The Hungry Blade

by Lawrence Dudley

  A lieutenant followed from a truck behind them, motioning to a shocked-looking Aust with a Colt Automatic. Aust hurried up to Hawkins, uncertain whether to raise his hands, too, head darting from the lieutenant to General Corrialles, who was now striding into the flight school, and around again to Hawkins.

  “What’s going on?” Aust whispered in German.

  “I’m not sure but I think General Corrialles has received some upsetting information.”

  The lieutenant pointed at the hangar, gesturing at Aust to go in. Aust raised his hands slightly, going along, looking back at Hawkins.

  “Don’t worry,” Hawkins said, “I’m going to talk to the general.”

  As Hawkins entered the corridor Corrialles was going down into the basement. Hawkins sprinted ahead and caught up, holding on to the camera he still had around his neck.

  The general stopped on the commander’s balcony, leaning over, fingertips pressed on the desk, taking it all in.

  “Guau,” he said, his voice barely a whisper. “Guau, guau, guau.” His painful expression said it all: he’d had no idea this place existed. The general picked up the phone, put it to his ear, realized it didn’t work, tossed it aside.

  Then down the stairs he went, checking out the regional stations, the maps, the banks of radio transceivers, tapping his fingers on top of the radios as he passed. He stopped and clicked one on. The receiver lit with a soft glow. Hawkins thought he heard a low whistle from the general. The adjutant was right behind him. Corrialles turned.

  “Estas cosas son costosas. Pila de discos las para arriba. Tenga cuidado, son frágiles.” The adjutant ran back up, calling for a squad of men. They began gently unplugging and carrying away the expensive radio sets. Corrialles walked along the huge map, idly picking up the unit and line markers, looking at them, then tossing them back, rattling across the map until he got to Yucatán. He stood glaring at the little swastika flags, his head starting to slightly nod up and down, then increasingly side to side. Hawkins came up beside him.

  “Do you want me to take pictures?” Hawkins said. That seemed to finally light the fuse, a very short fuse.

  “No! No photos!” half shouting. Corrialles snapped one of the little Nazi flags off the map, turned and bounded up the stairs.

  Hawkins followed as Corrialles began racing through the rooms, walking around the Bf 109 engine, into the next room glancing quickly at the Messerschmitt manuals his men were holding out, then into the next room. Several men had opened the training simulator and were standing in a circle gaping at it, murmuring away. They looked as surprised and shocked as Corrialles. The general pushed in. The power was on, the gauges lit. A major turned. The man looked stunned, like a professional boxer had punched him in the stomach knocking every bit of air out. He suddenly inhaled, a gasp. “Es para su nuevo luchador, el Messerschmitt 109.” Yes, they got it, Hawkins thought, the newest, latest German fighter plane.

  The general reached in, taking the stick lightly with his fingers, moving it around, watching the gauges. He didn’t look shocked. He looked awed.

  “¡Incredible!” he finally said.

  A captain came and seized his elbow, “General—¡Usted necesita ver en esto!”

  Corrialles followed him into the drafting room. They’d been going through the cases, pulling out drawings, blueprints and maps, spreading them across the tables.

  Corrialles went from one to another, the swastika flag still tightly in his fist, methodically inspecting all of them. The general had his command face on, but Hawkins could see his knuckles whiten around the little Nazi flag and his hand begin to vibrate in anger ever so slightly, waving the flag. The airbases, the maps—he carefully looked them over, nodding as the captain pointed out one feature after another. Then he reached the final one, the blueprints of the fortified submarine bunker. Corrialles rustled through them with one hand, silent, his face darkening. Then a low sound started in his belly rising to a full-throated roar as he turned and raced up the stairs.

  -53-

  A major was waiting in the door to Eckhardt’s office. The man’s face actually looked pale, a sickly cast. He was holding the copies of the treaty, the diplomatic pouch draped over his arm. Corrialles seized the hem of the pouch, glancing at the legends reich-außenministerium and diplomatische post, grunting. The major flipped through the copies of the treaty.

