Black Ops

by Alan Baxter

  A head clad in a peaked cap leaned out the truck's passenger window. His harsh voice shouted, "Identify yourselves!"

  I pushed my way to the front. "We were sent to speak with Major Heinz Macher. And turn off your lights you fools – the invaders are near."

  The lights flipped off.

  "Who are you?" the man demanded, his voice still edged with suspicion.

  "Elfriede Gar," I lied, holding the leather case out like a talisman. "We've come from Bremen with artifacts and records."

  "He is not here."

  I swallowed. Hell's bells! "Do you know where I might find him? It's very important."

  The man sat silent for a moment, then waved us forward.

  I hurried to the idling truck, Dennis behind me. I climbed up to the driver's side window as Dennis approached the side where the speaker sat. "Have you seen Major Macher?"

  The officer in the peaked cap frowned, his thick monobrow creasing in the middle. "He's still at the castle."

  "Are you transporting the relics?" I asked, a bit more desperation in my voice than I had intended.

  "What do you want?"

  "We have more artifacts for him. Himmler himself ordered us to bring them personally." I pushed the leather attaché in through the window, forcing the confused driver to remove his hand from the wheel to accept it. "Our auto broke down. Can you take us to him?"

  The lieutenant accepted the case from the driver and fumbled with the clasp. "No. We will not turn around."

  "But, the Major must have these," I urged. "Look." I drew Feuertod from his scabbard and held the ornate swept hilt up for him to see.

  The man gave a frustrated huff. He glanced over the stack of papers inside the case. I knew he couldn't read them in the scant light, which was fine. They were a meaningless distraction. "I cannot take you. The castle is three kilometers back. You can make it, but must hurry."

  "Thank you." I lowered my rapier below the window and pressed its point against the truck's door. Every sacred weapon possesses a unique gift, a power beyond any mortal creation. Feuertod's blessing manifests as an astonishingly strong and keen blade. The sheet metal door screeched as I drove the sword through with no more effort than if it were stout cardboard. The slender blade pierced the driver's side, through his ribs, and emerged below his right armpit. The man gave a terrible wheeze as the blade skewered both of his lungs. His reflexive jerk at the violation only served to worsen the injury, the razor edge slicing his flesh like pudding. The truck lurched and stalled as his foot came off the brake.

  The Nazi officer shrieked. Papers spilled across his lap as he fumbled for his gun. Dennis sprang up, reached through the window, and rammed a trench knife up and under the bastard's jaw. Blood poured from the SS man's mouth.

  The men in the motorcycle cried in alarm. The gunner's hand moved for his weapon.

  Audrey Turgen appeared beside them, emerging from a curtain of shadow. She hacked her sword, Rowlind, into the machine gunner's neck. Without slowing, she drove her boot into the driver's ribs.

  The man cried out in surprise and pain as he fell. He scrambled for his sidearm but she was already up and over the motorcycle, the sword tip pressed against his chest.

  "Don't move," she commanded.

  The motorcycle driver froze, his wide eyes fixed on the bloodied blade as the machine gunner gurgled and died behind her.

  Simon and Peter raced toward us.

  Three dead and one prisoner without a single shot. With a satisfied smile, I pulled my rapier back out of the truck's door."Good show."

  After disarming Audrey's captive and leaving her to guard, we circled around to the rear of the paneled truck. Something heavy shifted inside. Obviously they were transporting something from the fortress. If not the plundered holy weapons, then possibly some of the many rare tomes, sacred relics, paintings, or other treasures Himmler's cult had amassed. Whatever it was, our duty was to make sure neither they, nor the closing Allies, got them. There was no telling how many SS guards were inside, all wondering why exactly they'd stopped moving.

  We formed a semicircle before the double doors. Peter stood to my right, his MP40 submachine gun ready. There was no need for the ruse any longer. To my left, Richard drew his bronze sword. Feuertod in one hand, I unholstered my Walther with the other and nodded to Dennis.

  The big man slid the mace from his belt and approached the doors. He banged the weapon's pommel against the wood. Boom. Boom. Boom. "We're opening the door. Weapons down. Hands above your head." Velnepo ready, he popped the sturdy latch open.

