by Erik Foge
“BEES!” a voice screamed, cutting Erik and Rommel’s conversation short.
Erik looked around bewildered.
Rommel pointed to the sky. “There!” he screamed.
Erik craned his neck upward and saw the silhouettes of four aircraft. He divided his attention between watching the road while the four planes approached quickly. Erik stared with trepidation at each of the aircraft’s large “chin” radiators beneath each nose and the rocket rails under each wing.
“Oh, shit!” Erik muttered as he realized they were Hawker Typhoons, ground attack dive-bombers. The faint sound of machine guns that burped in the distance tipped the balance; their escorts prepared for battle; the men ran on instinct. The crew of the quad 20mm anti-aircraft gun scrambled to take their positions and prepared the gun.
“Seven hundred meters … six hundred meters” the range finder’s voice strained out the distance of the aircraft.
The vehicles came to a halt, and the panzer grenadiers catapulted over the sides of the SDKFZ 251/1’s while they prepared their weapons. Two men remained in the troop compartment of the half-track and positioned themselves behind MG 42 machine guns, located on both ends of the half-tracks. They swiveled and fixed their sights as they looked down the barrels to the approaching Typhoons. Simultaneously, all the machine guns fired into the sky, hoping to hit their targets.
“Five hundred meters … four hundred meters … fire!” The quad 20mm anti-aircraft guns pumped out their shells.
THUMP! THUMP! THUMP! THUMP! THUMP! THUMP! THUMP! THUMP!
The Typhoons, with their aero engines whining, did a tail dive in a line formation with the squadron leader, who had tilted his wings sharply to port. While half turned, the other pilots dove straight into the direction of the German column as they lined up their sights and prepared to fire.
THUMP! THUMP! THUMP! THUMP! THUMP! THUMP! THUMP! THUMP!
Black puffs of smoke from exploding flak littered the sky. Erik’s heart felt as if it were going to pound right out of his chest. His throat constricted, and his stomach contracted into a tight ball. The 20mm cannon shells thudded to earth, ripping the ground apart. Their dirt trails inched closer and closer.
“Watch out!” Rommel screamed.
Erik swerved, nearly missing a Sdkfz 251/1 and caused the Kübelwagen to skid violently out of control. He yanked on the wheel, trying to get control of the car while 20mm rounds danced around them. One tore off the driver-side mirror. The Kübelwagen stopped abruptly in a ditch on the side of the road. The roaring of the Typhoons’ aero engines drowned out the range finder’s orders. Stationed by the quad 20mm anti-aircraft gun, his face suddenly turned pale, a snarl of agony spread over it and blood misted in the air. Erik blinked, horrified to see that the man’s left arm was shredded off. With his right hand, he made a futile attempt to stop the bleeding and turned to flee, but cannon shells exploded out of his chest, leaving a wake of blood and flesh in the air. His face darkened with pain. Within minutes, the once powerful quad 20mm anti-aircraft gun was silenced forever; its crew lay disfigured around the gun. Freshly spilled blood coated the gun and the bed of the half-track.
“Get out and take cover!” Erik ordered Rommel.
“What are you planning on doing?!”
“I don’t know, I’ll think of something!”
“You’ll get yourself killed if you go out there!”
“That’s what I’m trying to avoid!”
Erik and Rommel leaped out of the Kübelwagen and headed in separate directions. His chest heaved and his legs worked like pistons. Erik ran toward a disabled half-track. A sudden spurt of adrenaline coursed through his veins as he saw the Typhoons, one after another, pulling out of their deadly dive. He knew that each pilot had carefully plotted and fired his missiles in the same approximate location as the other pilots. The missiles launched and released a high-pitched whistling sound. In the near distance, eight missiles, one following another, raced toward their assigned targets in a bombardment of death. Moments later, with a flash of reddish orange flames followed by black smoke, the earth shook violently, forcing Erik backward as if an invisible hand had picked him up and thrown him.
