Her Majesty's Western Service

by Leo Champion

  His fingers closed around the trigger of the gun he’d already aimed down. A thick stream of gas poured down into the man’s face.

  The man pulled the trigger of his own gun, and rounds whistled up into the air, but he was already choking. The rest of his automatic burst thudded into the ceiling; he could feel the rounds impacting under his feet. Ahle was already dropping through, fired her gas gun at something else; Perry braced himself and followed.

  They were in a barracks bunkhouse, triple bunks spaced tightly together. They were made and looked unoccupied; definitely guest quarters. The place smelled of piss, unwashed bodies and old tobacco.

  Ahle gestured toward the place’s one door, stopping for a moment to give one of the two disabled SS men a vicious kick to the ribs. Then another burst of spray to the face, which caused him to redouble his choking. Through the mask Perry heard her mutter something about Raleigh.

  “No time for that shit,” Perry snapped at her. “Let’s move.”

  They’d already gassed two men. At some level he’d hoped to accomplish this totally cleanly. Well, they were in it now, in more than one way. Only one way out, and that was through.

  Mission confirmed. Engage. Time later to worry about the morality of it all.

  Gun raised to his shoulder, he ran forward to the door, stopped at either side. It looked onto a corridor; the big bunkroom seemed to take up about half the building. On the other side of the corridor was a line of doors that seemed to be private rooms.

  Which one was the man with the documents in?

  Ahle arrived next to him.

  “Cover me,” Perry snapped, and headed for – not the nearest door, which said ‘Washroom’, but the next one, about ten feet further down the corridor. Stepped back, braced himself, booted it in.

  Bed and dresser. No people.

  Wished he’d brought the crowbar down from the roof. Kicking in every last one of these doors...

  “Use this,” Ahle said, moving toward him with one of the fallen SS men’s automatic rifles. Long barrel and a banana clip. Then dropped it, raised her gas gun, squirted a long burst at a man who’d come through one of the doors with a drawn pistol. The man fell backward against the wall, dropping the pistol to clutch at his face.

  “Or there. Oh shit.”

  A man emerged from the same door with a submachinegun. Bullets spat. One of them slammed into Perry’s chest, a horse’s kick despite the thick kevlar he was wearing. He threw himself sideways through the door he’d just kicked open, his chest screaming pain.

  Don’t think about the pain. Or the busted ribs. We’ve got an armed one ready for us.

  Skorzeny ducked back into his room, changed magazines. Two confirmed, but he thought he’d gotten one. Maybe not – that had looked like a controlled dive, like a man in armor might make.

  Two against one. The rest of his escorts – Lieutenant Schierbecker and one man had gone out to see what was going on with the attack, which had seemed too well-timed to be truly coincidental. The sergeant, with him, had been the sacrificial lamb for the benefit of Skorzeny getting a picture of the situation.

  He had that now. Two attackers who’d come in through the roof, probably by glider. His two men guarding the roof hatch had been taken down, and the other two at the front entrance were out of reach. They wouldn’t hear his calling above the sound of the gunfire and the light mortars that seemed to be landing randomly in the compound.

  So it was two to one. He’d faced much worse odds than that in his life. And they were using, for some insane reason, nonlethal gas guns. A competence/qualification exercise?

  He hadn’t been notified of that. If that bastard Interior Secretary Hoover wanted to pull shit like that on him at this time?

  Well, the Wichser would be down two agents.

  Pulling the mask on over his face, Skorzeny drew his pistol. When you were outnumbered, only one course of action. It had served him well throughout a long life. Attack.

  “He’s wearing a mask!” Ahle shouted to Perry, and dropped the now-worthless gas gun. Threw herself back into the bunkroom. Her back pressed against the wall, she unslung the submachinegun and prepared to reach out.

  Bullets smacked at her. She pressed herself back. Shit. Shit, shit.

  Perry would hesitate. And the bastard would get them both. She was fairly sure that this one was the ranking SS emissary.

