for him, gentlemen. Suppose that Zimmer has a series of alternate bodies awaiting his use. If he needed a heart or liver transplant, these bodies would be his donors, the perfect tissue match. Were he seriously injured, so gravely damaged that his body was beyond repair, the new body would be awaiting his requirements.

  “The Herr Doctor is a quite methodical man, gentlemen. With his abilities to record the human mind, I would venture to say that, as a safety precaution, he would have new bodies waiting which had already been impressed with his memories, in the event that some accident should befall him and there were no time to record prior to death, or a bank of such recordings preexisting, which is more likely the case.

  “This could be accomplished quite easily. I understand, from the data my own spies have brought to me, that the recording process is painless, requiring only that the subject be awake. Once each week or even once each day, should Zimmer desire, he could record the contents of his mind, leaving instructions for their use should disaster befall him. For that, he has Martin Zimmer. Martin, of course, would be given similar treatment. Together, they would rule the world for all eternity, until the very planet ceased to exist as a cradle for life.

  “Imagine, if you will, gentlemen,” Croenberg said, turning away from the window, letting the curtain drop from his fingertips, his eyes riveting on both men, “how it would have been if Alexander, or Napoleon, or Hitler, or Stalin had possessed this ability. The power which one could accrue in centuries of control would be limitless. With a mind as brilliant as Deitrich Zimmer’s, no secret of the universe would remain unknown to him. He would bring about a new age, but only to serve his own needs. The processes by which he is capable of these miracles have been known to him for several decades.”

  And now, Croenberg returned to his chair, taking a swallow of his brandy before continuing to speak. “I imagine, gentlemen, that you are both still quite distrustful of me, as well you should be. But, in this particular situation, I will prove your most faithful ally. And, now I will tell you why.

  “I am known as a merciless man,” Croenberg told them. “But there was one person for whom I craved mercy—my wife, gentlemen. And when she was taken gravely ill, I went to my comrade, Deitrich Zimmer, and Zimmer examined her. Her illness, however, was impossible to treat. As a conventional doctor, Zimmer did what he could. But the technology existed, even then, that—had he wished—for his most loyal man all these years—he could have recorded my wife’s mind before her death, cultured from her body the genetic material required to duplicate her, excised from this material the defective gene which brought about her untimely demise. She was twenty-eight years old, and we were married for seven years. Now, gentlemen, with mankind’s life span expanded, I look forward, should I survive, to another half century without her, when in another decade, had Zimmer used his Godlike powers to save her and me, she would have been with me again.”

  “So, you want revenge for the death of your wife.”

  “Not for her death, but for her not being allowed to be reborn to me. Do you understand, Darkwood?”

  “I understand,” James Darkwood said.

  “Then we have an arrangement?” Croenberg asked, leaning forward and offering his hand.

  He was almost surprised that the American agent took it.

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  The makeup technician tried powdering his cheeks, but Tim Shaw gently shoved her hand away. “No offense, ma’am, but I’m not into that stuff.”

  “Just to kill any shine, Inspector; that’s all,” she said, smiling.

  “No thanks. If I’m too shiny, people can just close their eyes.”

  The makeup technician—cute looking, about five feet six, dark, wavy hair, a nice, even chocolate brown complexion—shot him a smile, then whispered, “You look great without it.”

  “Thanks, kid,” Shaw told her, giving her a wink.

  “Sixty seconds,” the floor manager advised.

  A sound technician checked the wireless lavolier microphone that was clipped to Shaw’s tie. The interviewer, Tiffany Coggins, seated herself on the other side of the little table between the two chairs, leaned forward, smiled, said, “Nothing to worry about, Inspector. Except after you leave here, I guess. This is hot stuff.”

  “So are you,” he told her. And, she was, tall, blond, long-legged and gorgeous.

  She laughed. “This’ll be on tape, so if anything goes wrong, there’s no big trick to starting over.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “You really intend to challenge the leader of this group of Nazi infiltrators to going one on one?”

  “Not basketball, ma’am, but that’s correct.”

  “Roll tape,” someone shouted.

  The floor manager said, “Camera one, move in a little closer on Inspector Shaw. Let’s try it in ten . . . nine . . . eight . . .”

  Shaw watched the floor manager’s hand as he ticked off the seconds, then nodded. Tiffany Coggins began talking. “I’m here this morning with Inspector Timothy Shaw, head of the Honolulu TAC Squad. Welcome to ‘Dateline Honolulu,’ Inspector,” and she leaned forward and they pressed the flesh.

  “It’s good to be here, ma’am.”

  “Please, call me Tiffany, Inspector Shaw.”

  “Only if you call me Tim,” Shaw smiled.

