Hammer of Angels

by G T Almasi

  To this end the Abwehr provided sterling assistance. The agency’s director, Admiral Wilhelm Canaris, personally convinced Spain’s President Franco to grant German troops access to Spanish facilities for their attack on the British naval base at Gibraltar. Thus began the Axis’s eventual domination of the Mediterranean theater, a critical step on Hitler’s path to London.

  Today, the Abwehr continues to provide top-tier information and analysis.

  SZ

  Today’s SZ is a direct descendant of the sociopathic SS. After Hitler’s death, the SS were given a choice: manage Greater Germany’s new institutionalized slavery system or be disbanded for “reckless depreciation of the principles of the Fatherland.” The SS generals accepted their reassignment and rebranded their army as the Staatszeiger, or “State’s Hand.” This new name did little to curb their behavior, and their human rights record is nearly as stained as the original SS.

  Purity League

  Antidiscrimination activists have been alarmed by the recent resurgence of the Purity League. Members of this civilian group spout racist propaganda and dress in brown uniforms as an homage to Nazism’s early days. Violence seems to follow wherever they go, and they are notorious for bringing their children to their demonstrations.

  Gestapo

  The most feared organization in Europe is the Geheime Staatspolizei, which has survived the passing decades almost unchanged. The Gestapo maintains an iron grip on German society through a combination of disinformation and terror. Even Reich officials are afraid of them and their hoarded secrets. It is said every shadow in Germany hides a Gestapo man.

  09

  SAME MORNING, 9:15 A.M. GMT

  CIRCLE OF ZION CAMP, YORKSHIRE, PROVINCE OF GREAT BRITAIN, GG

  I’ll give the Bürgermeister one thing—he doesn’t faze easily. Despite being snatched from his office, drugged, hog-tied, tossed in a truck, and delivered to a hostile camp full of rebel slaves, he wakes with stoic dignity. The first thing he said when Brando’s knockout formula wore off was, “Gute Morgen, could I trouble you for some water, please?”

  His girlfriend is another story. Even though she got the same dose of sleepy-time as Karl, Tarty has taken longer to come around. When she does, she totally freaks. Her eyes bulge out of her head, and she hides behind her boyfriend, shouts curses, and sobs into the mayor’s shoulder.

  “Darwin,” I comm. “They’re awake.”

  “Be right there.”

  While we waited for our guests to rise and shine, Brando took their IDs and sent a report to ExOps in Washington. This took him a few minutes. He has to prerecord his reports, encrypt them, and then compress the living shit out of them so his transmissions are as brief as possible. This minimizes the Germans’ chances of finding his long-range comm-signal with their radio trackers.

  Fraulein Tart is still carrying on when Brando and Miriam walk into the tent. My partner brings his X-bag and a folding chair. He unfolds the chair in front of our two captives.

  Miriam sits down, glares at the mayor’s girlfriend, and barks, “Isabel, enough! Stop crying or we’ll give you another shot. Stay calm like Karl here.” Being addressed by her name helps Tartface—I mean Isabel—regain some composure. She pipes down and huddles next to Mayor Karl.

  Miriam says, “Herr Bürgermeister, you see that you and your…secretary are unharmed?”

  Mayor Karl calmly answers, “I see you are runaways, and you shall be dealt with accordingly.”

  “We have no desire to hurt you, mein Herr,” Miriam says. “We only want you to help us restore Germany’s honor.”

  “And how,” he replies, “would you have me do that?”

  If the mayor had flatly refused, we would have switched to plan B, where we try to ransom him for the Circle members caught in last night’s roundup. But he has not refused, not yet, anyway. Miriam proceeds with our original plan to turn Mayor Karl to an agent in place, working for us from inside the German bureaucracy.

  Miriam holds her hand out to Brando, who gives her a sheet of paper. “Release the people on this list for lack of evidence.”

  Karl takes the list from Miriam and reads through it. After a minute he says, “What about Isabel?”

  “She will be returned to you tomorrow morning, after our friends have returned to us.”

  “I cannot vouch for the physical condition of your comrades,” Karl says. “The Gestapo has had them for hours.”

