Trufflefoot scanned the docs, muttering under his breath in rapid German. “We’ll have to split up to check all these sites by nightfall.”
“How about we start with this one.” Smith unfolded a map and pointed to a nondescript flat point of land about 20 klicks outside the city. “Only a few tiny villages nearby, but my source complains about how much power they draw from the grid. Even desk cowboys have their uses, eh?”
“What a hot tip, indeed. This place ain’t nothing but a salvage yard.” Dore gave an even more self-satisfied grunt than usual as he lowered his binoculars and adjusted his butt on a steel girder propping up the power transmission tower.
Above him, Kat wrapped her long legs around the tower swaying in the desert wind and dug her field glasses even deeper into her eye sockets.
Less than a kilometer down the redstone hill from the power substation, the no-name airfield in the middle of nowhere bustled with activity. At least a hundred mechanics fussed over a dozen-odd machines under the shade of several giant tents. Tools and spare parts lay strewn about every which way, but there wasn’t a single propeller in sight.
None of these strange, curvy planes would fly anytime soon.
Dore stood up to let Trufflefoot wheeze his way past him on the way down. “I think we’ve seen enough. It’s all right, lady and gents. Not every tip pans out. We’ll mark them for an airstrike one day. It’s still an unknown military asset, so this wasn’t a complete waste of time.”
Dore tapped Kat’s boot, snickering as he followed the rest of the team back down to Earth. “Looks like your boy toy might have inflated things to get in your knick—”
A booming roar erupted over the horizon, racing straight for their tower and dropping fast.
“Incoming!” Dore wrapped a thick arm around Kat’s waist, and free dived the last six feet to the dirt. He tossed his giant frame over Kat’s back.
She slapped at his haunches, “gemt mof!”
Kat flopped on her back, her jaw dangling like the rest of the team at the giant bat flittering a few hundred feet above. Directly over the power tower, it banked a lightning-fast 90 degrees and lined up perfectly with the hard-packed sand runway nearby.
While Smith fumbled with his camera, Kazeem drove up in one of the Rolls Royce’s. “Have you seen enough?”
Kat dusted off her shorts and cocked her head at Dore. He nodded back with a chuckle while she whistled.
“Hey, Kazeem. How many armed men do you have around here?”
The Tuareg never looked up from the tangerine he was peeling with a mini-scimitar. “You paid for three drivers. I could round up probably 50 warriors in an hour from the nearby villages. What do you want them for?”
“What do you think?” Kat yanked a flask of scorching hot water out of the Phantom’s boot. “We’re going in hot and heavy. You get to be a hero!”
“We guide, you fight. I was only paid to organize your little adventure. Not play along.”
“I thought you people were hardcore rebels!” Dore bowed up, covering the local in six and a half feet of shade. Kazeem merely picked away at a fresh tangerine and sniffed.
“Well, if that’s what you want, sure. However, it’ll cost twice as much to go down there with you. Ten times more if you want us to shoot at those people.”
Smith snickered. “Uh, huh. How much to actually hit what you’re shooting at?”
The Berber mercenary sucked in his breath. “Oh, I doubt even you could afford that.”
“Don’t you want your freedom? The Arab legion used to be a staunch ally.” Kat slid in close and plopped down on the wide running board, pouring on the dimples. Kazeem glared back, unblinking.
“Yeah, I obey Allah, except I’m about as Arab as you’re Russian. I went to school in Marseille. Thought there was a bit more to your culture than just being Christian.” He shook his bushy head and flared his nostrils. “Of course we want freedom. From all you Europeans. What do I care if it’s the Germans, French or Brits occupying my homeland? Allah willing, maybe you’ll wipe each other out. In the meantime, the only thing that matters is staying alive long enough to collect my payday.”
Smith ground his cigar out in the sand and spit. “Fine, I’ll pay whatever you want. It’s still cheaper than losing even a single troopship. Let’s get started. You know I’m good for payment. This is your chance to gouge Uncle Sam an arm and leg.”