Screams of pain and metal twisting rang in Erik’s ears. The Typhoons continued their attack, tearing holes into metal and men as if they were paper. Within seconds, flames started to emerge from disabled vehicles. Small at first, they flickered and grew, and finally consumed the vehicles in fiery cocoons that released midnight-black choking smoke. Erik made a quick dash to the disabled half-track and took a deep breath, realized he was safe—for now. All Erik heard was his heart pounding in his ears and the haunting aero engines of the Typhoons burping blasts of machine gun fire. A hysterical, guttural scream came from behind him, and he smelled the nauseating odor of raw flesh being burnt.
Erik glanced over his shoulder. In the gloom he made out a man engulfed in flames, attempting to crawl out of the half-track. His face and hands were brilliant red and peppered with blossoming white blisters that grew, like balloons being inflated, until they exploded. Instantaneously, his skin turned charcoal black and began to melt off the bones, like wax from a candle. Erik recoiled in horror.
While attempting to stand, Erik saw the Tiger I stranded among the burning vehicles. The tank commander fired wildly at the Typhoons. Without warning, a loud thud followed by a thundering explosion rattled Erik’s ears. He gulped for air. The turret of the tank was torn off like a cap on a bottle and landed inverted on the hull. Erik crawled forward on all fours, grabbed an MP-40 off the ground, chambered a round and glanced around to locate the Typhoons. A faint cry for help came from the tank. Erik gritted his teeth and navigated through the debris of metal and corpses as a secondary explosion went off somewhere amongst the disabled half-tracks. The radiant heat waves from the tank forced Erik back, but he fought it and carried on. He saw fingertips trying to slide the tank hatch open and reached up to help, but his fingers jerked back as if he had touched a hot stove. He grabbed the MP-40 and pounded the hatch open with the butt of the gun. A young man attempted to crawl out. He looked as though he were emerging from the pits of hell. His face was blackened from the smoke, uniform torn, and one of his arms was now nothing but raw muscle, and he had a skeleton for a hand. Erik, heart wrenched in sorrow, grabbed the man’s other hand and tried to pull him out.
“Push with your legs!” Erik pleaded.
“I’m trying!” The young man whimpered.
Erik freed the man from the tank and fell down with the man on top of him. He took a deep breath and said, “You’re out.” Erik looked to heaven and thanked God. But the man didn’t move. Erik pushed the body off him and saw, to his horror, that the man’s legs had been ripped off, one at the kneecap and the other at the upper thigh. His flesh was shredded like torn jeans, and the broken bone was exposed. Erik felt sick to his stomach. He knew this sight would haunt him forever. He turned his eyes away from the gruesome sight and saw Rommel standing by the Kübelwagen. He slowly got up and staggered toward him as the Typhoons disappeared into the horizon.
“Are you okay?” Rommel asked.
“What do you think?” Erik snapped.
“There was nothing you could have done. I’ve seen this before.”
Erik threw the MP-40 on the ground. “I hate this fucking war. Let’s end it as soon as we can.”
Rommel nodded, looking grim.
Glancing around, Erik saw nothing but death and destruction. Only he and Rommel remained alive. Erik took a deep sigh and thought, looks like I’ve been left behind.
9. LEFT BEHIND
“Don’t be afraid of missing opportunities. Behind every failure is an opportunity someone wishes they had missed.”
— Lily Tomlin
CIA Headquarters, Langley, Virginia
Jacques’ anger and tension grew. He was hunched over a computer; his eyes sore from the intense focus, and pain crept up his spine from sitting for too long. He had been trying to access Top Secret databases t
hat had lists of government operatives.
“Damn it!” he said forcefully, pounding his fists on the desk. The screen continued to show Access Denied or No Matches Found. He continued to try different passwords and databases. The pounding of the keys sounded like a machine gun being fired. The book Erik gave him lay beside the computer opened at the photo of Ahriman, who was wearing a black SS Colonel uniform. Jacques emptied the envelope Erik had sent him. It contained a security badge from Grid 8, the papers Erik should be using as a German officer during World War Two, and a letter that said:
ONE is up to something. The question is what.
“My God, what have you gotten yourself involved in now?” Jacques said under his breath.
A shadow fell over him and a deep voice said, “Working late, Jacques?”
Startled, Jacques jumped back in his chair and tried to cover up Erik’s letter and envelope. Bonesteiner appeared from behind him. “Yes Sir,” Jacques said and got to his feet.