  The door burst wide, knocking Dennis to the ground. With a screaming roar, two giant creatures charged from the darkened truck. Thick muscles bulged beneath their hairless, pale skin. Their snarling mouths protruded past the upper rims of their oversized German helmets.

  The first one leaped to the ground, landing on all fours and lunged toward me.

  Peter's machinegun erupted, spewing flashes of fire. Bullets stitched across the monster's chest.

  It stumbled back, but the bloody holes mended in a heartbeat. The beast roared again, rising to its full seven-foot height. It swiped one of its long arms at Peter. Hooked claws capped each of its fingers. The knight hopped back, replying in kind with another burst into the creature's face.

  The howling beast shook its head, flinging blood from its mangled sockets.

  Seizing the opening as its eyes reformed, I lunged and drove my rapier straight into the monster's chest.

  The beast stiffened. I withdrew the blade, pulling it to the side, and cut a wide gash.

  The monster crumpled. Its cloven ribcage cracked wide, spilling its contents onto the rutted dirt road.

  The second creature dove toward Dennis, still on the ground. He scrambled backwards on all fours. He'd dropped his mace when the door had slammed into him.

  Richard ran forward, twirling Saighnean in figure eights. The weapon's gift was that the blade continued gaining momentum as long as he kept it moving. By the time he had crossed the three paces, the Celtic sword whistled through the air faster than any propeller blade.

  The creature ducked and sprang back from the blurring blade. Richard moved in, but a rifle flash erupted from the back of the truck. Richard's helmet pinged with the bullet's impact and he stumbled.

  The soldier in the truck worked his rifle's bolt. I raised my pistol and fired three rapid shots. Two hit, and the soldier fell behind a makeshift cover of stacked boxes.

  Without Richard's imposing blade, the monster moved toward him.

  "No!" I cried, racing to intercept it, but Dennis scooped Velnepo off the ground and dove at the monster's back.

  The iron mace struck the creature's side. Bones cracked and the beast folded around the impact like a rag doll struck with a cricket bat. The inhuman force from the blessed mace sent the monster's mangled body fifteen feet through the air before it hit the ground with a meaty thump.

  Grabbing the edge of the truck, Peter swung inside, his machinegun ready. He stepped around the wall of boxes and aimed it down to where the shooter had fallen. "He's still alive."

  "Make sure he doesn't have any more surprises," I said. "Richard, are you all right?"

  He nodded. "Really rang my bell there, didn't it?" Richard removed the German SS helmet and checked the finger-length dent from where the bullet had struck. "I suppose I shouldn't have argued about wearing this." He chuckled nervously.

  Satisfied he was only shaken, I was about to return my attention to the truck when something caught my attention. "Richard, let me see that helmet."

  "Of course." He offered it out, a little grin at the corner of his mouth. "I assume you'll be wanting one too, now that I've tested it."

  Accepting the steel hat, I gave it a closer inspection. White metal, gleaming in the moonlight against the black helm, ran the length of the dent. Curious. Why would
it do that? "Sir Buckland."

  "Aye?" Dennis replied.

  "Would you check that soldier's rifle? I would like to see the bullets." I handed the helmet back to Richard, who now studied the dent with closer scrutiny.

  "Aye. One thing you might want to see first, Lady Meadows." Dennis motioned to the two dead monsters. "Why aren't they burnin'?"

  My eyes widened as I looked again at the crumpled, inhuman forms. When killed with a holy weapon, a demon's essence burns with a phantasmal fire as it leaves the host body. But these did not. In the excitement I'd completely overlooked the phenomenon. My gaze moved to Feuertod's blade, still stained with the monster's dark, and most definitely unburning blood. Most curious.

  Dennis hurried back into the truck as I examined the corpse of the beast I'd killed. Even now, the huge muscles and elongated bones shriveled back to those of its human host. Angular brands, like runes, scarred its chest.