  “Vaya al extremo,” gesturing to the back of the treaty. Corrialles took it with thumb and forefinger. There it was. Hitler’s signature. And his. In Eckhardt’s desk. In Eckhardt’s office. That they had seized by surprise.

  Corrialles stared at the signatures. Now he knew. It was all real. And not a Commie plot. Tears welled up in his eyes for a second. He wiped them away with the hand holding the Nazi flag, not noticing it. He thought these men were his friends, Hawkins realized with a start. This is personal.

  “Muy convincente,” the general said. “Muy convincente.”

  “General—what? What is going on? What’s convincing?” Hawkins said.

  “Los bastardos.” Very quiet, “They did it. It’s not someone else’s trick. They forged my signature to a fake treaty.” He gulped hard, now calm, and turned to go into the office.

  Whispering, Hawkins waved him back out, “General—General!”

  Corrialles stepped away from the door, exasperated, “What!”

  “I apologize for interrupting, but do you know President Roosevelt is starting to help Britain?”

  “No. What of it?”

  “He is proposing to Congress to give fifty destroyers to the British in exchange for bases in the Caribbean. That’s only the beginning. Obviously, the Nazis don’t want that, they probably want to draw the US into Mexico and—” Corrialles sharply waved the papers again, curtly cutting Hawkins off. He needed no explication.

  “Oh yes, of course. I know that.”

  He strode into Eckhardt’s office. Hawkins and the major followed him. Eckhardt and Falkenberg were standing at the far end of the room, hands held chest high, guarded by a sergeant with a Colt Automatic and a corporal with a rifle. Eckhardt seemed to be smiling slightly—did he have no sense of the gravity of the moment? Hawkins wondered. But alarm radiated from every pore of Falkenberg’s face, breathing hard, the whites of his eyes clearly visible, darting about, scanning everything. Corrialles shook the treaty.

  “Horst, Werner. Why?”

  Eckhardt shrugged slightly, his light expression and demeanor unchanged. “We wanted everything to be ready.”

  His tone—what was it? Hawkins thought. Indifferent, was what it was, like he didn’t care.

  “Ah. Ready. Ready for what?” Eckhardt shrugged again, saying nothing. Falkenberg watched Eckhardt with the same expression Hawkins had seen on the train, waiting, deferring to his senior partner, expecting something, rapidly glancing back and forth, alarm growing. But there was nothing but more of Eckhardt’s amused indifference. Now Falkenberg truly knows Eckhardt is crazy, Hawkins thought. Falkenberg lowered his hands a few degrees, turning them outward, gesturing dismissively.

  “These are contingency plans,” Falkenberg said, “for all possible circumstances. Also for—”

  “There only seems to be one contingency here. A naval base? Surely you are aware Mexico does not have any submarines.”

  “Every nation creates these things. We wanted to have plans ready if we were called—”

  “No, why are you doing this?”

  “Only to help Mexico.”

  Corrialles waved the little swastika flag under their noses, pointing it accusingly. “This is help?”

  “Why, of course,” Falkenberg said, “all armies conduct war games. You have plans and conduct war games in case the Americans invade, don’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “This is only a broad program of preparation, contingency plans, training, war gaming …” The little flag in Ge
neral Corrialles’s hand started descending. “General, sir! Sincerely, this is all being misrepresented, a misunderstanding. They sent a kit of these things so we set them out.” Falkenberg raised his hands now, trying hard to smile. “General Corrialles! We’re all brothers here, like the knights of old, men of mission and purpose.”

  Hawkins glanced over at Eckhardt. His head was turned away a bit, eyes on his shoes. Was there a slight smirk? This is a man who doesn’t give a damn, Hawkins realized. Bizarre. Crazy.

  Corrialles was too preoccupied to notice. Falkenberg rushed on.

