Stiff and shaking with fury, Reuters turned and moved back to the door, knocking on it three times. It opened on squeaking hinges and he was once more greeted by the smiling face of Hermann Hackmann.
“Send in your man, Herr Hauptsturmführer…” He said with emotionless simplicity. “It seems I need your assistance after all…”
As he stood aside, Hauptscharführer Sommer stepped through carrying his leather satchel in one hand. Even as the door closed once more with a clang, he was already staring down at the injured Hegel with an almost lascivious smile on his face.
“You have some work for me, Herr Reichsmarschall…?” He ventured, coming to attention but not saluting.
“Indeed, master-sergeant…” Reuters nodded coldly, turning to stare in pointed fury at a prisoner who still didn’t fully grasp the dire nature of the situation he’d found himself in. “This man holds information vital to the safety of the Fatherland which he refuses to divulge.” He paused for a moment, swallowing as he struggled to take one last, terrible step beyond the redemption of his own conscience. “The Abwehr informs me that they have evidence that he is a Jewish Bolshevik… a degenerate with homosexual proclivities…” Even amongst all the rage he was feeling, Reuters’ last shreds of morality railed against those abhorrent lies… lies that he knew, ultimately, would result in Wilhelm Hegel’s slow and painful death.
“Indeed, Mein Herr…?” Sommer exclaimed with mock shock and surprise, turning to face a stunned and speechless Hegel. “You’ve been a naughty boy, haven’t you?” He observed darkly as he unzipped the satchel and moved to stand over the Director. “Why don’t you tell the Reichsmarschall here what he wants to know, then…?”
“Wh-what is this foolishness?” Hegel stammered, his confused mind refusing to recognise the danger he was now in. “There are no codes, Kurt, I’ve told you…” he admonished, a hint of fear in his voice now as his eyes flicked from one to the other “…now send this little errand boy about his business and get me out of here…”
“Wrong answer…!” Sommers’ free hand snaked out like lightning, the open hand slapping Hegel viciously across his left cheek and snapping his head around as blood sprayed from wounds reopened by the blow.
“There are no fucking codes…!” Hegel screamed, comprehension finally falling into place now with the realisation that his life might actually be at stake.
“I’ll be the judge of that,” Sommers grinned malevolently, drawing a gleaming scalpel from the satchel in his hands, “but I truly hope you’re telling the truth…!” He turned back to Reuters for a moment, almost managing to force the excitement from his expression. “You might want to step outside for a moment or two, Mein Herr… this might get a little messy…”
“As you wish, Herr Hauptsturmführer,” the Reichsmarschall conceded, not relishing at all the idea of bearing witness to the coming torture and immediately turning to knock once more on the iron door. “Do as you see fit…”
“Kurt… Kurt…!” Hegel wailed, pleading now as the door opened and he realised it was far too late. “You can’t be serious, Kurt…! I gave you all this… me…. I recruited you…! This was my dream…! You can’t do this to me…!”
Reuters halted at the door for a moment, turning one last time to cast cold, pitiless eyes in Hegel’s direction.
“Jedem das seine, Wilhelm...?” He hissed softly, his expression a mask of hatred and fury. “Everyone gets what they deserve, remember…?”
Reuters tried to block the screams from his mind as he stepped through and the iron door closed behind him once more.
23. Promises to Keep
1st Aircraft Research and Development Unit
RAAF Tocumwal, New South Wales
October 4, 1942
Sunday
The KC-10A Extender touched down on Runway 05/31 exactly thirty-seven minutes after Trumbull’s arrival, coming into from the south-west and taxiing immediately to a large concrete hardstand area directly out front of the ARDU’s main hangars and admin buildings. The presence of the tanker – no small aircraft in itself – gave a clear indication of how large a number of those hangars actually were, several of them literally towering above the aircraft with the central one capable of accepting even the Super Galaxy in its entirety.