Kazeem wagged his trigger finger. “And how is a dead man supposed to spend the money? Even if we’re successful, the Germans are going to eradicate every village nearby in retribution. For you, this war is just writing checks. Our families are the ones that have to cash them.” He snorted and slid behind the wheel. Smashing the first ignition switch with a fist, he glanced around before hitting the second. “If we’re done here, time to head back into the city. We’re long overdue for a patrol to come through here.”
Kat caught the slamming driver’s door. “Wait. The Americans may have the money, but… there’s one thing only Britain can offer… The land you really want.”
Kazeem cut his eyes at the young minx saying nothing.
“So take his money, and we’ll sweeten the deal with a residence permit in the Levant—for all your fighters and their families. Palestine, Lebanon, Syria… take your pick. You know better than me about the land of milk and honey.”
Kazeem rapped both his cracked hands against the steering wheel for a solid minute before calling over the other two native drivers with a whistle. They huddle in a loud, animated conference for another minute. Finally, Kazeem gave Kat a curt nod and shook Smith’s hand.
“We’ll do it… after we’ve evacuated all these villages. We’ll head back to the city, get some more trucks and hit after midnight. Take it or leave it.”
Dore pounded his chest and circled a finger over his head. Atkins and Capson came bounding out of the shade of the nearest transformer, recovering their overwatch positions.
Atkins’s Sten gun shook in his hands. The boy gulped and nodded as Kat etched out the plan. “Remember, we don’t have to occupy the place. It’s just a quick in and out raid. Hell, if we just overrun those two AAA guns on the south side of the field, we can turn them against the flight line without having to get close. Too easy.”
With the exotic jets buzzing about, no one paid any attention to the unarmed Junkers 52 transport touching down on the airfield as they mounted up.
Nor the lone passenger as he climbed out, clad in all black from the skull and crossbones on his cap to his knee-high jackboots.
“Arrêtez!”
Kazeem slammed the brakes as soon as he pulled off the main boulevard. Half a dozen Vichy soldiers fanned out and shouted over a long roll of concertina wire stretched across the street.
“This checkpoint wasn’t here in the morning. Stay calm. It’s only because we’re passing through a Hebrew neighborhood. Or what’s left of it.”
The idyllic little slice of transplanted France on the African coast was only beautiful from a distance. Up close, not a soul stirred. No old folks gossiped on the overgrown lawns. No kids played in the neglecting playgrounds… Judging by all the busted doors and open—yet empty—shops, the locals hadn’t left voluntarily.
“We might need some more money, Mr. Smith. Not too much though. French soldiers are so much cheaper than constables.”
Kat clucked her tongue. “You had to say something.”
From out of a sandbagged bunker straddling the empty park to their left came a lone constable. The unarmed fellow kept both hands clasped behind his back as he peered inside each waiting Rolls Royce.
“Isn’t that the same bloke that shook us down at the train station?” Trufflefoot his
sed. Kat’s safety clacking off was the only response.
The graying French cop shook his head at the lead car with Capson, Dore and Atkins inside and took a step towards the next one. Smith beat him to the punch and leaned out the door.
“Howdy, Constable.”
The man froze for a second, then bolted down the block. He swerved, off-balance, what with both wrists handcuffed behind him.
“Get us out—” Trufflefoot stiffened, unholstering the hand cannon under his shoulder.
Two quick rifle blasts chased the Frenchman down the street. Before his body even hit the pavement, a pair of German soldiers popped out of the sandbagged bunker. Sub-machine guns held high.
As Kazeem cranked the engine, two more men leveled machine guns at the two Phantoms from inside the bunker. The six French cops stopped shoveling about and also leveled their weapons on the idling cars.
One of the Germans chuckled and barked in English. “Toss your weapons and come out with hands up.”
As Kat’s gun whipped up, Smith pinched the barrel of it and winked at her. “I got this, darling.”