  “That includes these treaties. We knew in the event of moving forward, there would be action, we realized we might not be able to reach you.”

  Is the general buying this rot? Hawkins wondered. Why take a chance? he decided.

  Corrialles turned back to Eckhardt and Falkenberg.

  “Bastardos! Tell me the truth! Is it Germany’s plan to provoke an American invasion of Mexico?”

  “No! Of course not!” Falkenberg said.

  “What kind of fool do you take me for?” Corrialles said. “You are setting up me and my country! Once the coup occurs and we take over, you expose this shit to the Yankees. If this is all preparation”—he waved his arms out—“why did you not inform me? No! It’s a secret from me! Not the Yankees! At the prospect of bases, Messerschmitts, Panzers and the rest, the US will promptly invade—our denial will never be believed. Never! You think I don’t have a realistic sense of Mexico’s strength against the US, how the Yankees see their interests and how they will respond? You would devastate my country for a temporary advantage? Like Belgium and Holland? Little countries that are expendable for your great German empire?”

  “That’s not so,” Falkenberg protested. “An alliance is the best way to deter that attack—”

  “No, they would invade. And strange as it may seem, I could hardly fault them for responding to such a turning maneuver. And when they did there would be an uprising of the people, not only the Mexican Army but all the new militias joining in. It would be total war, far more massive than the one between us and the US a century ago. Mexicans would never rest until the Americans were expelled and the Yankees are too proud and stiff-necked to accept defeat. It would be a bloodbath that would go on for years and swallow both countries.”

  Eckhardt finally spoke, an excited look on his face, “No, Germany will stand by you if you are attacked, you will win as we did—”

  “They have six times our population! Steel mills! Car and airplane factories! Arsenals! Munitions plants—”

  “No! War will purify and redeem Mexico, do not be afraid of war or death,” Eckhardt said, “it is the only path to power and greatness, welcome it. War will make Mexico great.”

  Corrialles gaped at him a moment, as if he could scarcely believe what he was hearing. A horrified and shocked expression blasted across Falkenberg’s face. He lowered and moved his barely shaking hands, swallowing hard, as if to reach over, grab Eckhardt by the neck and strangle him.

  “General …” Falkenberg started to say.

  Corrialles shook his head no, then crossed himself.

  -54-

  One of the captains came up behind General Corrialles, gesturing to get his attention.

  “Yes,” Corrialles said.

  “Sir, some of those men in the hangar are Spanish.”

  “How many?”

  “Maybe half.”

  “Ah, of course.”

  The general threw the papers on the desk and followed the captain back down, out of the building and into the main hangar. At least eighty men were lined up against the far wall, hands held high. A rank of soldiers with drawn rifles and two trucks mounted with Hotchkiss machine guns were guarding them. To get a clear view the soldiers had pushed the Arado fighter outside, out of the way.

  The general stood in the center of the floor, studying the men. Some of them were dressed in either civilian clothes or tan flight-school uniforms, very military looking. Around two dozen, though, were wearing the same outfits as the Gold Shirts, the Camisas Doradas, but missing the armband and belt across the chest.

  Corrialles gestured to one. He stepped forward.

  “Where are you from?”

  “Guadalajara.”

  The general grabbed his sleeve and pushed him back into the line. He asked the next man.

  “Tampico.”

  “What did your father do for a living?”

  The man hesitated. “He owned a pharmacy.”

  “On what street?” A longer pause.

  “Calle Juárez.” A clever, safe guess, but not enough.

  “You do not have a Mexican accent.”

  “I am Mexican. I swear.”

  “Keep talking, you betray yourself with every word. Who was the last emperor?”

  The man hesitated again. “Maximilian.”

  “No! You fool! Cuauhtémoc! Maximilian was an invader, like you!”