Max Thorne was already at the open forward cargo hatch behind the cockpit as steps were wheeled into position and he immediately launched himself down them at breakneck speed, two or three at a time. Having had at least some time to rest during the flight, he was nevertheless still quite tired and suffering some pain due to the various injuries he’d suffered in the preceding days.
He’d at least been able to change into something far more appropriate for the conditions, and was now dressed in the standard Australian temperate zone field uniform of camouflage-pattern floppy hat, shirt and fatigue pants with a matching pair of khaki coloured boots.
“You’re looking a lot better, Max,” Trumbull ventured with a smile as he met Thorne at the bottom of the stairs. He too had changed into similar dress and had afforded himself the luxury of a long, cool shower during the intervening half hour. Behind him, two short-wheelbase Land Rovers waited with drivers already assigned, their engines idling softly.
“Feel like shit,” Thorne growled back, barely managing a dry grin, “but I’ll live… Any word on Leonski…?”
“None, I’m afraid. It seems the fellow was on duty in the communications room when we sent our first warning and took it upon himself to go AWL. As you said, it appears he is a rather nasty sort: one of our guards at the gate was beaten badly enough to require hospitalisation.”
“Any leads?”
“None as yet but there are several squads of American Military Police out looking for him. They’ve been checking the river, the surrounding bush and the regular community areas around town where someone might think to hide out. Perhaps he’s well away by now with the head start we’ve given him?”
“Not a chance,” Thorne replied, going with his instinct and dismissing the suggestion out of hand. “This prick’s gonna be ‘round here somewhere, and we’ve gotta find him. Where’s Briony Morris?”
“Still at St Peter’s Church with Father O’Donnell as of twenty minutes ago,” Trumbull informed as Thorne gave a faint nod of approval. “Local constable paid them a visit and stayed for some tea at my request.
“Where d’you need us…?” Evan Lloyd enquired. He and an indigenous SAS sergeant by the name of Langdale had also descended the steps and come to a halt behind Thorne. The pair were far more refreshed and rested than Thorne and looked it, dressed in similar camo clothing along with combat webbing, water bottles and bumpacks. Both men also carried holstered sidearms and slung rifles over their backs. Langdale and Lloyd had worked together for a number of years both in that era and in Realtime, and trusted each other implicitly in the field.
“We’re gonna head into town in pairs…” Thorne answered immediately, half-turning to address everyone as Rupert appeared at the top of the steps and began to climb down. “You and Mal will head on over to the Church and set up shop there”
“You sure this prick’s gonna try to hurt her?” Langdale asked seriously.
“Nope…” he replied with immediate honesty “…but my gut tells me it’s a possibility so I’m not takin any chances. I gave her stepfather my word I’d look after his family and I’ve already fucked that up with regard to his wife. I want that girl protected no matter what and I need my best men on that.” He gave a lop-sided grin. “So that would be you two bastards…”
“And you…?”
“I’ll follow you blokes and make sure she’s safe, then head over to Morris’ house and check it out. Alec heard a rumour that the guy’s sister-in-law mighta been a little too ‘friendly’ with Leonski, and it’s just possible he might’ve headed for ‘familiar’ surroundings after he shot through.”
“I believe one of the MP units paid the house a visit earlier but no one was home,” Trumbull advised with
a shrug. “Might not hurt to have another look though… it’s been a rather hot day and I believe it was Sergeant Branch that made the report: the man’s been known to be somewhat lacklustre in his application at times, in my experience.”
“We’ll start with the house…” Thorne reaffirmed.
“I’ve drawn some weapons from the armoury just in case…” Alec began.
“And here’s us silly buggers thinkin’ it was BYO…” Langdale chuckled, patting the pistol at his belt.
“We’re good, Alec, thanks…” Lloyd added with a grin of his own. “You got a radio with you, Max…?”
“In the Land Rover…” Alec countered as Thorne instinctively reached down to his belt where his lost belt radio would’ve normally hung. “Shall we…?”
