Kat's Rats

by Michael Beals

  Captain Darby snickered and climbed to his feet, shouldering his weapon. “No worries. I guess it’s true that only the good die young.”

  Dore’s blade slipped from his fingers. He pawed the blonde-haired boy standing at parade rest in front of him.

  “You okay, Sergeant? Looks like shock.” Capson gasped as the Wolfman scooped him up in a bear hug. “Holy hell, you are dying… Medic!”

  The column of scowling Frenchmen behind him parted. A skinny ghost popped out with a wireless set on his back. Atkins shot the gang a thumbs-up, prodding three Vichies with Red Cross armbands forward with his machine pistol.

  Trufflefoot blinked around his engorged nose. “Are they unarmed… just how many prisoners do you have there? Hundreds, thousands?”

  “Gawd, sir. Don’t know. Ask Atkins. He caught them all.” Capson scratched his nose and yawned.

  Atkins huffed his way over and dumped the radio sack at Captain Darby’s feet. “God, that’s heavy. Glad the Forward Observer left it in the jeep though.”

  Dore pumped Atkins’s hand and pounded his back. “I knew you were a hero in disguise. I’ll make damn sure you get a promotion for this, son. We’ll get you your own platoon!”

  Atkins blanched. “Hell no! You got it all wrong, Sarge. These guys had us pinned down in a crater. Capson wanted to make a last stand while I pissed my britches and waved a white flag. I begged them to let us surrender and get away from the artillery. But once these stupid Vichies spotted the radio antennae, they fell over themselves throwing down their weapons and pleading with me to stop the guns. Just dumb luck!”

  Kat rose and pecked his cheek. “And modest, too. Colonel, don’t you think he’d make a great asset? Let’s send a recommendation to the SOE and get him and Capson officially sanctioned in MI6. Who knows what sorts of crazy missions the boss has in store for you two. I gotta say, I’m a bit jealous.” She high-fived Capson as he stuck out his chest.

  Atkins collapsed in the sand, clutching his heart. “What did I ever do to you?”

  Kat spun around as a dozen jeeps flittered by and surrounded the shuffling Vichies. Four Hellcat tank destroyers clanked in after them, forming a tight circle around Kat’s team. General Patton leaned out the open turret of the lead vehicle and pried his goggles onto his helmet. Kat shot him a wink.

  “What are you so pissy about, General? We fixed your little rodent problem.”

  Patton jumped down and slapped a riding crop against his thigh. “You were supposed to stop it, not sink that thing. Maybe the Navy boys can tow it back to shore. Nobody’s going to believe what happened without some physical proof.”

  “That’s the idea, sir.” Trufflefoot crossed his arms and leaned against the Hellcat. “You really want the Germans to know that one of their Wunderwaffen actually works? Just let the Ratte disappear without a trace. Don’t report anything about the fight. Blame the casualties on unexpected Vichy resistance. Sure, the men might gossip, but if nothing shows up in any official after-action report…”

  Patton cut his eyes at the Brits clustering around him. “Falsify Official Reports? Maybe, but that’s not the point. I bet the eggheads could reverse engineer our own line of super tanks.”

  “Come now. The Wehrmacht is way ahead of you.” Trufflefoot tapped his temple. “Think about it. If they learn how close they came, you’ll be fighting a dozen of these things next month while your own land cruisers are still on the drawing board.”

  Kat slid close and hummed. “History is written by the winners. You of all people should know that.”

  Patton swatted his hand in the air. “Don’t mistake my indulgence for weakness. I appreciate your help, but I’m in charge here. Now, what I want you to do…”

  Kat yawned and kept talking over him. “Besides, don’t you have a reputation to maintain? If the Ratte was never here, neither were we. Then you’re the brilliant General who saved the day from the Vichy traitors. Otherwise, you’re just a hapless footnote in history that needed saving from a bunch of Brits… sent by Montgomery himself. Which scenario do you think gets you another star on your helmet and which gets you sent back to a desk job stateside?”

  “Monty! That stuffed-shirt pissant won’t steal my, er, my division’s glory!”

