I helped set charges as he emptied his briefcase of the small bombs. They were each on a time delay so that we would have the opportunity to do the same to the file rooms.
Leaving the abattoir (in my case, gladly) and descending the stairs, we could hear voices below us. I do not know how our somnambulant sentry was awakened—the officer of the guard checking on his men, I supposed. Whatever the circumstances when we came to the file room door we could see it was now occupied by two soldiers, our hypnotised sentry and an officer, searching the offices one by one. Looking for us, I reasoned.
“We must eliminate them,” Dracula whispered to me.
“Couldn’t you just hypnotise them both?” I asked. The slaughter I had just witnessed upstairs causing in me a reluctance for any more killing.
“They are too far away,” Dracula answered. “I need proximity. And I do not think they will allow me to come close enough to be effective.”
“True,” I said, readying my sidearm.
“Leave me to deal with them,” Dracula said. “I will meet you later at the rendezvous site.”
Not waiting for an answer, his usual arrogance on display, he strode inside. I followed. I am not one to abandon a comrade.
The two soldiers saw us instantly and raised their weapons, the sentry’s rifle and the officer’s pistol.
“That’s them!” the desk sentry cried out. Immediately the pair fired. Directly at Dracula, as I was three steps behind him.
To be honest, up to this point I had not believed Horea’s tale about the vampire’s invulnerability to bullets. I thought that Horea, caught up in the fury of combat, where confusion reigns, had misperceived the moment. Fear and the fever of the moment makes an unreliable witness.
Thus, when the two men fired and I saw the rounds strike Dracula, I expected the worst—for the vampire. Imagine my stupefaction when I saw two bullets exit Dracula’s back and him still standing without apparent harm. Problematically one of the rounds hit me in the chest with enough force to knock me down.
From my prostrate position I watched Dracula attack both men. He grasped the desk sentry by the neck with one hand and squeezed, crushing flesh and sinew. The man’s head popped off like a pea out of a pod. Dracula snatched the decapitated sentry’s rifle from his dead hands before the body fell, then thrust the weapon into the officer’s body, driving the muzzle through the man’s solar plexus until the barrel came out of his back.
The astonished officer had enough strength left to fire two more bullets into Dracula before the man’s eyes turned to look up to the ceiling, as if the answer to what had just occurred was written there, and life left him.
All of this happened in but seconds, the vampire moving so swiftly that his movements blurred in my vision. But then I was not in full use of my faculties, as I had been shot.
Having dispatched our enemy, Dracula rushed to help me to my feet, his grip lifting me as easily as if I were made of straw.
“Are you injured?” he asked. I was surprised at the concern on his face.
I quickly inventoried my body for pain, found none of consequence. I did discover a bullet hole in the front of my tunic. Was I so mortally injured that I was in shock, not feeling the wound that was about to kill me? I had heard of such. Was I going to die as puzzled as the officer I had just seen impaled by a Karabiner 98k?
Opening my jacket I found a hole in one of the journals, the bullet imbedded in the second.
“You are most lucky,” the vampire remarked. I plucked the copper-jacketed slug from the notebook and pocketed it for future yarns of my brush with death. But as amazed as I was at my own close call, I was even more drawn to the four holes in Dracula’s own chest. He seemed unperturbed, and there was no blood evident, at least any of his own. He turned away from me to scatter more of our incendiaries with not a hint of injury.
I followed his example, setting the phosphorus bombs upon file cabinets in the offices. When the last one was placed we left. During our fracas inside the offices the charges we had left upstairs in the slaughterhouse had gone off. As we exited the offices and walked down the hall we could hear the roar of fire above us as flame and smoke crawled down the stairs.
We hurried down to the first floor and sprinted to the front door. As I opened it I heard the charges we had planted in the second storey begin to fire off, a staccato of small pops like a string of firecrackers.