“Follow us as far as the church,” Trumbull continued as the group broke into pairs and headed for their respective vehicles. “We’ll head on to the house from there.”
“Max, what can I do to help…?”
Thorne stopped in mid stride and turned back for a moment to face Rupert, standing on the tarmac at the bottom of the steps.
“I can’t shoot a gun, but there must be something I can do…?”
Worried, frustrated, tired and desperate to be away, Thorne initially thought to simply dismiss the man’s query but halted at the last moment, instead forcing himself to give the idea some real thought.
“Yeah…” he said finally with a faint shrug. “Yeah, maybe there is. Jump in with Evan and Mal and go on over to the church – it’s a long shot, but I’ve got a hunch the girl might just relate to you a bit better than the rest us.”
“What’s bloody wrong with us…?” Lloyd asked with vague indignance.
“Nothin’ at all,” Thorne snapped with a sly grin, turning back toward the lieutenant, “but you two are both from the future, and Rupert’s not…” he paused for just a moment, serious once more as he again turned his head and glanced back in Gold’s direction. “Also… Arthur said the girl hadn’t always had it easy here, growing up ‘half-and-half’ and all, and as unalike as the circumstances are, Rupert’s gotta have some idea what it’s like growing up different in this era, which might help a bit too.”
“And what am I… chopped – fuckin’ – liver...?” Langdale remarked with dry sarcasm, born of an Anglo-Australian father and Indigenous mother. “No one else ‘round here would know bugger-all about that, o’ course…”
“Are you gonna sit down and have a nice chat about which boys you like too?” Thorne shot back with a grin.
“Well… prob’ly not…” Langdale admitted reluctantly.
“Then drink a glass of cement and harden up, you bloody great sook! You bastards will be guarding the house, not sitting about braiding each other’s bloody hair!” He started walking again, at the same time jabbing a finger at the more distant of the two Land Rovers. “Now get in the fuckin’ car for Christ’s sake! You wanna whinge at me some more, you can do it over on the bloody radio…!”
“I do believe he’s feeling better…” Lloyd observed a few minutes later, both men grinning as they stowed their weapons in the rear of the 4WD and climbed in after them.
“He can stick his radio up his fat, white arse!” Langdale remarked, trying desperately to sound angry but completely unable to accomplish it over the urge to chuckle.
“It’s always about race with you, isn’t it!” Lloyd observed in a mock lecturing tone as the pair seated themselves together on the narrow benches that ran along each side of the Land Rover’s rear cargo area with Rupert sitting opposite.”
“You can get fucked too!” Was the only reply he received as the vehicle began to move off, all three laughing loudly.
Briony should have been studying. She should have been seated at the kitchen table of the cottage behind St Peters’ Church, enjoying the meagre relief of a 30cm Emerson table fan that accomplished little more than moving hot air about the room. Father O’Donnell was in the church preparing for evening mass while Mrs Tuttle cleaned up, leaving her to her own devices for the afternoon.
She didn’t know exactly what drew her to slip quietly out through the back door and slowly make her way west along Tuppal Street, heading toward the centre of town. Wearing a dress of light cotton that had belonged to her mother and a matching, broad-brimmed hat for defence against the sun she wandered through the generally empty main streets almost as a ghost. The heat generally didn’t bother Briony all that much, but even so she’d developed a light sheen of perspiration across her forehead and down her bare arms as she reached the northern end of Bridge Street and stood staring at the shattered, burned out shell that had once been the Junction Hotel.
Has she been asked why she’d arrived there that afternoon she’d have been hard-pressed to explain, yet here she was all the same as the anguish and pain of loss welled up within her, leaving her momentarily overwhelmed. Reaching out, she laid a steadying hand against a nearby telephone pole at the street corner only to snatch it back again to avoid being burned by a surface that had spent the entire day being heated by the rays of an unforgiving sun. Tears trickled down her cheeks, mingling with the perspiration already coating them, and she made a fine effort of stifling the sobs that threatened to engulf her.
