by Jonah Buck
Cornelia poked her elephant gun in the direction of the French soldiers. Metrodora had her pistol trained squarely on the man aiming at Denise. The sailor holding Denise at gunpoint cursed.
Denise smiled as the sailors raised their hands in surrender. The one with the rifle threw his weapon down on the ground, and the group stomped off to join the rest of their comrades in the makeshift POW camp. Cornelia stepped over, picked the rifle up, and tossed it on a pile of discarded weapons.
Apparently, they’d been capturing each boatload of soldiers as they arrived. Metrodora kept her pistol pointed in the general direction of the captives. If all the sailors bum rushed their captors at once, they could probably wrestle the guns away, but a good number of them would get shot first. They already looked pretty demoralized. No one wanted to be one of the guys who got shot.
“Boy, am I ever glad to see you two,” Denise said.
“We’re glad to see you, too,” Metrodora said. “Was the creature still aboard the ship?”
“Yeah. So was Dagenais. Or what was left of him.”
“Good. I think, all things considered, I can arrange for the Squires to pay you a bonus for all this,” Metrodora said.
“Just another day at the office.”
TWENTY-TWO
THEY DIDN’T MAKE CARDS FOR THAT SORT OF THING
“Got any threes?” Denise asked.
“Go fish.”
“Crap.” Denise sat at her desk and drew another card. Enough time had passed that her hand was mostly healed up. There was a rather unpleasant-looking scar, but she could make a fist without flinching now.
She leaned back in her chair and rubbed her eyes. The same old Cape Town office remained as quiet and empty as before. The main difference was that she didn’t have to worry about making the rent payment on time for a few months.
The proper reports had been given to the Squires. Merovée Station had been firebombed from the air, and the surviving French crew members had been sworn to secrecy. A couple of French generals had been fired in disgrace, and the wider world would never know exactly what happened down in Antarctica.
A French diplomat had informed Denise and Cornelia that they weren’t allowed to speak of the situation either, or they might just meet with an unfortunate accident. Denise had kicked the man out of their office. Technically, she’d thrown him through the front window. She didn’t react well to threats. She intended to take the man’s advice, though. So far, she hadn’t told anyone about the incident, and she intended to keep it that way.
Cornelia had a brand new employee of the month trophy on her desk. Given that Denise didn’t have anyone else working with her, it hadn’t exactly been a difficult choice over who to nominate. She’d bought Cornelia a couple of fancy dinners, too. The Squires had paid them well enough to splurge a little, and it seemed like a nice enough thanks-for-not-letting-me-get-killed-by-a-mob-of-sailors gift. They didn’t really make cards for that sort of thing that she could just buy in the store.
Despite everything, Denise was pretty happy with life right now. When she discovered that she couldn’t force herself to go sport hunting anymore, it turned her life upside down. She’d worked for a research company for a little while and at a game preserve, but neither option really worked out. Now though, now she was pretty sure she’d found her niche. So long as she could keep helping people with her skills, it could work out to be a pretty good life. She just needed to make sure that she didn’t get roped into too many situations where things could spiral so far out of control. Surely it couldn’t be that hard to stay out of trouble, could it?
There was a knock at the door. Denise and Cornelia both looked up. A second later, the door opened and a familiar figure walked in.
“Metrodora?” Denise asked.
“It’s good to see you two again. How are you doing?” Metrodora’s tone was a little odd. Her voice was flat and heavy, and she moved like she was carrying a heavy weight.
“We’re fine. Are you alright? You don’t look so good. Did the Squires send you?”
“No, the Squires kicked me out.” Her voice quavered a little.
“What? Why? You told us they raised you basically from childhood. You’re one of their experts down here.”
She reached into the satchel bag she was carrying and pulled out a book. It was fairly hefty. Maybe three hundred and fifty pages. Big enough to smack someone upside the head with, and they would feel it. She laid the book down on the desk.