  Kat shrugged. “So do you want to tell your grandkids that you spent World War Two shoveling shit in Louisiana, or leading a great army in the desert?”

  Patton spun on the girl and roared. “Who the fuck do you think you are? You really think I’m such a vainglorious simpleton?”

  “No, sir. I don’t think you’re simple.” Kat’s eyes twinkled as she squeezed his arm. “After all, haven’t we known each other for a thousand years?”

  Patton blinked for a solid minute before opening his mouth. “Damn. If I were a few years younger and you were a whole lot uglier… All right. History will say what you want.” He slid off his helmet and rubbed the scraggly pineapple swatch of blonde hair underneath. “Perhaps we could discuss the details over dinner tonight? We have quite a few centuries to catch up on—”

  “Eisenhower is on the line!” A young Corporal in the Hellcat stretched a wireless mic down to the ground. Patton turned around and stuck his hand out. The soldier coughed and held the mic away.

  “Um, sir… he wants to talk with the English Colonel and the girl.”

  Patton chuckled and tossed his arm on the track’s treads. “This should be interesting.”

  “Ah, in private too, sir.” The soldier handed Trufflefoot the mic and faded away. Kat blew Patton a kiss. He swatted the tank destroyer with his crop and strutted off with a little salute.

  “This is T, over.” Trufflefoot clicked the button, eyeing the speaker like a pregnant cobra.

  An annoyed American voice muttered, “He’s here.” A second later, a haughty Irish brogue broke over the net. “What the bloody hell are you doing? Haven’t you received my messages?”

  Trufflefoot stiffened and clenched the mic. “CD, we had a… peculiar situation develop in the last week.”

  Kat stuck her ear to the radio while Trufflefoot filled the boss in. The bored chief of Churchill’s Private Army cut the Colonel off after half a minute.

  “So what? You want some R&R while the world’s about to end?”

  “But, sir...”

  “Yeah, yeah, I get the picture. You stopped some superweapon. Same shit, different day. That’s what His Majesty pays you for. Now we just intercepted the craziest transmission from some Oberführer in the Gestapo’s Department E, not too far from your location. The man’s gone rogue. Everyone from DC to Berlin is shittin’ bricks. So get your team together and haul ass to...”

  The End… of this round.

  Kat and the Desert Eagle

  PRELUDE BOOK 3

  Thirty miles west of Tunis, amid arid fields that once were olive groves, the French built a tiny airfield. It boasted a single dusty runway, a small control tower, and a hangar large enough for crop dusters… until the Luftwaffe arrived. Now with two runways, three large hangars and heavily guarded by the Waffen-SS.

  Two hours ago, Field Marshal Rommel arrived with a fleet of tanks and two high-ranking British prisoners. This too was the reason

  Kat Wolfram and her team were also there. The SOE was insistent. We don’t care what it takes. The Germans cannot be allowed to fly them to Berlin. If you can’t rescue them… kill them!

  The stolen halftrack felt like an oven in the midday heat, made even worse because Kat and Trufflefoot wore the full, all black, Waffen-SS uniforms. The rest of the team wore desert fatigues. Sergeant Major Dore also had his sleeves-rolled-up, no doubt to show off his bulging biceps and hairy arms. They were parked in the road outside
the airfield’s main entrance, and every so often the German Guards glanced at them.

  Kat glanced at Corporal Atkins. He looked nervous because he didn’t speak German. “You’ll be fine, Atkins. Stop worrying.”

  “What if someone speaks to me?”

  Captain Stewart, the New Zealand pilot, laughed. “Mate, once we’re in there, you won’t be speaking to anyone. Soon as those prisoners move, we’ll be marching across that airfield like regular Krauts.

  “Is that a good idea?” Kat asked, glancing at Dore.

  “Why? What d’you have in mind, Lass?”

  “The only plane with its engines running is that Junkers 52.”

  “So it’s the plane they’re using for the prisoners. And?”

  “We should stay in the halftrack and drive. It’ll give us cover when things get sticky.”

  “Good Lord,” Trufflefoot said, grimacing, “no one takes a halftrack on the apron.”

