Return from the Inferno

by Maloney, Mack;

  The train crew’s worst suspicions were confirmed when they saw one of the men gingerly set a fusing device onto the bottom crate of the ten piled aboard the locomotive. Then with one last check of their handiwork, the majority of the men climbed on board the tank. Three lingered behind long enough to release the locomotive’s main brakes and set its throttle to high. Then they too jumped aboard the tank, clinging to its rear end as it rumbled back up the tracks and around the bend.

  Horrified but helpless, the train crew watched as the 45 cars rolled by them, picking up more speed and momentum with every second. They tried fiercely to free themselves but it was no use—their plastic binds were just too tight. Knowing there was little else they could do, both men rolled over and tumbled down the bank and into the shallow waters of the Mississippi.

  The train full of explosives roared into the main spoke of the Riesespeisenhaus less than five minutes later.

  Chapter Fifty

  Fuhrerstadt

  THE REICH MARSHALL CODE-NAMED Zweite gazed out his office window at the activity near the old Gateway Arch, just two miles to his east.

  The huge, riverside statue of Adolph Hitler was nearly complete. Heavy-lift helicopters were shuttling pieces from the Dragon’s Mouth stone yard to the erection site with clockwork frequency. Hundreds of workmen—NS engineering corps troops mostly—were moving about to the tall, covered scaffolding surrounding the 150-foot statue at a feverish pace, attaching the necessary pieces as soon as they were lifted in place by the hovering copters.

  Two miles to the west were the walls of Dragon’s Mouth prison. He knew those statue pieces not completed at the time of the big prisoner breakout were now being worked on by other NS troops inside the prison work yard. In fact an entire division of combat-ready troops now occupied the Drache Mund. Instead of carrying rifles and other weapons, they were armed with hammers and chisels, doing the back-breaking labor that was once the life of the skeletonish, yet free POWs.

  “How things change,” Zweite sighed.

  He and Erste had just completed supervising the redecorating of their office. It was no longer triangular—rather the walls had been expanded to make it a perfect circle. Zweite’s desk now sat at the north end of this circle, Erste’s at the southern end. Nearly all evidence of their late, third partner, Dritte, was gone, including the bloodstains on the marble floor where he’d fallen.

  The only items remaining that had once belonged to Dritte were his chair and his antique but working 9-mm Mauser machine pistol. After much discussion, Zweite successfully claimed the chair. Erste got the gun.

  He’d been reading the latest communique from their agents in BBI when his attention was distracted to the statue’s construction. The message had been simple enough: “UA agent still in residence in East Falkland. Long stay virtually certain. More weapons purchases likely.”

  What the communique told Zweite was that the UA were the most confident bunch of SOBs on Earth. They had already pulled off the large prison break, had occupied a major Fourth Reich district capital, had destroyed or disabled nine-tenths of the Luftwaffe assigned to the combined Fuhrerstadt Bundeswehr Four area, had somehow melted into the surrounding territory, had started another even stranger action way to the south, and they were still buying weapons? Zweite almost felt a tinge of admiration for the Americans—almost, but not quite. Because of who he was, and what he believed, he would never be able to distinguish the difference between arrogance and confidence.

  To him, they were one and the same.

  He turned away from the window and walked back to the war table where Erste was sitting, slumped over like a drunk in a bar.

  “This waiting is killing me,” Erste admitted. “Why did those American bastards have to complicate things so much?”

  “You worry too much, my friend,” Zweite told him without an ounce of sincerity. “Time is on our side. It’s a simple matter of calculations: the Great Ship is faster than this American battleship—much faster. It will arrive here long before the Americans do—if they do. And the wedding is scheduled to take place a mere hour later. We will hold the celebration, convince her to give us the Fire Bats launch code, and then we kill them both.”

  Erste’s spirits picked up, but only slightly. “It will be a classic putsch—one studied and admired for generations of NS men to come …”

  Zweite gave the man a rare slap on the back. “You see,” he laughed. “It’s all in the timing. If there was any real threat to us, do you think I’d be foolish enough to have an entire division of combat troops working in the stone yards? No. Or have our best helicopter units moving the stones to the erection site? No. Timing, Herr Erste. Timing is everything.”

  A knock on the door brought a fresh-faced communications officer. He was holding a handful of dispatches.

  “Excuse the interruption, Herr Reich Marshalls,” the young man said with surprising confidence. “We are becoming overloaded with messages from command centers to the south. They are all reporting enemy action along the river and are requesting advice or some kind of response. Shall I read these to you?”

  Zweite looked at Erste, made a face, then walked over to the young communications officer.

  “Are you new to this duty, Lieutenant?”

  The young officer nodded confidently.

  “And what happened to your former superior?”

  The officer’s facial features sagged just a bit.

  “He was killed, sir. In an accident with a machine gun, sir …”

  “That is too bad,” Zweite said. “He was a good man. I hope you remember him well.”

  “I will, sir …”

  With that Zweite took the handful of dispatches from the young officer and calmly dropped them into his wastebasket.

  “Is there anything else, Lieutenant?”