Denise looked at the cover. Monsters of Sub-Saharan Africa: A Survival Guide. The author was listed as Hendrik Meltebeke.
“Your book,” Denise said.
“The Squires were able to trace it back to me. They bought up the entire print run, burned them, and cast me out. I was able to save a couple of copies, but the rest are ashes now. I thought you should have a copy. I ended up taking your advice. General locations only. No specifics.”
“Oh, Metrodora. I’m sorry. That’s awful, but…”
“But?”
“Now that you’re free, I don’t suppose you’re looking for work? I think I know a place that could use a person like you,” Denise said. She leaned back in her chair and smiled.
Read on for a free sample of Prehistoric WWII
Bio: Jonah Buck wanted to learn eldritch knowledge and commune with pale, inhuman creatures that flit across the sunless landscape to terrorize the living, so he became an attorney in Oregon. His interests include history, professional stage magic, paleontology, and exotic poultry. He’s written dozens of short stories, and his published novels include Substratum, Carrion Safari, Carrion Shadows, and the forthcoming Cesspool.
Chapter 1
May 4, 1945. The USS Sutton, a Cannon-class Destroyer of the US Navy, cruised the blue waters of the Bermuda operation area for her shakedown. Once proven battle-worthy, it was full speed ahead to end the “Good War” in Europe.
Captain T.W. Brazo held the 7X50 powered binoculars above his well-groomed chevron mustache as he scanned the rolling North Atlantic Ocean. Because the war had resources limited, the binoculars were part of a national program asking citizens, Will You Supply Eyes for the Navy? A tag indicated the charitable owner’s name and address. The Navy wasn’t authorized to accept gifts, so a single dollar was paid as a token of appreciation. Still, the president promised the return, if possible, of all the binoculars once the war ended. Brazo had read over fifty thousand citizens responded.
The war in Europe brought many hardships to the American people. As bad as the depression had hit, crippling the country to an all-time low, Americans didn’t lose faith in freedom when faced with the rise of the Axis powers. The United States was founded on the stance of, Give me liberty or give me death. Those were just words, though. The proof came in the actions of hundreds of thousands of men and women who sacrificed their lives in pursuit of liberty. Not just for the United States, but for all freedom-loving people of the world.
The wind blew calmly, caressing his cheeks. The smell of the salty ocean spray carried all the way up to the observation deck. A crewman busily worked on an assigned task on deck.
Brazo loved everything about the ocean. His earliest memory was cooling his heels in Cocoa Beach with his mom holding one hand and his dad the other. Most of his friends liked playing with toy trucks or cowboys and Indians. Not him. He preferred dressing up as a pirate and becoming a scourge of the Seven Seas. His favorite toys were miniature ships and boats. A long stick for a sword and a rag tied over one eye transformed him into the infamous Captain Black Brazo. The Jolly Roger hung proudly above his bed, threatening any monsters who crept into his room during the night that it would be they who would be the victim.
The Executive Officer, Captain Alan Slick, referred to as XO so as to not confuse his rank with the commander of the ship, stepped from the top of the ladder to the observation deck. “Captain,” he said, stiffening to attention for a moment.
“Slick, come up to the crow’s nest for some fresh air? Can’t
blame you. Those beans served at lunch may be Hitler’s latest secret weapon. Imagine, asphyxiating nearly three-hundred men by their own farts, and not a shot fired.”
“I wouldn’t put anything past the Nazis, sir. But the way the war is going for them, I suspect they’d eat the beans to do themselves in.”
“They might at that,” Brazo said, continuing to scan the horizon.
Slick turned his attention toward the ocean, lifted his cap, and ran his fingers through his coarse black hair. “Do you believe the reports are true? That Hitler committed suicide? I know that news is something I want to believe.”