A car drove up from the bottom of Bridge Street, coming to a momentary halt at the intersection with Tuppal before turning right and chugging away trailing exhaust. Not wanting to give any indication there was something wrong, Briony turned her head away, making a great show of everything being ‘fine’ as the driver continued on eastward, oblivious to all.
Eddie had been searching through Maude and Bruce’s bedroom, not looking for anything in particular but happy to see what he could find that might be of use to him as he planned his next move. He’d resigned himself to the necessity of hiding out in the bush now, having basically burned every other ‘bridge’ open to him the moment he’d assaulted the guard on the gate earlier that morning.
He’d allowed fear and a momentary lapse in concentration put him into a difficult position now, but he’d just have to deal with it as best he could. There was plenty of bushland and state forest about, both on this side of the river and over on the Victorian side, and if he could set himself up with the right supplies he was confident he could last for months on his own, if not indefinitely.
It was at that point that a car chugged past outside and pure paranoia made him drop what he was doing and move across to the front window. Hooking a finger around the side of the venetian blind, he drew it away from the window frame just enough to peer out and watch the old Model T Ford clatter up to the corner and turn right; nothing at all to be concerned about as he’d suspected, although it paid to be careful.
As it trundled away west along Tuppal however, something else – or, more to the point, someone else – caught his attention. There was a woman in a hat and cotton dress standing on the opposite corner, just staring across at the burned out hotel. The hat kept her face in shade however the slim body shape, brown arms and the fact that she appeared to be crying left Eddie Leonski in no doubt as to who it was.
“Well, well, well…!” He murmured softly, a lascivious grin spreading across his face. “Lookie what we got here…!”
He knew he shouldn’t act on the animal urges that suddenly welled up within him. He knew full well that being ‘on the run’ already, so to speak, it’d be tantamount to suicide to add such a dangerous complication as the dark thought that now burned within him. Eddie Leonski completely ignored every warning that rose up in his mind as he hit upon a perfect idea and dived out of the bedroom, striding down the hallway with great purpose.
Briony crossed to the western side of Bridge Street and stood at the kerb, staring up at the scorched bricks and blackened wooden beams that had once been part of her entire living memory. The stench of burning hung like a pall over the ruins although here there could be seen one or two innocent items in the wreckage that appeared to have survived the blaze: a faux ‘antique�
� wall clock that had hung above the bar… a tall wooden coat rack with cast-iron hooks that lay miraculously untouched amid piles of ash and dead embers. She no longer cared who saw her as tears streamed freely down her cheeks, what lay before her so much more than just the destruction of a local hotel.
A sudden, muffled crash of what sounded like crockery or glassware reached her ears, and as she turned her head to the left she realised it had come from inside Bruce and Maude’s cottage next door: the place she’d called home for so much of her short life. Even as that realisation sunk in she heard another far deeper and more solid ‘thud’ as if something large and heavy had struck the floor inside.
“M-Maude..?” She breathed softly, the words barely escaping her lips as she took a hesitant step toward the house. “Aunty Maude…?”
Briony had no great love for her aunt, being well aware of the racist undertones that always shown through in the way she’d treated both Briony and her mother, yet for all that she was family and the only family the girl now had left currently in Australia. Judging by what she’d just heard, there was also the possibility that Maude had fallen and hurt herself. As intensely as Briony might’ve disliked her aunt, she was a kind and decent girl and a good Christian, and if a family member was in trouble there was no question about going to their aid.
Steeling herself and wiping the tears from her face, Briony turned fully and strode right up to the front door of the house, forcing herself to appear ready and unafraid.
“Aunty Maude…?” She called out, louder this time as she took her hat off, opened the fly screen and knocked at a solid, wooden front door that was now closed. “Aunty Maude, are you all right?”
Winds of Change (Empires Lost Book 2) Page 107