  “All the more reason for a prompt decision on your part, mein Herr.”

  “I want your word you will not harm Isabel.”

  Miriam’s face flushes. “You won’t get my word on ANYTHING, Teutsch!” She seethes. “I want my people back without a battalion of troops following them. Your cooperation will be rewarded by Isabel’s safe return.”

  “Releasing these prisoners is one thing, but I have no authority over the army.” Karl spreads his hands. “And how would that appear? I am a civilian. I cannot directly meddle in military affairs if you expect me to be useful to you.”

  Miriam warily regards the mayor’s face. “Are you saying you will join us?”

  Karl the Bürgermeister rubs his nose and glances at me. “Let’s say I hope to avoid further encounters like this one.”

  * * *

  CORE

  MIS-ANGEL-128

  DATE: January 4, 1981

  TO: Director Chanez, Extreme Operations Division

  FROM: Task Force Zion

  SUBJECT: Bürgermeister Karl Brun, Classification Level 14.

  Dear Sir,

  Attached please find my file on Herr Karl Brun, mayor of York. I will summarize their contents for your convenience.

  No one in Brun’s immediate or extended family has ever owned slaves, nor do they socialize with slave-owning families. The man is quite discreet about his views on this topic, unlike his fellow officials, who openly vocalize their support for slavery. When pressed for his thoughts on the matter, the mayor becomes evasive and changes the subject.

  I believe Herr Brun is secretly sympathetic to the German abolitionist cause and is worth pursuing as a potential asset for Operation ANGEL.

  Sincerely,

  Special Agent Barney Frank, CIA

  10

  NEXT MORNING, WEDNESDAY, FEBRUARY 4, 1:30 A.M. GMT

  CIRCLE OF ZION CAMP, YORKSHIRE, PROVINCE OF GREAT BRITAIN, GG

  Alix!

  I startle awake to a thumping heart and a sweaty sleeping bag. I wipe perspiration off my forehead, activate my night vision, and inspect the tent I share with Brando.

  He’s asleep next to me. I almost made a boneheaded move last week when we pitched camp here. I was about to zip our sleeping bags together when I remembered this Patrick and I aren’t all snuggly. It’s like that the first time we do most anything. I’m so used to doing it all with Trick.

  It’s worse now that we’re in the field together. When we’re awake, there are clues to help me remember he’s Brando and not Trick, like how we aren’t physically affectionate or how he forgets to let me win at cribbage. He also wears more black clothing than Trick used to. But when Brando is asleep, those hints go away. He even sleeps with his mouth half open exactly like Trick did. Every night I have to resist the urge to caress his cheek.

  Our tent is waterproof and insulated, but we still need to sleep in our long underwear, socks, and oversized sweatshirts. I wriggle out of my sleeping bag, then crawl outside under our camouflage netting and carefully arranged tree branches. A lungful of frosty night air helps clear my head. It’s pitch black, of course. Even if the rebels had electricity, they’d stay dark at night to make themselves harder to find.

  The Circle’s members avoid detection by being thoroughly decentralized. This policy even manifests itself in how they organize a camp. Rather than clump together, they spread out all over the woods. My built-in heat sensors show nothing but silent trees and frozen sky, yet there are three hundred sleeping people hidden within a quarter mile of where I’m standing. All of them have been gra
nted shelter by the Rabbi.

  As leaders go, the Rabbi doesn’t cut a particularly heroic figure. A charitable description would be “undertall and overwide,” although he can shake a leg when there’s a job to be done. No matter how dangerous or gruesome, he’s the first one in and the last one out.

  The man says he’s on a diet, but when someone brings a deer into camp, he helps himself to seconds until there’s nothing left. He punctuates his stories with his deep, expansive laugh, and everyone here clearly adores him.

  Part of our mission is to assess what the Rabbi can accomplish. His cell is effective, but their influence is limited to Yorkshire. A full-scale uprising will need a leader with an abundantly broader reach.

  One such hombre is former Wehrmacht colonel Victor Eisenberg, known as the Hammer, who seems to operate all over the Reich. According to the Rabbi, only Eisenberg has the military training, practical experience, and underground connections to lead a real rebellion against Germany’s slavery system.