“Hard to say,” Brazo said, gazing toward the XO. “There’s the rumor that his body was cremated, too. Without any hard evidence, we can’t be sure. This is no time for us to let our guard down. We’re making progress, but if the Nazis get that so-called atomic bomb before we do, it won’t matter if Hitler’s running the show or not.”
“If there’s a God, that won’t happen.”
“If there’s a God, the damned war wouldn’t have happened,” Brazo said, his tone filled with his disgust for the inhuman atrocities committed by the Nazis on innocent people. He understood war, even perpetrated from crazed dictators who wanted to dominate the world. What he didn’t understand was genocide, or torturing people and treating them worse than animals. Cracks in the Nazi propaganda revealed the Jews not being cared for in the detention camps as portrayed on short films. No children’s opera or clean, comfortable living quarters. No abundance of tasty and nutritious food. The reality was far darker than the fantasy. The detainees actually had been transformed into something almost not recognizable as human. Starvation created near-walking skeletons. Eyes stared death-like from blackened, sunken sockets. Pure instinct the only power driving the day-to-day survival.
“I’m not trying to debate the existence of God, again,” Slick said. “I just know I have to believe a greater power will come to the side of good when the consequences are so great.”
“It’s a matter of wills. Human wills. But, I’ll at least grant you I do believe the power of good is stronger than the power of evil. The human spirit is the hardest fire to extinguish. The will to live…to be free, is stronger than all the Gods combined,” Brazo said, not wanting the philosophical discussion to grow any further. “How’s the shakedown going? The aft engines seem to be running smoother today.”
“They are. The electricians adjusted the cycle on one of the diesel engines to sync with the electric drive. The major problems were corrected a week ago. The way it looks now, I think we’ll be heading across the ocean before the end of the month.” Slick paused a moment, and said, “Uh, there’re a couple of things, though. The radio, we can receive but can’t transmit. The problem reared its head around the same time some interference on the radar screen showed up. Probably bad tubes.”
“What kind of interference?”
“A huge blob of green started darkening the screen in one corner.”
“What direction?”
“To the southwest.”
Brazo spun and walked over to the other side of the observation deck. The bright blue sky was slowly encroached by billowing clouds strange in color. He lifted the binoculars and focused. “Hmm.”
“What, sir?” Slick asked, stepping up behind him.
“Those aren’t ordinary clouds out there. They hang from the sky all the way down to the water and…and they’re green.”
“I’ve seen green clouds before. Right before a tornado touched down on our farm. But I have to admit, nothing like those over there.”
The captain of a ship knows to respect the weather. Even the mightiest of vessels can be tossed about and crushed under Neptune’s tantrums. Thunderstorms he could handle, especially knowing he was only twenty miles from base. But for some reason this cloud formation had his gut feeling twisting his insides. Brazo had learned to trust his instincts. Why spit into the wind if you don’t have to? “I think it would be in our best interest if we headed back to base. I realize that there’s zero chance we’ll be attacked out here from the air. But what if it’s not just a tube affecting the radar? There might be a larger electrical problem growing. Let’s avoid the bad weather and head back to the base.”
“Yes, sir. You’re the captain,” Slick said. The man turned to leave when the observation deck radio squawked.
“Captain? Over,” the voice of Jim Stone said.
Brazo strode over and grabbed the mic. “Brazo. Go ahead, over.”
“Radar’s picked up a bogey two miles starboard. We suspect it’s a periscope.”
“Are you sure? XO Slick tells me the radar is on the blink,” Brazo said.
“The radar screen not affected by the interference appears to be one hundred percent functional. Something’s definitely out there.”
“U-boat, sir?” Slick asked. “We’ve been whopping the hell out of them over the last several months. Wouldn’t expect to find a straggler out here outside of a major shipping lane.”
“Intel says influential Nazis are fleeing like rats to South America. It wouldn’t surprise me if some of the bloodiest Krauts ever to goosestep were aboard that can.” Brazo narrowed his gaze. His fingers turned white as he squeezed the binoculars hanging by his chest. “I can’t let my emotions get in the way of the safety of this ship or my men. You’re my XO. This ship is not officially commissioned to engage the enemy. But give me one reason why we shouldn’t go after it.”