  Dore straightened and racked his MP40. “Good idea, Lassie. And in the nick of time. They’re on the move. Move yer wee arse, Atkins!”

  Starting the engine, Atkins hauled the halftrack up to the gates, staring straight ahead as Kat waved their papers at the Guard. “Wir sind in eile,” she said, sweetly.

  The Guard took one look at Trufflefoot’s SS rank, barely glancing at the papers. Moments later they drove past rows of Dornier bombers, ground crews loading ordnance, and clambering on the wings. The prisoners and their escorts were now halfway across the apron, an SS Captain and six Guards, three either side, their boots crunching in perfect unison. Dore pulled out a Panzerschreck. This clearly would not be a gentle extraction.

  Kat released the safety’s on her twin Lugers. “Slow down Atkins. We want them safely aboard.”

  Hearing the halftrack coming, the SS Captain looked back and frowned.

  “They’ve seen us,” Stewart said.

  “Of course they’ve seen us,” Kat exclaimed. “We’re not invisible. Wait for Dore’s call.”

  “Or you can wait for mine,” Trufflefoot interjected. “I am the Commanding Officer.”

  Kat smiled and kissed him on the cheek. “Of course you are, Truff. You want to call it?”

  He screwed up his face and thought about it. “No, not really.”

  The prisoners passed under the wing now, the ladder in place to board the plane as two SS officers peered out through the doorway.

  “Slower,” Dore warned. “Keep to a crawl, Atkins.” They were 100 yards away now and closing quickly. “For the love of Christ, Atkins. Do you know what a crawl is?”

  “It won’t go any slower Sarge. I’m already riding the bitching clutch.”

  “Then put your foot on the brake,” Kat hissed, trying to maintain a smile. “We can’t get there too soon.”

  At that moment, the Captain guarding the prisoners jerked around and stared at them. Waving the prisoners onto the plane, he squinted at the approaching halftrack and stepped forwards. “Herumgehen!” he shouted, waving his arms. “Herumgehen!”

  Atkins had no intention of going around, and moments later, Dore shouted, “Now!”

  He leaped from the truck, followed almost instantly by Kat, Stewart, and Trufflefoot. The Guards stared at them in shock. They were being attacked by their own people.

  “Drop your weapons and back away!” Trufflefoot shouted in German, “we’re taking over!”

  The German Captain narrowed his eyes. “You have documents?”

  “No, we’ve got these nice shiny machine guns!” Trufflefoot shouted, racking his MP40. “Drop your weapons!”

  The Captain’s eyes widened. “Englander! Englander!” he screamed, with a look of shock.

  Dore didn’t wait. While firing his MP40, he hurled a smoke grenade over the halftrack. “Fire at will!” he yelled.

  Volleys of bullets pinged and whined as the Guards tried to defend themselves, but Atkins and Stewart mowed them down. One of the German officers loosed a burst of automatic fire from the Junker’s doorway. Dore grabbed him, threw him off the plane and leaped aboard. Suddenly, bullets pinged all over the halftrack. They were under heavy fire from one of the hangars. Stewart cursed and hurled another smoke grenade as Kat grabbed the Panzerschreck and fired it into the smoke.

  “The planes!” Dore screamed, from the Junker’s doorway. “Aim at the planes!”

  Swinging around, she loaded another rocket into the Panzerschreck and fired it at the nearest Dornier. At that moment, all hell broke loose. The Dornier exploded, bullets peppered the Junker, smoke, and debris flew everywhere.

  “On the plane!” Kat screamed, leaping aboard.

  Trufflefoot picked up the Panzerschreck she’d abandoned. He loaded a rocket into it and blew up another Dornier.

  Pushing past the startled prisoners, Kat stormed to the front of the plane. “For god’s sake, Jock! Why are we still sitting here? Get this thing moving!”

  “He’s refusing.”

  “He’s what!” Stabbing her gun at the pilot’s head, she yanked him round to face her. “Are you stupid or what?” Kat snarled in German, ducking as more bullets raked the side of the plane. “If they don’t kill you, I will. Now get this goddamn plane in the air!”