  Another person of interest is Johannes Kruppe, a despicable former Staatszeiger colonel. Kruppe is retired now, but his repression of Europe’s Jews continues through his membership in the Purity League. The Rabbi told us Kruppe is one nasty mofo. When I replied that Kruppe ain’t met nasty until he’s met me, the Rabbi cautioned us not to take him lightly.

  The Kruppe family is old and wealthy and has extensive influence with the government, including the Gestapo. The Rabbi heard that Johannes had himself surgically upgraded with Mods like the ones Levels have—extremely rare for a civilian—and that the man retains a team of Protectors as bodyguards.

  Our mission directives include hoovering up any information we find about either of these men. My partner commed the intel about Kruppe to HQ the moment he heard it. Brando’s Info Coordinator, Bill Harbaugh, laconically responded: “Data received, nice work.” But from Harbaugh that’s like a flying end-zone chest bump.

  I’m about to go inside when my heat sensors spot something warm. The heat source is too far away to make out a distinct shape, but since I don’t hear an engine, it’s safe to assume it’s a deer. I shift my focus, then snap my eyes back. Still there. Must be a deer.

  Or…is that a person?

  I scamper into the tent and poke Brando awake. “Darwin, wake up. I think someone’s coming into camp.” His eyes open, and he shimmies out of his sleeping bag. I strap on my holster and stuff Li’l Bertha inside. We pull on our outer layers and whip outside. The heat source is closer, nine hundred yards or so. I indicate the approaching figure’s direction while Brando puts on his vision-enhancement goggles. The person-shaped heat silhouette continues surging straight at us.

  “What do you think?” I comm.

  “The timing is right for it to be someone from York.”

  I crank up my hearing and detect the whup-whup of an approaching helicopter. The chopped-air sound grows louder. And louder.

  Make that a bunch of helicopters.

  11

  SAME MORNING, 1:40 A.M. GMT

  CIRCLE OF ZION CAMP, YORKSHIRE, PROVINCE OF GREAT BRITAIN, GG

  “Rabbi, this is Scarlet. Come in.” Among the equipment we’ve smuggled in and distributed are walkie-talkies with built-in hand-cranked chargers. We gave some to the Rabbi and showed him how to tune them to our comm-frequency. They’re only effective at short range, but they’re perfect for this type of situation.

  The heat blob is four hundred yards away, but it’s so dark that he or she can’t see us. I take a few steps away from Brando and aim my father’s watch toward our guest. I flash the watch face’s light twice slow, then twice fast. The blob picks up speed.

  My commphone activates. “This is Rabbi. Go ahead, Scarlet.”

  “Sir, I have eyes on an unknown person inbound, and I hear helicopters.”

  “Can you tell if they’re coming here?”

  “Affirmative.”

  He broadcasts to the other walkie-talkies. “Attention, fellow mice. The cat is returning in force. Disperse and we will regroup via our usual channels.”

  Time to vamoose. Brando kicks the shrubbery away from our tent while I toss our bedrolls and backpacks out. I roll up the sleeping bags as my partner collapses the tent and folds it down. Our ExOps trainers insisted we be able to bug out of a bivouac in less than one minute. To accomplish this we keep our backpacks ready to go at all times. Anything we take out of the pack goes right back in when we’re done with it. All we have to do is strike the tent, bundle the sleeping bags, and disappear.

  While my partner finishes getting us ready to leave, I run toward the incoming person. My vision Mods indicate something metallic, but it doesn’t fit the profile of a weapon. Then I realize—it’s a bicycle. The helicopters’ racket is so loud that I can safely yell, “Hey, over here!”

  The cyclist calls out, “Rabbi?”

  “No, he’s busy.” I pull out Li’l Bertha and aim at the stranger. “Who goes there?”

  The figure pedals toward me and stops. My night vision reveals the perspiring face of a young blond-haired woman. “You are the American?” She speaks with the same German-British accent as Miriam.

  “Yeah, that’s me.”

  She breathlessly asks, “I must be sure. How many home runs did Babe Ruth win?”