  “No, General—”

  “You’re a Falangist! A Fascist! From Spain! Admit it!” The man shook his head. Corrialles put his hand in the center of the man’s chest and shoved him back against the crowd, glaring at them all. He turned back, then stopped by the door. The lieutenant had holstered his Colt, but he was still hovering over Aust, who cowered in a chair. Aust seemed badly frightened, holding on to the seat with both hands, like a drunk with a spinning head who’s afraid he’s going to fly off.

  “What do you know about this?” Corrialles said.

  “General, I had no idea—” Corrialles grabbed Aust by his jacket collar, yanking him to his feet, dragging him out of the hangar, into the flight school and down into the basement war room. He half flung Aust down the steps, shoving his back, throwing him forward and down. Aust barely caught himself on the handrail, legs splayed out behind him.

  “What do you know about this,” the general shouted.

  “Nothing.”

  “You were doing business. Did you insure those airplanes?” gesturing up.

  “Please, General, wait—”

  “What kind of training do you think is going on here?” He grabbed one of the little swastika flags and flung it down on the table.

  “I—I thought the flight school was for civil aviation. General, Mexico is my home! I only wanted to help out the old country when I was asked. I didn’t think I was doing anything harmful.”

  “Then you are an idiot or a traitor.”

  The cries of men’s voices came from above, angry, panicked, confused, a tumult of running, crashing footsteps, a pair of shots.

  Corrialles looked up the stairs, eyes widening, “Dios maldito!” And swinging a fist he ran up.

  -55-

  Hawkins grabbed Aust by the elbow.

  “You really didn’t know?”

  “No!”

  “For god’s sakes, they were staying in your house.”

  “It was business. They were good customers!”

  Hard to tell, Hawkins thought. Aust seemed sincere, for whatever that impression was worth—which was, in truth, not much. But Aust was shaking, badly rattled. Still possibilities here.

  “Come with me. I’ll protect you.”

  From the suddenly stunned expression on Aust’s face, it was clear that despite everything he’d seen, he still didn’t realize his life was on the line.

  They raced back upstairs, Aust breathlessly thanking Hawkins, Hawkins dragging him by the arm, running behind the general into Eckhardt’s office. Corrialles was standing over the sergeant and corporal who’d been guarding Eckhardt and Falkenberg. Both of the Germans were gone.

  The two guards were sprawled on the floor, legs at odd angles. They may have searched Eckhardt and Falkenberg, but they either missed his obsidian blades, or he grabbed one from his display on the wall.

  The sergeant had a neat oblong
puncture wound to the side of his head, rhythmically spurting blood with each heartbeat, his eyes staring lifelessly at the ceiling, one leg tucked up and under the other. The corporal’s head almost touched the sergeant’s, but his back was arched, arms and legs trembling and shaking, in the midst of a full-blown seizure. The front of his skull had been cleanly sliced open, a quick blow straight across the forehead, creating a conic section, a perfect geometry class lesson cut in blood. The piece of skull and brain lay upside down a few feet away, ringed with black hair. Inside the whitish ovoid section of bone above the man’s eyebrows was a flat smooth expanse of pink brain starting to ooze blood in dozens of little beads. Another tremendous spasm, a gurgling noise and the corporal stopped breathing.

  A window was open, overlooking a porch roof. After getting the jump on the guards the two agents had gone out and climbed down. From the distance below came the sound of an airplane revving up, a high-pitched sound—the Arado fighter, Hawkins realized. General Corrialles cursed, ripped the Colt from the sergeant’s lifeless fingers and threw himself back down the stairs.

  -56-

  The Arado passed by the door, nearly a blur, tail starting to lift off. Corrialles ran out, shooting at the plane, followed by several of his men firing a ragged volley. Should I draw the Hi-Power? Hawkins thought. Join in? Then—No, no, too many questions. And no need.

  The plane whipped by the main hangar, half blurred, but Hawkins could see Falkenberg at the controls and Eckhardt in back. Eckhardt seemed to be leaning forward in the cockpit, arms around Falkenberg’s neck and shoulders the way motorcycle passengers ride behind—holding something to Falkenberg’s throat?