He chucked his pistol out the door and sprang out, marching straight for the German Unteroffizier with his arms up.
Up, but not empty.
Smith waved one of his many passports with one hand and a bulging envelope with the other. “I don’t know what gossip the locals are feeding you, but we’re humble businessmen. Under contract with the Reich. If you’d just check my papers…”
The German sniffed, ignoring the outstretched bills.
“Well, if you need further references, just take me to the nearest bank. I can get you and your men whatever credentials you need.”
The Kraut finally lowered his weapon and grinned.
Then slammed the butt of his gun into Smith’s solar plexus.
He spun around and shouted in German at the bunker. “Call the Oberführer. We found them.”
Trufflefoot sighed. “So much for keeping things low-key. Your turn, schatzi. Could you please fix this little pickle?”
Kat clapped his shoulder and flashed a thumbs-up at the faces peering back at her from the first car. She dumped her Sten gun in Kazeem’s lap and dashed out the door, screaming and crying hysterically.
While the rest of the men emerged slowly with hands high, Kat babbled and begged in German and French, dashing from one soldier to the next.
“Bitte! I’m not with them.” She bounded out of the herd of prisoners and closed on the German NCO in charge. Dropping to her knees, she clutched at his waist. “Please don’t hurt me. I’ll do anything!”
The soldier chuckled some more. Then he shoved her off and flipped her over, pinning her to the ground and patting her down. He barely had his hands on her before he gasped and clutched his belt.
And the empty frag grenade pocket on his hip.
“You little…Frag out!” He jumped off her and levitated the last few feet towards the bunker, charging straight for his confused Comrades… blocking their field of fire.
While everyone else, armed or not, skittered for cover, Kat stayed on the ground and kept counting. “Two, three…” On “four,” she lofted the spoonless grenade over her ponytail. The steel baseball bounced off a machine gun barrel as the swan-diving NCO slipped inside the firing pit.
On “five,” the bunker erupted in a black cloud of shrapnel and sand, dropping the sandbagged roof on the hamburger pile of Krauts inside.
The last surviving German spun away from the other prisoners and drew a bead on Kat’s forehead. He squeezed the trigger and grunted, his burst stitching the sky. As he spun through the air, he caught a brief howl as a pair of hairy arms flipped him over and pile-drove him teeth first into the curb. Dore snatched his gun in midair while stomping on the gasping man’s windpipe. Dropping to a knee, Dore spun around. However, the shooting had already stopped.
“What do we do with these guys, Sarge?” Capson trained his weapon on three terrified French cops, all clustered together with their arms high.
Atkins double-tapped the two wounded cops at his feet, wincing with each shot.
Kazeem wiped his scimitar clean on the uniform of another headless Frenchman slumped over the Phantom’s hood. “No charge.” He grinned behind his bushy beard as Smith stumbled to his feet. “He was a freebie… I don’t know how we can launch the raid now. The only German garrison around here is at the airfield. If they’re on to you, they’ll be all over my people too.”
Smith jumped behind the nearest car’s steering wheel and dug a cigar out of his coat. “Guys, we can still pull this off, but we gotta move now. Just get me to a phone. I have an idea.”
Trufflefoot shrugged. “You heard the man. Let’s do what we came here for. Mount up!”
“Wait, wait.” Kazeem shoved him back and nudged the three French prisoners forward, all of whom Atkins had hogtied with their own belts.
“Hostages could come in handy. They’ll ride with Smith and me.” He helped Capson and Atkins pile the scowling cops into the backseat, while never taking his eyes off Kat. “The rest of you squeeze into the second car and cover us in case they have more—”
Kat reached to shake the Tuareg merc’s outstretched hand. Inches away, she stopped and wiped away the blood, and bone shards plastering her face. Even as Dore tackled her, she kept staring at the misty cloud where Kazeem’s grinning face had been.
Trufflefoot flashed past faster than he had ever moved. He shouted over the rip of 20mm high explosive shells shredding Smith’s Rolls Royce into so much fancy confetti. “Get up and go!”