I rushed out of the building and into the cool night air. Dracula laid a hand upon my shoulder to slow me down, and, remembering my training, I began to walk as casually as I could manage. Dracula was hugging his arms to his chest as if against a chill but I knew he was hiding the ruination of his suit, German blood, and four bullet holes. I rebuttoned my own tunic, hoping the one small hole wouldn’t be noticed in the dark. Halfway out of the encampment, at the boundary between wood and tent domains, we heard the clamour of a bell behind us, and I assumed that our pyrotechnics had been discovered.
We kept on walking without incident and easily entered the bordering forest at about the same point we had exited. The trek through the woods seemed shorter this time, and there was a brief wait at our rendezvous location. Crisan arrived on time, and the ride back was pleasant, the night air wafting through the open window of the lorry, dissipating the sharp tang of gunpowder and the copper odour of blood that clung to the vampire and most likely to myself.
Upon arriving at our hideaway I was in a mood to celebrate the success of our mission and my near-death escape, and to recount both to my comrades. Happily the Marx Brothers were infected by my exuberance and, truth be told, ever willing to open a bottle. Lucy, still of an ill humour, excluded herself from the merrymaking. The fair sex they are called, but so often they can be most unfair.
EXCERPTED FROM THE UNPUBLISHED NOVEL THE DRAGON PRINCE AND I
by Lenore Van Muller
Lucille watched the men, her men, join in the hearty celebration of their survival. Harker was reliving his exploits to the others, while the Prince was more reticent. But even he joined in the merriment, poking a finger through the hole in the Englishman’s jacket and recounting Harker’s surprise when he realised he was still alive. Lucille was confounded at the pain their shared joy caused her. And as was her usual response Lucille turned that pain into anger.
She retreated to the front seat of the hearse and closed the door. Inside the quiet confines of leather and chrome she fumed. She allowed the indignation to stew for a while, willfully wallowing in her own sweet animus, working herself into a fine pique against the whole male kingdom. That was exactly what she faced, a reign of men, keeping women “in their place.” That place created, defined, and enforced by those men.
Lucille took a deep breath and shunted her little mental tantrum to the back of her mind, where she kept the lifetime of offences against her and her sex. Then she proceeded to concoct a plan to prove herself, one more time. Once again she had to demonstrate her worthiness, her competency, that she was as good as any man. And at war, better than most.
At first light she bicycled to the nearest town and used a friendly phone to make a series of calls to all her contacts, seeking a target for another mission—a mission she would command.
By the time she returned to their hideout the sun was setting, sliding down behind the mountains. She found the men packing up the vehicles for the next move, to a sugar mill in Focsani.
“Change of plans,” she announced and spread a map across the hood of the hearse. She pointed to Bacau.
“The German Army have set up an airfield just south of town,” she began. “Rudimentary, a dozen planes, maybe to be expanded, but it looks like a refueling depot for bombers, most likely in preparation for the coming assault on Russia.”
“Big target,” Crisan noted. “An airfield.”
“Most likely heavily guarded,” Harker added.
“Not so much,” Lucille said. “A Rumanian company. But their commanding officer loans them out to a cement block manufacturer in the daytime,
and so a good many of them fall asleep at their guard posts at night.”
“Why would he do that?” Harker asked. “Make them work for civilians.”
“To make money,” Closca answered. “Slave labour for the officer to get rich. And cement blocks are very much in demand by the Germans.”
“They have these air machines?” Dracula asked.
“A half-dozen Arado 240s and a few old Heinkels,” Lucille told him, then addressed everyone. “There are approximately thirty to thirty-five Luftwaffe pilots and support personnel on post. They have also taken over an off-post pub but always return to base by midnight as per standing orders.”
“Capital! Sounds like a mission for us, right, stout fellow?” Harker tossed an amiable arm around the Prince’s shoulder. This only irritated Lucille even more.
“And what do you intend?” Lucille asked him. “The two of you?”
“Kill some Germans.” Harker grinned like a child excited about a visit to the zoo. “Destroy some enemy planes to boot.”