  The communications officer tensed noticeably. He wasn’t so wet behind the Ahres that he didn’t appreciate the little piece of theater acted out by Zweite. Still he had a job to do.

  “We are also receiving inquiries from the other military districts,” he forged ahead. “The First Governors of Bundeswehrs Five and Six have been especially inquisitive. They have been hearing reports of … well, some kind of activity down south and they want any information we can provide them.”

  Zweite turned back to Erste, who was smiling—just a little.

  “It warms my heart that our brothers are so concerned about us,” Zweite said, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

  “How shall I respond, sir?” the communications officer asked. “Or should I respond at all?”

  Zweite spun around back toward the man. “Of course we will respond! What questions are they asking?”

  The communications officer was totally confused by now—and he was certain that was the point.

  “The first major question seems to be about the reports of a major catastrophe down in New Orleans harbor,” the officer said.

  Zweite clicked his heels together twice and then began pacing.

  “Take notes,” he commanded the young officer. “Respond to all parties asking that question in the following way:

  “‘Shortly after the Great Ship began its voyage up the Mississippi, a tanker carrying natural gas exploded at the mouth of the New Orleans harbor. It was only through the valiant efforts of our frontline troops that this catastrophe did not affect the passage of the Great Ship.’”

  The young officer diligently wrote down every word, though his face was a mask of consternation.

  “And, sir,” he managed to say, “we’ve had inquiries about an incident in Baton Rouge …”

  “A terrorist act,” Zweite said. “A crazed individual with ill-gotten explosives taped to his chest, gained entry to one of our camps posing as a man in need of food. Taking pity on the man, our guards let him pass through in order to secure a meal. Somehow this terrorist gained access to a large ammunition storage bunker near the mess hall and detonated his bomb. Many of our brave soldiers were killed in the incide
nt.”

  Once again, the communications officer wrote down every word.

  “And another incident at a helicopter base in Mississippi?” he asked. “Three squadrons of helicopters rumored to be destroyed …”

  “One of the pilots went berserk,” Zweite said, not missing a beat or a step. “We have discovered since that he was addicted to the myx. When he couldn’t get any … well, he went insane. Shot up the place. Killed many of his comrades before killing himself. A shocking incident which if anything should serve as an example to our troopers that they should not use drugs—or myx, anyway.”

  “A third inquiry, sir,” the young officer pressed on. “A report that the railroad yards near our large food and weapons distributions center was somehow destroyed?”

  “Improperly stored munitions,” Zweite declared. “A railroad car was improperly loaded with tanks of HE. It was a hot day down there. There was a spark … and well, you can fill in the rest.”

  “Are there any more, Lieutenant?” Erste asked the man, actually giving him his cue to leave.

  “Just one, Herr Marshalls,” the man naively went on, once again reading from his notes. “It was from the First Governor of Bundeswehr One, I believe. He had heard a rumor that a large United American warship is making its way up the Mississippi, towing almost a dozen barges which are filled with battle tanks and other military equipment, and that it is expected to arrive here, in Fuhrerstadt, shortly after the Great Ship does …”

  Zweite’s eyes went wide with astonishment and anger. Erste almost fainted dead away.

  “That is the most reprehensible piece of stier dungen I have ever heard from a Fourth Reich official!” he exploded. “Please communique to that man that he is hereby under investigation by this office for spreading false rumors which might have an adverse effect on our brave fighting men. I will personally bring this matter to the attention of the Amerikafuhrer who, I know, will recommend the harshest penalty possible for such an insidious crime …”

  The young communications officer was trembling as he wrote down the words.

  “Now is there anything else, Lieutenant?” Erste repeated stonily.

  The young officer quickly shook his head. “No, Herr Reich Marshall,” he said, with a salute and then a deep bow. “I assure you, that is all.”

  Chapter Fifty-one

  THE RIVER BENDS AT Memphis.

  It becomes wide and shallow in spots, and is guarded by a picket line of trees and bulrushes. The bridges become more numerous now too, and not so easy to pass under. It is like this all the way up to the city they once called St. Louis.

  A small mountain overlooks the bend from the east, its flattened, hard summit perfect for landing a jump jet. Its top was scorched with dozens of exhaust and soot marks, indications like rings on a tree of the many times the jump jet has rested here.

  Despite the damage, somehow, the Earth doesn’t seem to mind.

  Hunter was sitting on the left wing of the Harrier, looking out on the sunset. He had a clear view of the river for some thirty miles to the south and at least that far to the north. To his left, the gathering darkness was spotted with the glow of a dozen major fires—these were Fourth Reich installations destroyed by the guns of the New Jersey and the tanks on the weapons barges. In its narrow yet utterly fierce path of destruction, the mini-armada had laid waste to bridges, dock-ways, gun emplacements and especially communication facilities. (It had also left some burning but intact, crucial pieces needed by the UA for later in the game.)

  The resistance so far was akin to the Iraqi strategy in leaving Kuwait years before. Basically fire one shot and then try to get the hell out of there. It was cowardly, Hunter knew, but then Nazis were all basically cowards at heart. So the feeble resistance so far was not surprising.