Bonesteiner stared at Jacques and then glanced at the desk. Presumably recognizing Erik’s handwriting on the envelope, he said, “So what did he have to say?”
“Excuse me, Sir?”
Bonesteiner took a seat and gave Jacques the don’t-play-games-with-me look as he studied Jacques’ expression and awaited his answer.
Jacques took his seat, built up his courage and made a bold statement: “Erik believes he was set up, Sir.”
“That’s a rash statement. What made him think that? Or should I say, what made you think that or …” Bonesteiner said with emphasis… “both of you think that?”
Jacques handed over the papers and the letter to Bonesteiner, who placed his glasses on his nose and started to read. He chuckled to himself and shook his head in amazement, then asked for the book and looked at the marked page. An envelope dropped out. Bonesteiner flipped it over and saw it was addressed to him.
Jacques leaned over to look. “What is it?”
“He is really something, isn’t he?” Bonesteiner stared at Jacques’ puzzled face and opened the envelope. “He had to meet some people in my office yesterday. I told them he might know who they were working for, and he did. That resourceful son of a bitch!” He tossed the German officer’s documentation on the desk. “These papers would’ve gotten him in a world of trouble. They’re bad forgeries and Erik knew that.” Bonesteiner drew the paper from the envelope and studied the marked page carefully. “When did you get this?” He held up the book.
“The day before he left.” Jacques paused for a moment. “Erik advised me to pay close attention to the map of Belgium. But I’m not a historian so I wouldn’t know what to look for.”
Bonesteiner looked at the map. After a moment, a look of realization came over his face. “According to this, Bastogne was occupied by German forces during the Battle of the Bulge, but that didn’t happen. At least, not until now.” His face twisted in disgust and he pounded his fist on the desk.
“What?” Jacques asked.
“This book has changed.” Bonesteiner collected his thoughts. “History has changed …” He flipped through the book. “And not for the better.”
“They? Who? What?”
Bonesteiner raised a finger. “They said Ahriman was going to assist Erik. But I think Ahriman had other orders.” Bonesteiner stared directly at Jacques. “Are you trying to find Ahriman in the databases?” Jacques nodded. “You won’t find him. He works for the Phoenix Group.”
“What’s the Phoenix Group?”
“In short, they’re assassins.”
Jacques grimaced and nodded slowly.
Bonesteiner continued. “The chief aspect of the Phoenix Group is to collect intelligence and information on those individuals who the United States government sees as a threat to national security. Then, without getting approval from the Senate Oversight Committee or the President, they infiltrate and capture, using terrorism-like methods, torture and/or assassinate their target.”
“What’s their jurisdiction?”
“Both domestic and international.”
“Did they send Ahriman to kill Erik?”
“It appears that way. They’re going to send him back in time.”
“Back in time?” Jacques’ frown deepened.
Bonesteiner nodded.
“So you’re saying Erik is back in time? When?”
Bonesteiner continued to nod. “1944.”
“1944? I didn’t know it existed or that we had the technology for it.”
“People thought that about the Manhattan Project and Project Rainbow, too.” Bonesteiner removed his glasses and rubbed his eyes. “It’s been in operation since 1943.”
Jacques shook his head in amazement. “But why would they want Erik out of the picture? He’s just an analyst.”
“True, but for some reason, they consider him a threat. The reason is still unclear to me.” He adjusted his glasses. “I found it interesting that Admiral Cole had an interest in Erik’s historical theory.” Bonesteiner pondered for a moment. “Maybe he had an interest in Erik even before.”
“Has he set him up to fail?”
“It does seem possible.” Bonesteiner took a deep, long sigh. “But he stacked the deck against him, hoping he would fail on his own accord. Looks like they sent Ahriman, and maybe another one, just to make sure.”
“Why would they want him dead?”
“He’s very resourceful and has a habit of finding out things people don’t want anyone to know. On top of that, he questions authority too much. Those two things make him a threat. ONE and the Phoenix Group don’t like individuals like that.”
“Who’s ONE?”
“That’s a topic for another discussion.”