“Sorry to rain on your parade, Leftenant,” Lucille said. “But I think that this mission is too difficult for just two, no matter how formidable the Prince might be. I tracked down someone who has been there lately. They were able to draw this.”
She laid a sketch on top of the map and continued. “As you can see, the aircraft are spread too far apart and too far away from the personnel to be easily sabotaged by two. And the German barracks, these five separate buildings, also are some distance from each other. You may be able to attack one, even two, but not without alerting the other barracks.”
“Why are they so far apart, the planes and the barracks?” Horea asked.
“The plan seems to be common among the Nazis,” Lucille continued. “Placing a great distance between aircraft and barracks makes it difficult to destroy the base with one air bombing attack.”
“So, I take Horea, Closca, and Crisan with me,” Harker said.
“And leave me behind with my knitting?” Lucille sneered. “I think not. I am leading this raid. Planning and leading it. Is this understood?”
There was quiet among the men. Harker opened his mouth to protest but Lucille stopped any utterance he could make with as harsh a look as she could manage. He swallowed and backed away, not able to meet her eyes. She turned to the Prince, who tipped forward at the waist in a slight bow to her.
“I am yours to command,” he said.
She knew she would have no problem with her own men. The Marx Brothers were used to Lucille being in charge, and proving herself in combat. In more than one incident she had fought side by side with these men. She had saved their lives, and they had done the same for her. They would follow her anywhere, into any conflict, trusting her to bring them out alive.
When night arrived she sedated Renfield and they left. Dracula rode up front, Lucille taking over the driving duties to further miff Harker, who sat between them. The Englishman was silent the entire trip.
Surprisingly Dracula became extremely talkative. He opened his window and let the wind buffet his face and hair. He held forth on a variety of subjects.
“The night is misunderstood,” he said, gazing into the dark rushing past. “Most think of the night tide as a black nothingness. But there is so much that is born once the sun abandons us and the moon reigns. Do you know how many creatures only begin to live at dark’s falling? Creatures that disdain the day? More is out there than you can imagine. A whole world that most never see—or hear. The music of the night, the cry of predators on the prowl, the death whimpers of their prey, mating calls, the wail of loneliness—the wolf, for example. A plaintive song, is it not?”
He proceeded upon a long discourse on the nature and habits of the wolf, a creature about which he seemed most expert. This digressed into a discourse on the loyalty of the domesticated canine, then the Prince’s abhorrence of cats, to a musing about rodents and how he had read that they had spread the Black Plague and so, on further thought, perhaps cats served a purpose after all.
“Imagine, a mite, the bathetic flea, able to exterminate so many,” he marvelled. “Renders my lowly predation almost inconsequential.”
“Almost,” Lucille said, still holding some ill will against him. “Almost, but not quite.”
He turned to her. “So, I have observed that the female is allowed to control these motor cars?” he asked.
“Oh, quite,” she replied. “Between birthing and cleaning and servicing their husbands, we women find time to learn all sorts of handy talents.”
She concentrated on the twin columns of light cast upon the road in front of her while the Prince reacted to her sarcasm with his own silence.
Once in Bacau they were given refuge by a motorcycle dealer, Edward Fejedelem, who was part of the underground network in that area. He was a tall, handsome man, with a jutting jaw and impeccable bespoke suit, a salesman of the finest ilk. He quartered them in the garage behind his showroom. His mechanic and other salesman were on a trip to Bucharest to collect a load of Polish motorcycles. This left the place to Lucille and her team until his men returned in four days’ time. Fejedelem was not sure of his employees’ loyalties or trustworthiness, so he advised the partisans to be out before their return. Lucille assured him that they would be gone.
He made an effort to flirt with Lucille, bragging about how great business was—as long as he could acquire product. Since the onset of gas rationing, motorcycles had become very popular, as they used much less fuel than autos. Lucille agreed with his point; she had seen people riding them even in winter, during blizzards, the temperature below zero, snow blasting riders bundled like Eskimos.