  Ranking SS meant he’d probably been active twenty years ago. Probably had rank then, too.

  Probably been in Wake Forest.

  Wish I had a usable grenade, she thought, glancing out and ducking back again. A bullet chewed splinters from the doorway an inch from her face.

  Skorzeny advanced down the corridor, his ears focused, listening. His submachinegun was trained on the door the man he’d shot had fallen into; he was going to go in, spray the room with lead while keeping the other one pinned, then take the pinned one down. Another shot – and another – served to keep that one pinned.

  Wish I had a couple of grenades, he thought.

  Advancing. Another shot at the door, keeping the one in there pinned. And – on the ground, a boot and a heavy shape.

  I did get you!

  He threw himself into the room, emptying fire into the shape, realizing as he lunged over it that it was two-dimensional and empty –

  Perry, in socks and shirtsleeves, launched himself at the man in a punishing rugby tackle. His shoulder crunched into the bastard’s stomach, slamming him once then – half a second and three feet later – again, as the momentum slammed the already-dazed man against the facing wall.

  He heard, rather than saw or felt, weapons clattering to the ground, but there was no time to do anything but press the advantage. Punched him in the stomach, then a hand found the man’s forehead – he was turning his head, trying to bite, one hand reaching already into his belt – and slammed it against the wall, once, again, three times.

  He straightened up, kept slamming the man’s head against the wall until the man stopped moving. Then Perry let him slump to the ground.

  “Bastard,” he hissed, recovering his breath. The last five or ten seconds had taken more out of him than the entire operation until that point.

  Ahle appeared, saw the unconscious SS man. Looked to be about sixty, maybe late fifties. Prominent scar on his cheek. Shoulderboards had some organizationally-unique insignia that Perry couldn’t read – a U-shaped pattern of stripes – but there were a lot of them. High-ranking guy. That and his age almost definitely made him the emissary.

  “That’s Skorzeny,” said Ahle. She turned back to the door, covering the corridor with her submachinegun. “Shit, Vice. You took down Otto Skorzeny.” She glanced at his feet. “With your boots off.”

  “Never thought I’d use rugby once I got out of the Academy,” Perry gasped. He picked up his gas gun, gave the unconscious man a burst in the face for good measure. Couldn’t be too careful. He let the gun drop on his sling and reached down for his boots.

  “I could do him more permanently. Please let me do the bastard more permanently.”

  “No.”

  “He might get up. Men like that can take almost anything. If we don’t take him down, he’ll be a problem in future. If he lives, he’ll be a problem in future.”

  “For someone else.”

  “For my people. I have an account in Sonora, Vice. Successful pirate. I’ll give you two years’ worth of your pay, write you a check as soon as we’re back in New Orleans, if I can just cut his throat. Please.”

  “No. Not going to kill a man who’s down. Thought you had your Code?”

  “The man’s a war criminal. Member of a criminal organization.”

  “He’s gassed and unconscious,” said Perry. “You’re going to cut the throat of an unconscious man? Would your Kennedys approve of that?”

  Ahle mouthed something pissed-off – she’d lost the mask when she pulled the rifle – and turned back toward the corridor.

  “Didn’t think so. Get that m
ask back on and we’ll grab the documents and scram.”

  Perry carefully behind Ahle – he was fairly sure she wouldn’t turn around and try to kill Skorzeny, but he knew how much she hated these guys and their senior officers especially – they headed down the corridor for Skorzeny’s room.

  Inside was a rumpled bed, a duffel bag and a compact briefcase chained to the radiator.

  “Shit,” Perry muttered. “Give me that rifle.”

  “Could be chips in there,” said Ahle. “Cover me. There’ll be more.”

  “What are you doing?”

  In answer, Ahle reached for a thigh pocket and showily palmed a set of lockpicks.

  “Didn’t you once call me a thief?” she asked.

  From the gunner’s seat of his command car near the head of the half-battalion that had been sent down from Columbia to escort Colonel Skorzeny back, Major Brent Roeder looked at the sky on the horizon. There were flashes and flickering, coming – he confirmed on his compass and map – from the exact direction of the base at Joplin.