  Richard stepped beside me and stooped, rolling the monster's left arm over. He grunted and I spied the ring on the creature's hand. Similar symbols decorated the silver band while a skull and crossbones adorned the top.

  My lip curled into a sneer. A Totenfomphring – the honour ring for Himmler's most loyal. It appeared the demon's human vessel had been SS. Burn in Hell, you bastard. I was about to compliment Richard on noticing it when I realized his attention was not on the grotesque jewelry, but at a strip of numbers crudely tattooed on the pale forearm.

  "What is this?" he growled, his voice low.

  I blinked. Concentration camp? Why would he be wearing a Totenfomphring?

  "Lady Helen," Dennis said, climbing back out from the truck. "Look here." He held out a single rifle round.

  "Silver," I said, looking it over.

  He nodded. "Got boxes of 'em."

  "That's useful for us," I said, "But why would the Nazis need them?"

  He shrugged.

  With a final glance at the beastly corpses, I looked at the soldier still under Audrey's guard. "Then let us ask our new friends."

  * * *

  "Well, what do you know." Peter shone his torch into one of the wooden boxes.

  Turning my attention from the crate of books, I peered over the raised lid. Thousands of silver rings filled the inside, each with the familiar skull and crossbones. Upon the bearer's death, each ring was sent to Wewelsburg Castle. Evidently the SS found it important to recover them before the Americans arrived.

  Peter let out a low whistle. "That's a lot of dead krauts." He turned to me. "What do we do with them?"

  "Load them in the car." I gestured to the books I was scouring. "This crate as well. Fit as much as you can. We'll burn the rest." The words stung. As a Librarian, destroying books was among the highest of sins. But we hadn't room for them all, and from what my brief inspection had gleaned, whatever foul knowledge the Nazis had amassed was nothing either side should have. It was far too dangerous.

  I climbed down from the truck, passed the two corpses of what had once been monsters, now emaciated men with shaven heads and tattooed arms, and stopped where Audrey and Richard were guarding our two prisoners. The man I'd shot lay on his back, his waxy skin glistening in the scant light. He clutched a red-soaked rag against his side. The other, the motorcyclist, watched me with cautious, hateful eyes.

  "Have they talked yet?" I asked.

  Audrey shook her head. "Not a peep." Unlike the rest of us in our confiscated uniforms, Lady Turgen wore a charcoal gray poncho, striped in black, and her dark hair was tied in a tight bun. Her delicate features and cupid bow lips made her appear more suited for fancy dress than warfare. But as any Valducan knows all too well, a gentle facade often masks lethality.

  "I'll only ask this once," I said to the prisoners, my voice even and cold, "where are the weapons?"

  "Safe from you," the wounded one spat.

  "Allow me to be clear. We are not the British or the Americans. We are not bound by the Articles of the Geneva Convention. What were those creatures? And where were you taking them?"

  "Fuck you, British whore. I—"

  His words ended as Audrey ran Rowlind straight into the man's chest. He gave a wet moan and fell silent.

  I turned to the motorcyclist, his wide eyes fixed on his dead companion. "I will only ask you this once—"

  "Augsburg," he blurted. "We were heading to Augsburg."

  "And the weapons?"

  "Major Macher is escorting those and the cauldron personally."

  "Cauldron?" I asked.

  He nodded. "The Life Vessel."

  I glanced to Audrey and Richard. They both shrugged. "And what were those creatures?"

  "Die Kesselgeburten," he said. "The undying warriors."

  I pursed my lips. Cauldron-born? "What of the rings?"

  The prisoner's hand tightened, his fingers concealing the silver band I'd already seen. "Those who die for the Reich will live forever."

  "Through the rings?" Richard asked.

  The prisoner gave a reluctant nod.

  "What about those men?" Richard's voice grew uncharacteristically sharp. "Prisoners? What happened to them?"

  The man didn't answer.

  "What did you do to them?" Richard shouted.

  I held up a hand. We were losing sight of the immediate goal. "Are the weapons and the cauldron still at the castle?"

  "They were when we left," the prisoner said. "Major Macher was to take the other route."