  “Tim. You asked for this interview and, as a part of ‘Dateline Honolulu’s’ continuing involvement in community affairs, we agreed, but I won’t say happily. I understand that you will be placing yourself in considerable danger.”

  “That’s not exactly true, Tiffany,” Shaw said. Tiffany Coggins leaned forward, lips glistening, a smile plastered to her pretty face. “I’m throwing out a challenge to the scumbag who caused the deaths of those kids at Sebastian’s Reef Country Day School, the same piece of excrement who was behind the attack on my daughter’s home, the one who was behind the assault on the missile shipment, who was too chicken himself to come after me just a few hours ago. Now that all his guys or most of ’em are dead, maybe he’ll stop stayin’ at home and come after me himself.”

  “Then you want to make this a personal thing, Tim.”

  “It’s already personal, Tiffany. He’s a Nazi scumbag and I’m a cop; that�
�s as personal as it has to be. But, if you’re asking if I want to see if he’s got the guts to try for me himself, you’re on the money. Personally, a lot of the guys have been betting that he probably stays hid out all the time, just—you’ll pardon the expression on television—just jerkin’ himself off every time he hears of some innocent person getting axed by his boys.

  “Me, personally,” Shaw went on, “I think this guy’s probably the kind who couldn’t jerk himself off at all. Anyway, if he’s got the balls to come after me, I’m gonna be up in the mountains near my daughter’s place. He knows how to find it. His slimes tried gettin’ to me through her, but she was too good for ’em. She’s a Navy pilot, you know, and we’re all proud of her.”

  “And I understand, Inspector, that you’re planning on waiting for this Nazi terrorist all by yourself? Why?”

  “Well, that’s right, Tiffany, and the reason for that is that this guy’s too chicken to come after me any other way. If he thought I had a housecat with me, he’d probably use it as an excuse—afraid he’d get scratched. I’ll be up, just toolin’ around in the boonies havin’ a good time. If he wants me, all he needs is the balls to try, you’ll pardon the expression.”

  Tiffany Coggins was almost laughing when she asked him, “Do you have a description of this man, Tim?”

  “How funny that you should ask, Tiffany,” Shaw told her, starting to laugh himself. “Well, we figure he’s about five feet one or shorter. That’s so he can hide under rocks real good. His pants are always stained brown, if you know what I mean, and the tops of his shoes are always yellow.”

  “No, seriously, Tim!”

  Shaw laughed. “No, Tiffany. All we know is that this guy lets his people do all his fighting, which is why nobody has a solid description. Tell you what, Tiffany; I’d like to ask a favor.”

  She was obviously taken aback a little, but responded immediately, saying, “If I can, Tim.”

  “After I polish off this guy, will you have me back on the air so I can give your viewers firsthand details on how a slimy Nazi coward died? I think it would be enlightening for them.”

  “You’re that confident, Tim?”

  Tim Shaw couldn’t resist it. “Well, a kiss for luck wouldn’t hurt any,” Tim Shaw told her . . .

  “No, Wilhelm! It would start a fire!”

  Wilhelm Doring didn’t care, the upraised chair he held crashing downward into the television screen, smashing it, sparks flying everywhere. Marie screamed, running to the wall and throwing the power coupling control, isolating the video monitor from the power supply. Wilhelm Doring dropped the chair. He sat down cross-legged on the floor. The smell from the screen was like that of a bad cigar.

  Wearing only her slip, Marie dropped to her knees, hands moving tentatively toward him. He shoved her away and she fell backwards to the floor. “Leave me alone!”

  “He does not know you, this awful man, does not know that you are brave and—”

  “He is responsible, this man, for the deaths of all the men in my command. I can never go home again, Marie. Do you understand that? I could not live with the shame he has brought me.”

  “We do not have to do this, Wilhelm. We both speak English; we could hide here and no one would ever—”

  “What is it you say!”

  “I can work, Wilhelm,” Marie told him, pleading. “I can work and you can—”

  “What will you do? Sell your body in the street? That is all that you are suited for. And I? Should I begin to rob banks? I am a soldier. I will die as a soldier if I cannot live as a soldier. You may do what you will. A woman knows nothing of honor or duty. A woman only finds a man, then becomes a parasite. It does not matter what you do, Marie.”

  “I love you—”

  “That is your misfortune,” Wilhelm Doring told her.

  She was crying, so he slapped her down to the floor again as he stood up. She lay there, whimpering, sniveling. If it would not require the waste of a bullet, to have put this wretched thing out of her misery would have been merciful, Doring thought.

  “I will help you, then?” Marie Dreissling begged.

  “You will help me if you fall over dead. Only dead will you no longer be a burden to me.”

  “Wilhelm!”