  Not needing a second warning, the pilot pushed the throttles all the way forward.

  “Is everyone aboard?” Kat shouted, making her way to the open door again. She saw their attackers now. They stumbled through the smoke, screaming and setting up mortars. Two armored vehicles appeared, their gunners frantically trying to load their MG42 machine guns.

  Dore picked up a Panzerschreck and fired a rocket hitting the first armored vehicle, exploding it into a million pieces. The second vehicle scurried away trying to escape. Two Dorniers burned furiously as ground crews frantically moved the other planes.

  “We’re clear!” Kat shouted. “We’re the least of their problems!”

  Two minutes later, they were airborne. The pilot was furious and complaining. “Vere you vant me to fly? English are everywhere! Zey shoot us down!”

  It was too much for Dore. Hauling the pilot out of his seat, he hurled the screaming man out of the plane.

  “Sarge, are you crazy?” Atkins shrieked, as the plane went into a steep dive. “That was our flipping pilot!”

  “Captain!” Dore yelled. “Got a wee job for you!”

  Clambering into the pilot’s seat, Stewart pulled at the joystick. It felt like minutes before the Junker began to climb again.

  Kat slumped into a seat. It’d been one hell of a day, and it wasn’t over. Somehow, they needed to find an English airfield without being blown out of the sky. She glanced at the prisoners. One was a rotund Colonel, and the other, taller man, was a Lieutenant General, who stared at her as if he’d seen a ghost.

  “You’re not… thee... Katelyn Wolfram are you?”

  She looked at him questionably, smiled, and nodded.

  The General said, “That’s incredible. We were just talking about you only last night. The SOE is looking for you. They want you back in London.”

  “The SOE is looking for me? They asked us to rescue you. What d’you mean, they looking for me?”

  The General smiled. “Haven’t the foggiest. Above my pay grade.”

  The portly Colonel spoke up in appreciation, “Mighty decent of you to rescue us. We know of your orders. I must say, jolly good of you not to… as the American Gangsters say… knock us off. Sounds dreadful. Not cricket at all.”

  “Don’t thank me yet Colonel. We’re in a German plane heading for unfriendly territory… If Bri
tish Coastal Command is not in a listening mood, this could get a bit tricky.”

  Kat settled back for the six-hour flight, thankful there would be no anti-aircraft batteries as they flew across France, although that wasn’t true of England. They would have twenty-two short miles to get in radio contact with British Coastal Command. She drifted into a fitful sleep, woken every so often by shuddering turbulence when the aircraft hit thermals. She’d expected someone to wake her when they crossed the English Channel, but the first time she realized they were almost home was when she heard explosions and a crackly voice on the radio.

  “We can see you, mate. I’d ditch if I were you.”

  “Fair dinkum?” Stewart replied. “You blokes shoot down cargo planes?”

  “Anything with a cross on it. I’d ditch if I were you, mate.”

  Kat sat bolt upright. Jumping out of her seat, she rushed forward and grabbed the microphone.

  “Now listen to me dickwad, we’ve got Lieutenant General Hansard on board, and believe me, you want him in one piece. Call the SOE, because we can’t.”

  “So what?”

  “Special Operations Executive. And do it now! We’re low on fuel.” About to give the microphone back, another thought occurred to her. “And in case you hadn’t noticed, shit for brains, the Germans don’t bomb during the day.”

  The anti-aircraft fire began to die out, and half an hour later, with a badly smoking port engine and Stewart complaining about Barrage Balloons, they landed the Junkers at RAF Northolt.

  Unlike the Ministry of Defense, located in Whitehall, the SOE was housed in a large Victorian building on Baker Street, something that didn’t go unnoticed by Captain Stewart, who complained when asked to show his identity papers.

  “Bet you don’t ask Sherlock Holmes for his papers.”

  “That joke’s so old,” the Guard retorted. “You must be a Kiwi.”

  The atmosphere darkened when they were ushered into a debriefing room, and Kat suddenly noticed that Trufflefoot was no longer with them.