  That meant a firefight. The flares had been sent up by the local garrison, which he knew wasn’t very big.

  His vehicles had been moving slowly, at about fifty percent of the Tiger II and IIb tanks’ safe maximum speed – twenty percent of the light Cheetah armored cars’ maximum – for the sake of saving fuel and not inflicting needless damage on the roads.

  Now, the garrison seemed to have come under attack. Roeder was an experienced soldier in his early forties, a man who’d come up from the ranks and had his share of skirmishes in the violent Silesian borderlands even before joining the Squadrons. You didn’t win battles by hesitating.

  And you definitely didn’t win battles by pretending there wasn’t one happening.

  “Full speed ahead!” he shouted. Leaned down to his driver. “The hell with fuel and we don’t have an hour. Get us to the Joplin base now.”

  It was a tense few minutes, the sound of the firefight going on outside. Perry had to remind himself that although it felt like half an hour since they’d landed, it had really been – he checked his watch to confirm; less than quarter of an hour past four – yes, barely five minutes. Unitas’ men and the Klan wouldn’t last forever, but they’d hold on longer than that.

  Tense moments. The second-hand of Perry’s watch, as he stood with mask on and gas gun pointed down the stairs, clicked painfully slowly. Ahle muttered something about a bitch of a lock.

  Eventually it came open with a click. Triumphantly, Ahle opened the still-chained briefcase. It had taken more than three minutes.

  “You’ve got a bag,” she said. “Get that shit in there while I cover you.”

  Perry nodded, and they changed places. Inside were several small cases that could have held either decks of playing cards or, much more likely, chips for an analytical. They were numbered, and he scooped them into the bag. Underneath that were folders, and Perry froze.

  He didn’t read much German. The under-text on the label of the top one, he couldn’t read. Teil eins von sechs something-something-something.

  The label, he could clearly read. The last words of it struck him like a hammer to the face:

  Karten, Hugoton Lease.

  Hugoton?

  Hugoton?

  What in God’s name would Federal mercenaries want with maps – and chips – of Hugoton?

  A unit that’s talking about not renewing its contract, mind...

  “Perry! Perry, damnit!”

  “Hugoton. These are maps of the Hugoton Lease!”

  “Who cares? Just get them into the bag and we’ll go! Worry about content later!”

  The sound of stamping boots on the stairway. “Because it looks like we’ve got friends coming.”

  Hugoton, Perry thought, and shoveled the rest of the material – folders and then more chip-cases – into the backpack. A scan for interior compartments – no, nothing – and then picking up the gun.

  “Oberst? Mein Oberst?” shouted a man, half-appearing at the top of the stairwell. Perry sprayed him in the face and he tumbled backwards, rolling down the stairs.

  A shout came from below.

  Oh, fuck, thought Perry, that’s torn it.

  “Move! Down, and we’ll find a way!” Ahle snapped. “Before they mobilize!”

  Down the stairs, which led into a garage with a hulking eight-wheeled combat vehicle parked under a refueling chute. The door leading out – he could taste the fresh air, see the darkness – was a few feet away.

  A figure ran through it, blinked to deal with the light and shouted something. Ahle shot him – not with a gas gun, with the real submachinegun she’d never put down, fired a burst into him.

  Shit, shit and shit, thought Perry; we’ll never be able to pass this off as a training exercise now.

  The man had friends, too. They were gathering on the other side of the door, talking in fast German.

  It was obvious that they were preparing to storm the door; they had no idea how many people were inside and were being hesitant. As soon as an officer or NCO showed up...

  “Into the vehicle!” Ahle shouted, already stepping up the ladder on its side.

  He followed her. It was the only hard cover, yes. And – he took position behind the thing – it had a gun.

  Benefits of being a counterinsurgency organization. An Imperial vehicle in the shop would never have had live ammo in the hopper for its turret-mounted chaingun, but these guys weren’t behind safe lines; they were an isolated garrison in the middle of territory that collectively hated them.