  “Die, hm? I wish that you would die so that I could get about my business and kill this damned policeman, woman!”

  Marie got up to her knees, looked up at him. Doring turned his face away. “You do not mean—”

  “What use are you to me? Or, to yourself? You are no use to anyone or anything, and most certainly of no help to the cause. Do as you wish, but the only way you could be of any value would be if you died.” He went over to the table, took a swallow from the bottle of vodka there, then lit a cigarette.

  He heard the bathroom door close.

  Women always ran off to cry their silly eyes out, escaping like children when things did not go their way. She said that she loved him. Her love was useless to him. He spit loose tobacco from the end of the cigarette, looked toward the bathroom door.

  The toilet flushed. “Probably frightened her,” he laughed.

  He would go to the mountains, find this Inspector Shaw, personally kill Shaw and find some way of making an example of the policeman. What if he dumped the body at the police headquarters? Or the offices of “Dateline Honolulu,” right at the feet of this bitch, Tiffany Coggins.

  That was the only thing a woman was truly good for, try as women might to be useful. They made adequate servants, but men were even better at that.

  Doring took another swallow from the bottle. He would shave, shower, prepare himself and his weapons, then hunt down this animal, this policeman, killing him like the dog that Shaw was. “Marie!”

  There was no answer.

  “Get out of the bathroom! I need to clean up, to get dressed.”

  There was no answer.

  “Stupid woman! Cry someplace else. I need the bathroom.”

  There was no answer.

  Doring took another swallow of vodka, put the cigarette into the corner of his mouth, walked across the room to the bathroom door and turned the knob. The door was locked. “Open the door!”

  There was no answer.

  “Stupid woman, open the door!”

  There was no answer.

  Wilhelm Doring threw his shoulder against the door. The door would not budge. Shaking his head, he went to the bed they shared, his things laid out already for him. There was the little wallet there which contained his lockpicking tools. He took it, opened it, withdrew a pry and a pick, then returned to the bathroom door. “I am becoming very angry with you, Marie.”

  There was no answer.

  The cigarette was burned down so low by now that he could feel its heat on his lips. He dropped it to the floor and stepped on it. He bent over the lock, trying the tools. He almost had the lock, but the pry slipped.

  Doring dropped to his knees before the lockplate, starting to work the tools again. Then he noticed that his knees were wet.

  He looked down.

  He stood up.

  The tools fell from his fingers.

  Running out beneath the door was a growing puddle.

  He backed away from it.

  The puddle was not water, but blood.

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Anton Gabler merely awaited the word now.

  That final word would be given by Herr Dr. Zimmer personally to him by radio.

  He sat at his desk, watched the receiver, waiting for the buzz that would come from it. He would pick it up on the very first buzz, answering, “This is Dr. Gabler.”

  Then there would be the code phrase.

  He would respond.

  Then Herr Dr. Zimmer would say, “On my mark,” and give the word.

  Gabler would rise from his desk, walk across the room to the access control center and enter. The mission clock which Gabler would instantly set as the word was given would be counting down. When he reached the controls, he would adju
st their mission clock to match his own, then begin the countdown, commencing final arming procedures.

  Once he pushed the red button, his moment in history would be over.

  That was a very sobering thought.

  Gabler leafed through a report, too excited to pay it close attention. He set down the printout and turned to his computer terminal. He would bury himself in work until the buzzer sounded and his mission began. He summoned the file index, then acquired the file concerning his work in the salvage of nuclear material. He reread the earlier work in the field, eminently pleased with his thesis, sure of its potential success.

  He stopped, listened for the buzz. It did not come.

  Merely thinking about it, though, brought back the pleasant, warm stirring in his pants.

  No one had wielded such power for six hundred and twenty-five years. Except him.

  True, Herr Dr. Zimmer was giving the actual order, but without his own efforts, the device would not exist, nor could it be employed. Herr Dr. Zimmer would have the credit, of course, but that was the way with history. One remembered the names Hitler, Goebbels, Goring, but what of the men who did the actual work? Their names were known to a precious few, but some of the names were lost forever.

  Gabler.

  That name would be known. Anton Gabler was certain of that. Herr Dr. Zimmer had promised as much, really, telling him, “As my chief science advisor, you will be at the very pinnacle of the new world order, Anton. It will be you who will decide what is appropriate scientific research and what is not, you who will have the final word.”

  But, wasn’t the final word being given by Herr Dr. Zimmer himself, when that buzzer sounded?

  Anton Gabler returned to his work, trying not to consider that. This was important, would assure the survival of National Socialism, bring about that new world order. And the inferior races would be subjugated, eventually eliminated when their slave labor was no longer necessary. He would have charge of that, too, and was already devising the means by which the plan would be accomplished.