Slick’s stoic expression hid any emotion as he paused to calculate the risks. “I can’t, sir. All weapons are operational.”
“And the storm to the southwest? The U-boat is heading straight for it.”
“Let’s make it the Jerry’s last voyage. It always rains at funerals, and it never rains in Hell.”
A slight grin curled from the left side of Brazo’s mouth. “Let’s put some fun in this funeral.” He pushed the mic’s button. “This is Captain Brazo. Battle stations!”
Chapter 2
Lieutenant Commander Christoph Neuzetser pressed his face against the U-boat periscope’s eye shield as he struggled to focus on the approaching Destroyer. It greatly annoyed him that age had degraded the fine-tuned machine he once was and threatened to put him on an equal level of his inferior enemies. He was only forty-five years old. Growing up, his father never told him how a man’s body changed as he aged. He might understand if he were in his sixties, certainly in his seventies. But forty-five?
Perhaps it was stress. Something a member of the Nazi SS was sure to live with but never allowed to admit. The doctor had suggested stress affected the eyes’ performance and issued him eyeglasses; something he would use only to read with—and mostly when he wasn’t in view of others. He was the commander, a representative of the feared Kriegsmarine, not a cripple. Christoph would lead without curved glass filtering the fire of his ice-blue eyes.
The twin diesel engines growled incessantly as U-616 cruised beneath the waters of the North Atlantic. Faint aromatic petrol fumes permeated the air. Everything in the submarine’s compartments had a slightly oily feel. Shaving and showers were land luxuries not afforded to submariners.
“Destroyer…Cannon class. Three kilos…one point abaft starboard beam,” Christoph said.
“Alone?” Lt. Gunter Bach asked. Though ten years younger than Christoph, the gray peppering his dark beard made him look older.
“Yes. Definitely alone.”
“A Cannon class should be escorting merchant ships, not roaming the ocean.”
“We are not far from a shipyard. Perhaps this one is on its maiden voyage and will present us no harm.” Christoph had both wrists resting on the periscope’s turn handles. He stepped a slow 360° while straining to focus across the endless waters. No other vessels in sight. “We are heading straight for a storm.”
“The storm is interfering with the radar. I’ve never seen anything like this,” Ensign Otto Faulk said, seated at his station.
Problems with the radar were s
omething they didn’t need right now. His left foot stepped in something wet. His boot smeared a swatch of grime across the floor. Christoph looked over in the corner of the command room. His son, Erik, held his head low, sulking.
Part of Christoph wanted to grab Erik by the shoulders, give him a good shake, and slap him back into reality, saying, The German youth fights for the Führer and the people. The war with the Allies was sure to be lost, but the war Germans fought every day of their life, to be a proud and superior race, would go on. World War I threatened Germany’s survival. Even though they had lost The Great War, the Aryan race, mainly through the leadership of the Führer, rose from the ashes to near world domination. One, all it takes is one person to change the course of history, he had often told Erik. Christoph wanted only the best for his son and for him to be head and shoulders above the elite.
The other part of Christoph wanted to hug his son tightly and let Erik know he understood the severe grief he felt. Allied bombing had killed Gerda, Erik’s mother, only three weeks before. Losing his wife had been tough on Christoph too but in a different way. A very different way. The war had separated them for years. Even before the war, their relationship had become strained. Learning of her death brought great sadness. Not so much for losing their future together, but for losing what should have been but never was from the beginning.
It was much harder for a fifteen-year-old boy to lose his mother than a man estranged from his wife.
“Erik,” Christoph said, authority in his voice, waiting for his son to look his way. His call passed through the room with no effect. “Son, fetch a tool bag from the engine room. A flange from a ballast tank is leaking.”