  He began to chamber a round into the gun he was behind, then thought better of it. Raised the gas gun instead, pointed it at the door. Maybe he could gas the first ones to come through, but the others – they did carry masks. They’d be impervious.

  Shit. Shit. And Fleming was going to be very interested in why this mercenary organization had an emissary coming from Texas – Texas, with no love for the United States – with maps of Hugoton.

  Maps that, he realized in a jolt of shock, they must have obtained from 4-106 when it flew over the place!

  These people had a connection, although it was impossible Miss L could have realized it, with the bastards who’d stolen 4-106!

  He put down the gas gun and racked the bolt of the chaingun back.

  Ahle was in back, doing something. He heard something clank. She moved forward, took position below him, in the driver’s seat. Muttered something.

  “Was that for me?” Perry asked.

  Somebody had arrived outside the door, was barking orders. Perry aimed the chaingun – it worked the same as an airship’s weapons turret, pedals turning the turret by air compression – at the door and gave them a warning burst.

  “Pressure gauge in the vehicle,” she said, louder. “Warming up. Let’s see if these controls work as they should.”

  “You know how to drive one of these?”

  “You don’t realize, do you? I’ve studied the Special Squadrons. I’ve seen a spec sheet for this vehicle. Cheetah IV, and the crew hasn’t done too much personal modification to this particular one. Just keep these assholes off us for a few minutes while the boiler warms and we’ll get out of here!”

  “The garage door’s closed!”

  “And?”

  “With your hands up surrender!” one the SS men – the officer? – outside the door yelled.

  Perry considered saying something back, then swept the door with another burst. These people weren’t going to be insane enough to charge, would they?

  No. But they had heavy armored vehicles – more of this particular type, and three much larger tanks, at least one of which was operational. With bigger guns.

  “How’s that boiler coming?” he called down to Ahle.

  “Just a couple more minutes.”

  The lights – not many of them – of the small town of Joplin, Missouri, drew closer to Roeder’s bouncing command car, which was pushing sixty miles an hour across the barely-paved road. The tanks
had been left behind, were chewing that road up into a gravely mess at their own top speed a few miles ago.

  “Just a few more minutes,” Roeder’s driver assured him.

  “They’re coming from behind us!” the hooded man next to Unitas snarled, turning around.

  Yes. Headlights.

  Oh, shit, thought Unitas. The bastards had reinforcements a lot closer than we realized.

  The Klansman was already blowing a whistle. Unitas had to agree.

  Those two in there are just shit out of luck, if they’re not gone already. We’re getting the hell out.

  The Cheetah armored car was getting hot, which had to imply the boiler was heating up. And the men outside were getting very antsy; Perry had held them at bay with bursts from the chaingun so far, but how long before they dug out high-explosive grenades or simply brought in one of their already-activated heavy tanks?

  “OK!” Ahle said. “Get your head down, because we’re going!”

  Perry braced himself. Then something occurred to him.

  “This thing’s in the maintenance shop.”

  “And?”

  “You don’t take things into the maintenance shop without a reason!”

  “You don’t take things through the closed front door of a maintenance shop without a reason, either!” Ahle yelled back, and hit the steam.

  The car surged forward, Perry ducking behind the gun and its shield. Thin aluminum scraped hard, gratingly, painfully against the top of the Cheetah, and bullets slammed into the vehicle’s armor. SS men on the other side of the door threw themselves clear.

  “Shit shit shit!” Ahle yelled, and swerved hard.

  Something big exploded behind them.

  “Cover us! Aim for his vision slits! Aim for the commander!” she screamed.

  Perry got up again, hunched over the gun’s shield and hit the right pedal, rotating the tub in the direction of – oh God, he thought – the massive steam-tank twenty feet away. Thirty feet. Forty. Both of its two broad turrets were swiveling slowly toward the accelerating armored car, as Ahle shifted gears.