  “How the fuck should I know?”

  “Well, okay,” she pants. “I suppose only an American would answer in that manner.” She shakes her hair off her face. “I am Greta, a friend of Arvid’s. I live not far from here. The Gestapo down in York forced Mayor Brun to help them discover his abductors’ location.”

  Damn.

  “Did Arvid say how many troops are coming?”

  “He said five helicopters from York took off in this direction.” Greta leans over her handlebars, huffing and puffing. “He was not able to see what the helicopters carry.”

  “Darwin, Rabbi,” I comm. “Five birds incoming, contents unknown.”

  Brando comms, “Roger that.” The Rabbi doesn’t answer. Hopefully he’s already gone.

  I say, “Thanks, Greta. You’d better clear out.”

  Without another word, Greta spins her bike around and pedals away.

  I hustle to my partner. “Darwin, how we doin’?”

  “The Rabbi’s people are mostly away. We’re packed, but we have the element of surprise and I have an idea.”

  “Surprise? The Krauts found us, remember?”

  “Not exactly,” he says. “The Germans think they’ve found a camp of lightly armed escapees.”

  “Right, ’cause that’s what they have found.”

  “They don’t know about you.”

  Goose bumps dance onto my arms. “You want me to F.U.C.K. ’em up?”

  Brando recites a line from our orders. “‘You shall create a chaotic and confused situation at every opportunity.’”

  Story of my life.

  “Wait a second,” I say. “This is gonna have ‘Level’ written all over it. Won’t that blow our cover?”

  “I’ll ask ExOps to fake some comms implicating the Russkies.”

  Ahh, Mother Russia. Is there anything we can’t blame on you?

  “Okay, then.” I rub my hands together. “Let’s do this.”

  The choppers swoop over our heads. Those helicopters are our main target. Our challenge will be to wreck the machines and harm as few of the Wehrmacht troops as we can. The German press and public will eventually forgive antislavery fighters—Russian or otherwise—for destroying some pieces of war equipment. But if we kill any of these regular army dudes, it’ll be a very different story.

  Spotlit trees writhe in the thrumming air as the pilots hunt for a place to set down. They find a clearing about a hundred yards north of our position. I dose a tall drink of Madrenaline and speed toward their intended landing zone.

  The first chopper and I arrive at the same time. Airmobile troops pour from the aircraft and make for the tree line. A second helicopter floats down next to the first. More troops spill out, some befor
e the skids even touch the ground. Officers bellow commands to their men and lead them to cover.

  I sneak behind the first helicopter, taking care to avoid the tail rotor. The second aircraft is off to the left, so I run to this chopper’s right-side pilot’s door, rip it open, and punch the pilot square in his jabber hole. Then I open his safety harness and drag him out by his head. Li’l Bertha precedes me into the helicopter and riddles the control board with .30-caliber Explosives. This bird ain’t goin’ nowhere.

  I jab my pistol at the remaining pilot and blare, “Raus! Schnell, mutterfinken!” Get out, motherfucker!

  Pilot Schmidt—his name is printed on his coveralls—frantically unbuckles his harness. The man throws himself out the door and runs for it.

  I chase him across the small clearing. Schmidt makes it to the second chopper. The pilots gun the engine as I hurl myself into the big side opening. The craft’s floor slaps my chest and the ground drops away beneath us. After a few seconds my dangling feet find the landing skid. I push off and crawl inside.

  Herr Schmidt has seen more than enough of me and cowers in terror by the other main door. Up front, the pilot on the right draws his sidearm. Li’l Bertha sights in. One of her .45-caliber slugs carries away Pilot Right’s pistol, pieces of his hand, and all of his moxie. The schmuck howls while his injured arm squirts blood all over the control panel and windscreen.

  I leap forward, clench another knuckle sandwich together, and smash it into Pilot Left’s face. While he drifts off to lagerland, I sit on his lap and take the controls. I’m no expert at flying helicopters, but I’ve been taught the basics. My right hand clutches the cyclic stick, and my left hand twists the throttle to zero and rams the collective controller down.

  Oh, jeez, that may have been a little heavy-handed.