Jacques paused for a moment, then decided to let that one go—for now. “Okay, what can we do to help Erik? We can’t let ONE or the Phoenix Group kill one of our own.”
Bonesteiner nodded but said nothing, just sat there and looked grim.
“So what? There’s nothing we can do? He’s on his own, right?” Jacques came to a realization. “If they send Ahriman to kill Erik, he won’t have a chance.”
Bonesteiner turned to Jacques. “You don’t know what Erik did for the first five years when he joined the agency do you?” Jacques shook his head. “He was a Paramilitary Operations Officer.” Bonesteiner looked closely at the ID from Grid Eight. “How he was able to get this, I don’t know, but Plackett and Cole know nothing of his training or what Erik is capable of.”
“How can you be so sure?”
Bonesteiner held up the envelope addressed to him. “Because once Cole sees this, he’ll realize he underestimated Erik.”
“But we can’t just leave him.”
“You’re right. We don’t leave any of ours behind.” Bonesteiner got up and looked at the ID to Grid Eight again. “Maybe there is something we can do. Let‘s talk in the car. But first I need to pick up a 2008 Edition of World War Two for Morons.”
10. UNWELCOMED GUESTS
“When you travel, remember that a foreign country is not designed to make you comfortable. It is designed to make its own people comfortable.”
— Clifton Fadiman
Audrieu, France
Trees with branches shaped like Neptune’s forks lined both sides of the driveway. The smell of their paradise-green leaves reminded Erik of freshly-pressed laundry. The sun’s warmth gave way to dusk as they drove through the ornamental gate, and the gray walls and sloped roof of the château appeared smooth in the waning light. Erik noticed that a low stone wall surrounded the château. He knew he might be walking into an ambush and looked for places where attackers would hide. He didn’t doubt they would kill him on sight. His palms became clammy, and he clasped and unclasped the steering wheel.
“Is your contact here?” Rommel asked as he scrutinized Erik’s face.
Erik shrugged and again glanced at his surroundings. “He should be.”
Several disturbing clicks of guns being loaded were audible as Erik fo
cused on the sound of the low hum of the car.
“Maybe he’s running late,” Erik added, little above a whisper.
Suddenly, voices thick with insinuation yelled, “Arretez la voiture! Stop the car!” And again, over and over. “Maintenant! Now!”
Two dozen well-armed members of the French Resistance climbed over the walls, their eyes smoldering and faces red from shouting. They swarmed the Kübelwagen like piranhas attacking their prey. Erik stopped the car. Rommel’s lips curled with disgust. He turned to Erik; his good eye simmered with a mixture of incredulity and betrayal.
“Mettez vos mains! Put your hands up!” The loading of rounds into the barrels of MP-40s reinforced the order, and members of the French Resistance inched forward slowly. “Faites la maintenant ou mourir! Do it now or die!” Erik and Rommel placed their hands up. “Sortez de la voiture maintenant! Get out of the car now!”
Erik cautiously reached for the door handle, opened the door, and slowly inched out. Rommel followed his lead and made no sudden movements. Erik stared at the numerous rifles and sub-machine gun barrels pointed in his direction and slowly lifted his hand and interlocked his fingers with his other hand on top of his head. He recalled the first lesson had learned on the farm—never get caught—and concluded that he probably now faced one of the following, or all three: severely beaten, tortured, and possibly killed. He knew that the French Resistance didn’t keep German soldiers, much less officers, alive.
Standing tall, Erik stared into the blazing, murderous eyes of the men near him. Their faces were swollen with resentment. Two burly men, one with a sack, maneuvered deftly around those with guns. One thrust his fist into Erik’s gut, knocked his breath from his lungs, and Erik fell to his knees. The sack was positioned over his head, enveloping him in darkness. Erik’s fingers were squeezed like a wet sponge and forced up while someone removed his Luger from his holster. Then they dragged him off like a tired dog on a leash. He heard Rommel being taken in a different direction. Someone would be waiting to interrogate them, and he didn’t doubt that they’d do anything to make them talk. Erik knew one thing for certain: his captors had no idea of the man they had in their possession or that he knew history and what was going to happen. He planned to use that to his advantage.