  "So they might have already left." I turned to see Peter and Dennis loading the crates into the car. "We must hurry. Richard, do what you must."

  I'd made it three steps toward the vehicle when the man cried out behind me. While Richard Simon was a gentleman in every sense of the word, he was also a Jew. Peter had referred to him as my puppy behind my back. But Richard's hatred of Germans surpassed even my own. He was quick with the prisoner, but not merciful. No one objected to the treatment.

  I thought of my late husband, eighteen and cut down in the final days of the First Great War. Despite my distaste for the race, Feuertod was technically German. But that was fitting. Germans excelled at killing, and killing was Feuertod's specialty.

  "Are we done?" I asked as Dennis heaved a wooden box into the back. He carried one of the newly confiscated rifles with silver ammunition over one shoulder.

  "Aye. That's all she'll hold."

  "Very well. Peter, can you operate that?" I asked, pointing to the sidecar-mounted machine gun.

  He shrugged. "Shouldn't be too hard."

  "Then get in."

  Peter and Dennis exchanged a look. "Why not Dennis?" he asked. "He's Arms Master."

  While a capable knight, his American enthusiasm had caused more than its fair share of tensions between us. Truth be told, I didn't like him out of my sight. His vocal opinions might be contagious. I gave him a flat look. "Because I told you."

  Peter blew a breath, wiping sweat from his face. "I'd love to give it a whirl."

  "Good." I turned as Richard moved up behind me, wiping the blood from his sword. "You drive the auto. Try to keep up."

  I removed the riding goggles from the dead driver, happily noting that either Richard or Audrey had taken the silver rings from the bodies. Pulling the goggles on, I straddled the bike. Blood spattered the sidecar from its former occupant, but Peter crawled inside without complaint, sliding his newly plundered rifle between his legs.

  "Hold on." I kick-started the engine, unleashing a loud roar. I maneuvered the bike around, a task made much harder with the sidecar, and started up the road.

  Audrey hurried from the back of the truck and dove into the car. It started after me and moments later fire exploded from the truck, sending a ball of smoke into the sky.

  Wind whipped at my cheeks and jacket. It had been over three years since I'd last ridden, and the rumble of the engine brou
ght that familiar, exhilarating calm. My mind focused. The weapons were still our highest priority. The Nazis had stolen at least three of them in their conquests. Each one housed an angel, and only those the angel found worthy could wield their divine gifts. A Valducan knight is bound to their weapon. It is the single greatest honour to feel an angel's love. Not only had the Nazis stolen and hoarded their ill-gotten gains, they'd murdered the owners. And while I'd never met most of them, or even known their names, they were weapon-bound. That made them family. I gunned the engine and sped toward Wewelsburg Castle.

  We passed through a tiny village, the lights out and windows shuttered. Either the occupants were still hiding from the distant bombings or had fled the approaching army. A few automobiles and carts, lashed with trunks and furniture, told that more would be leaving soon. The winding road turned and I could see the great black form of the fortress atop the hill, barely discernible against the night sky.

  I slowed as we followed the steep, narrow road. Our disguises might work in staying the trigger fingers of any SS lurking in the trees, but not if we were driving as if on the attack.

  The fortress itself was quite simple – two narrow, domed towers and a large, flat-topped one, the walls between them forming a triangle. But it was also the black heart of the SS, and the crown jewel of Hitler's mad vision. God only knew what horrors had transpired within those three stone walls. I'd never wanted to see such an evil place as this.

  Reaching the hilltop, I steered us into a darkened car park. It was empty save for two vehicles – a civilian sedan and a blocky army wagon that appeared to have seen its share of combat. Bullet holes riddled the side and back, and a rear wheel was missing.

  Damn, I thought. They've already left. They couldn't have made it far, and we knew they were headed to Augsburg. I rolled the motorcycle deeper into the car park, praying there might be a further portion that I'd missed. A cluster of buildings stood along one side. Barracks or offices, I guessed.

  A single motorcycle rested in the shadow of the larger building. The car with the other knights rolled into the lot behind us. Its hooded lights provided meager help in seeing the castle grounds.