Fejedelem waxed ecstatically about how rich he was becoming, how he had a beautiful chateau a short distance away, that he would be glad to show her.
Lucille fended off his advances and sent him home to his wife and kids. He left her a key to the garage and a wink. Before the rest of her team could settle, Lucille insisted that they venture out immediately to scout their target.
They left the Prince behind as dawn was beginning to glow on the horizon. After an hour’s drive she parked and led them on a short walk through forest that bordered a checkerboard of farmland, fields of new hay and corn. The woods were green pine punctuated by vertical slashes of white birch. By the time they arrived at the outskirts of the airfield, there was enough light to observe the layout of the buildings and the dispersal of the aircraft. From the safety of the hedgerows they reconnoitred the target. Lucille’s intelligence proved to be true, as it was evident that a good many of the Rumanian guards were still asleep at their posts.
The Germans, she had to admit, were very clever. Each plane was protected on three sides by sandbagged walls with an overhanging net of woven rope. Sheaves of wheat were entwined in this web, making the planes invisible from the air. From high up it would appear to be just another patch of farmland. Workshops and fuel dumps were also housed under the same kind of camouflage, interspersed among the line of aircraft.
These structures were spread some distance apart along a narrow lane, just wide enough for the plane to taxi to the runway. The runway itself was a wider road, this one paved. Alongside this road were five buildings where the pilots and maintenance crews lived, plus a command office, a few outbuildings, and a long structure open on one side that sheltered three lorries, a fuel tanker, a fire engine, and a command car. All of these buildings were constructed to look like weathered farm sheds, chicken coops, and barns.
From the air it would seem to be just another farm. It would be nearly impossible to recognise this as an aerodrome, to spot the pockets of planes and workshops. And with everything so spread about, the whole area could probably be bombed heavily without considerable damage.
With the sentries asleep, it was a simple matter to slip through the hedgerows and observe the entire layout. While they were watching, there was a sudden burst of static, and a loudspeaker mounted on the outside of the command office blared and reveille wa
s called in German. Sleepy-eyed men stumbled out of the three barracks and found their way to what Lucille assumed was the mess hall. They wore Luftwaffe grey, and Lucille counted thirty-one of them. Considering the number of late sleepers and men stationed in the headquarters building, Lucille assumed that her informant’s count had been accurate.
Renfield was alert and took a moment to sketch the layout of the hangars and buildings—a quite accurate and skillful sketch, Lucille noticed; the engineer in him had come forth. He counted the number of explosive charges he would need and mumbled to himself the size and type while he drew. When he was satisfied they hurried away as the sentries began to wake. They slipped past the guards and into their vehicles. Again Lucille drove back to the motorcycle garage. There she created a mock-up on the floor using matchboxes and some yellow chalk she found on a workbench. She laid out her assault plan, ran through it three times. The last run-through she had everyone recite his role back to her. Then she told everyone to catch some sleep. Harker was sullen during her presentation and retreated to an overt sulk as he went to nap in the lorry bed, curled up inside a blanket like a child after a scolding.
The Prince, besides insisting on assaulting one of the barracks without assistance, watched her lay out the strategy with a bemused smile that irritated her. Afterward he walked away to immerse himself in his latest book obsession, the works of Jules Verne. He was halfway on a journey to the centre of the earth.
Lucille was not tired, her usual state before combat, and just studied her plan, going through every step, over and over, trying to imagine what could go wrong, what would go wrong. She knew very well that every plan fell apart once the shooting started.
The others couldn’t sleep, either, the tension of the coming fight acting as a stimulant. Crisan sidled up to Renfield, who was prepping his demolitions. The Rumanian had become the Scotsman’s pupil, discussing the arcane craft like art students deconstructing Cubism. Once, when Renfield lapsed into a serenade of a crude tune, Crisan taught him a roughly translated, equally dirty gypsy ballad.
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