Kat came out of her trance as they rounded the nearest corner of the wide intersection. She dropped prone and popped her head around the apartment’s brick corner, peering over the smoking checkpoint. The six-wheeled armored car racing down the street shifted fire and raked their last ride with cannon fire. Dore stood over her and leveled his gun. Atkins and Capson opened fire first.
“We’re surrounded. Inside!” Dore stomped the hinges off the nearest door while a pair of 5-ton trucks spilled out Vichy troops less than 50 meters down the block. He barreled through the collapsing door with Kat close on his heels.
Ka-ka-kadush!
As the armored car out front eviscerated the ground floor with its autocannon, Kat kicked the giant Scotsman out the door and into the freeway of tracers cracking by on the street. She cowered behind the slim cover of the apartment’s steps and stuck her Sten gun over her head. A trio of rifle rounds smashed the cheap weapon to shreds. Kat flipped on her back and laughed.
“It’s almost insulting to go out like this. Buy me a drink in Valhalla, Wolfman.” She twisted over and kissed Dore’s one cheek not pressed against the pavement. He growled at Trufflefoot and his junior soldiers, somehow staying alive stacked in a Conga line and hugging a giant Cedar tree in the middle of the sidewalk.
The endless fire dwindled, replaced by a Vichy Officer bellowing through a bullhorn. “You have no chans’. Zurrender and you may yet live!”
“Bugger me. I ain’t going out layin’ on my belly. I’ll distract ‘em. Ya’ll cross the street and make a run for it.”
“No!” Despite Kat’s clutching arm, Dore sprang to his feet, his roar echoing off the narrow street, rattling the windows. Twenty-odd Vichy troops laughed as he charged.
Their leader shook his head, slashed his hand through the air and continued to grin as a glass bottle smashed against his back, dousing him in something wet and greasy. He dived off the truck bed as flames engulfed his body, landing in a pit of broken glass and more homemade napalm.
Twenty meters out, Dore skidded to a halt, flinching back from the portal to hell scorching his face. E
ven after the first dozen flaming, screeching Vichy soldiers blew their own brains out, Molotov cocktails kept raining down from the roofs on either side of the street.
“Get down, Dore!”
The Scotsman dropped his shoulders and spun around. The armored car rounded the corner staying well back on the broad boulevard. Instead of entering the side street, it’s little turret hammered each rooftop from a safe distance with the twin 20mm hell raisers. A devil’s piano mounted in the bow lit up the street.
Dore raised his middle finger at the burst cracking over his head and leered as the invisible gunner dipped his barrel down a smidgen and ranged his gut—then snapped to the side and hosed down a pair of civilians charging the steel car. Both rebels clutched flaming Molotov Cocktails above their knee-length skirts. The women never got closer than 20 meters before the gun chopped them down. Although the other six strangers looping in from every other angle managed to lob their hellish cocktails under the wheels. One pre-pubescent girl even managed to monkey on top of the turret and smashed her home-made napalm against the base of the cannons.
The torched armored vehicle clanked back a few meters before the crew couldn’t handle the acrid smoke and popped the first hatch open. A volley of rifle fire from a couple of dozen windows punished them for their final mistake.
Behind them, a short and delicate man, sporting baby soft cheeks and curly dark hair, sauntered out of the oily black smoke. He lowered his vintage bolt action rifle and snapped his fingers.
A dozen armed civilians swooped in and took their weapons. Kat opened her mouth to argue with a sneering brunette gal sticking an ancient Lebel Model 1886 rifle in her face. Instead, Kat gagged on the reek of scorched human hair and well-marbled meat. She didn’t even struggle as the strangers shuffled them into the back of a butcher’s truck that had rounded the corner. Keeping her gaze on the civilians’ odd leader, she kept her mouth shut for once as he fired a parting shot into a squirming Kraut’s head and hopped on board the getaway vehicle.
Kat's Rats Page 5