  Plus, he knew it was to end soon. Three heavily guarded bridges lay ahead, veritable fortresses that spanned the waterway. He’d already done some high-altitude recon on them and returned with proof that the troops manning these bridges were not marching bands or trained flag spinners. They were skilled, frontline units, alerted, though not officially, that something was coming up the river toward them and that it was up to them to stop it. Because beyond them was the prize: Fuhrerstadt.

  As he looked down on the river now, the New Jersey was passing directly in front of him. Its massive outline looked surreal moving through the gathering mists of the dusk. Despite his overloaded processing capacities, he was heartened to find that he could still appreciate the irony of the moment. The massive battlewagon, mostly staffed by a Scandinavian crew improbably sailing up the Big Muddy, its passage courtesy of the same trench gutted out for the Great Ship. Behind it, the string of giant barges, carrying British-made tanks, bought from crooked North African arms dealers and manned mostly by Free Canadian chopper pilots who’d undergone quick transformations to tank commanders and men who were until recently near-dead POWs.

  And they’ve been running from us, he thought.

  For the most part his plan within a plan was working. Everyone—from the guys on the barges to Fitz in the Falklands—was still playing his part. And that was exactly what they were doing. Playing a part. Moving like actors in tragic play. Because, from a strictly military point of view, there was no way one big warship and eleven barges stuffed with tanks could beat the Occupying Forces of the Fourth Reich. But that was the beauty of his plan within a plan. The United Americans didn’t have to defeat the Fourth Reich. All they had to do was set the stage.

  From there, the Fourth Reich was more than capable of beating themselves.

  He remained on the mountaintop until the sun had finally set.

  Breathing in the heavy air of Memphis, he vowed to come back in a more peaceful time. Who would be with him? Would he be by himself? Probably. Because the only person he’d want to be with was …

  Where was she?

  He shuddered when he thought of the possibilities. The first bolt of cosmic good luck on this mission happened when those Hueys found one of the Fire Bats riding on the surface. It was a totally unplanned piece of the puzzle, a favor from the gods. The super-sub’s subsequent destruction and sinking served to loosen the noose around the continent’s collective neck by one of four notches.

  But ever since he had heard of the incident, Hunter had been plagued with one gruesome thought: Had Dominique been on board?

  His almost-otherworldly talents of extrasensory perception told him no. But how could he be sure? There was no way.

  Another group of neurons suggested that she might even be on the Great Ship itself. But again, that extra-activated part of his brain was flashing in the negative. The Great Ship was only about a hundred miles up the river. If Dominique was aboard he would have felt it by now. But again, how could he be sure? He couldn’t.

  What had Thorgils meant when he screamed to him from the inferno? He brought her home. But where was home? It had to be Thorgils’s definition of “home,” and knowing the crazy Norseman, that could mean anywhere from Scandinavia, to a literal Norse Heaven or Asgard or Valhalla, or the center of the Earth. In other words, it could have meant that Dominique was already dead. Again his extra-senses were saying no.

  But could they guarantee that feeling?

  No way.

  So he knew he had to do what he always did in this situation. He had to fight. He had to fight and win and fight and win again. He had to press home the battle. He had to utterly defeat what was slowly killing his country, because if he allowed it to succeed, then it would slowly start to kill him too.

  So he had to fight to live. To save what so many held dear. And in doing so, he could ask the cosmos for a favor. And leave the rest up to them.

  Chapter Fifty-two

  East Falkland Island

  FITZ WAS SLOWLY SINKING in the cool water, the bubbles and turbulence of life on the surface rushing over his head.

  He breathed in deep and the water flowed into his lungs. But he couldn’t feel it. It didn’t hurt. There was
no suffocation. No blotting out of the brain processes. Just the calming influence of water, surrounding him, flowing through him.

  He was flying, not through air, but through the Earth’s liquid. It was a totally different sensation. He was, at last, invisible. Invisible to everything. He could see out—no one could see in. It was a power he had to exercise.

  He sank deeper into the cooling water. He knew swimming would be useless now.

  He was much too deep for that.

  So dive down, his mind tells him. See what’s at the other end of the sea …

  Fitz woke up with a start.

  He was suddenly very cold, not very wet. Outside the wind was howling and the snow was blowing fiercely, the combined result of a typical South Atlantic winter storm.

  He sat up on the small bed, looking around the RAF guest residence room, getting his bearings. He’d gone through many things in his life—a stint with the Thunderbirds, a successful swipe at business empire building in the post-World War III days, a return to the role as a soldier in the many battles that followed to keep America free.

  But in all that time, he’d never had a dream like that one.

  Despite his Irish heritage, he was not a particularly mystical man—not even after the strange events occurred during his days as the fake priest. Those false healings were all staged by Hunter—he was certain of this—as small but obvious parts of the grander scheme.

  But in all his experiences, from fighter pilot to priest, he’d never had a vision that carried so much psychic information. One that was so open and clear to interpretation—at least to him.

  He fought back a shiver and listened to the wind howl for a long time.

  Then he knew what the dream was telling him to do.