by Ian Redman
Ah, the joys of the hunt thought Falck, the planning, the tactics, the taking of the prey! Yes, the hunt reminded him of his past, of his days with Fritz and his beloved Karl Von Kurst, the man who had led both of them through the darkest days of World War Two, and to the memories of kinship, of battle hardened loyalty and honour. The memories of combat in the Waffen SS were still so vivid, still so very strong.
In reality, during those dark, brutal, bloody days, the three of them had truly become…the dogs of war!
There was movement! The stag had sensed them. Run wild one, thought Falck. Run for your life! With a defiant bellowing snort, the stag bolted. Falck growled and leapt forward, utilising the strength and power of his lupine body with hasty intensity. From the right, Fritz Kempler joined the chase, snarling with savage ferocity. To the left thought Falck, run to the left, now, quickly, to the right, push it hard Fritz, tire the stag! The chase intensified, the overly large, powerful wolves closing rapidly on their prey, for they could smell its fear, its panic. Their speed increased. There it was, in their blood red field of vision, faltering, tiring, struggling through the undergrowth. Falck growled again, this time much louder. He heard the reply, Kempler was closing in, faster, faster, ever faster, his jaws open, saliva dripping onto the forested floor, his canines ready to tear and rip the prey asunder, ready to shred the stag’s throat into meat laden strips of flesh. The forest rushed past them as the chase continued, thrilling the two Were with a mass of adrenaline. How they lived for times like this! For the hunt…and the kill! The stag bellowed in panic, its muscular form still running, but haphazardly, sprinting, darting through the undergrowth, its eyes wide with uncontrollable panic. Kempler closed quickly then rolled to the right, just missing the savage hoof of the stag as it struck out in defence. With its body rippling in muscular dominance the stag halted, its nostrils flaring, stamping its right hoof heavily in the soil, lowering its majestic, solidly antlered head in a gesture of bold defiance. Seizing its only opportunity for a defensive posture, the stag faced the two overly large wolves now confronting its deadly antlers, its defiant snorting and bellowing echoing through the forest. The stag was not prepared to run any further, now the regal, majestic animal would stand and fight! Growling menacingly Kempler lowered his body, ready to pounce but as always, just out of range of the stag’s deadly defences. Again, the stag stamped its hoof into the ground, its rack of mighty antlers pointing downwards, ready to stab and pierce as Jurgen Falck ran swiftly through the undergrowth, leapt from behind and bit savagely into the large deer’s rump. With Falck desperately holding on, as if clinging onto life itself the prey bellowed in pain, turning quickly, trying to face its second opponent. As his snout became covered in his prey’s blood, Falck growled with ferocious intensity. Now is the time! The throat Fritz, attack the throat! Panicking, the bloodied prey lowered its head, twisting its neck to the right, the slash of its antlers just missing Fritz Kempler’s eyes and snout. He had dodged just in time, now it was his turn to attack! With a snarling roar the overly large wolf leapt at the throat of its prey and bit deep, not letting go. Still snorting and bellowing, but now struggling for air, the stag threw itself around in a circle, in a futile attempt to throw off its terrifying assailants, the wolves clinging on for dear life, their lethal, razor sharp canines incising ever deeper into its bloodied flesh. With every pain-laden movement, its heart beating rapidly with fear the stag’s blood flowed quickly, leaving the hapless animal’s tired body, its strength ebbing, dying, fading away. There was further growling. The wolves were communicating again. Any time now! The stag is tiring! With their razor sharp canines carving ever deeper into the prey’s body Falck and Kempler continued to hold on, their jaws maximising incredible pressure, tearing into sinew and bone.
Dropping to its knees, the once majestic deer’s bellowing ceased. Now just a muffled grunting emitting from its crushed, bloodied larynx, its body rolling gently onto its side, its eyes wide open as it began its wild death throes. Ever so slowly, life began draining from the once proud master of his herd as Fritz Kempler released the stag’s bloodied, crushed throat. The wolf pulled back, its bloodstained jaws slavering at the thought of the coming feast, its blood red eyes focusing intently on its pack mate. Slowly, carefully, Jurgen Falck released the pressure on the stag’s rump, unlatching his canines from the flesh of his victim, his bloodied snout, like Kempler’s, peeled back as a deep resonant snarl left his vocal chords. It was another message for his friend, a simple message. Leave it…let it bleed to death!
Licking their lips in triumph, the two extraordinarily powerful wolves circled their hapless prey, prudently eyeing the areas they first needed to eviscerate…once the prey’s life had been extinguished.
The de-briefing had been as expected, another link to the New Totenkopf having been routed out and extinguished, but at a price. The loss of a key figure from the New Death’s Head was troubling, thought Piper, as so much information could have been gained from Claude Bescann, but even more troubling was the sacrifice the grenadiers had made. They were all prepared to die for their cause, typical of the ideals of the Waffen SS. With the same haunting, disturbing thoughts still preying on his mind Ash Piper let loose another volley of rounds from the MP44 as his shoulder jolted from its recoil. “OKAY, HOLD TARGETS,” he shouted through his internal Com-link.
“Excellent stopping power, I’d guess even at five hundred metres, yes, it’s a fine weapon Sergeant and very professionally modified, we could do with a few of these for Team Echo.” Pierre Anray, CEATA’s Chief Armourer thoughtfully rubbed his hand under his chin, “modified to a powerful variant of 9 millimetre ammunition, easily outclassing the stopping power of the standard NATO round for close quarter combat. Yes, an excellent weapon and well manufactured.”
“I agree,” muttered Piper, “what do you think Tim?”
“The same,” Tim Winters put his own MP44 back on the table to the side of his colleague’s. “The magazine is easily changeable, it loads quickly and fires smoothly, so who the hell is manufacturing them?”
“That’s what we need to find out! As you already know our strongest connection so far is a link to St Petersburg.” Piper slowly shook his head, a look of dismay furrowing his brow.
“What’s the matter Ash?” asked Winters.
“I’m trying to follow my instincts as to what we do regarding Von Kurst and Oratz. Part of me says let’s pull them in now, but the other part says don’t, it’s far too dangerous at the moment!”
Winters looked quizzically at his friend, “so which part of your…instinct, do you trust?”
“The latter part, c’mon, let’s get over to the Communications Room, I want to catch up with what’s happening regarding today’s marches. Thanks Pierre!”
“Anytime gentlemen, anytime!” As the two CEATA field agents left the shooting range Pierre Anray picked up one of the MP44s, loaded a spare magazine clip and with a broad smile prepared to fire at another set of targets.
“I want you to be honest with me Jeanette,” Charles Mann’s face was stony, ashen, with not a hint of emotion, “do you have feelings for Sergeant Piper?”
Jeanette Descard looked both angry and a little embarrassed as she sat across from her superior, in his own office. “Colonel, I find your question both intrusive, and offensive.”
“Answer the question, Doctor.” The Colonel’s tone of voice left a distinct message in Descard’s mind; he was not in a good mood.
“When you say feelings Colonel,” there was a hint of sarcasm in Jeanette’s voice, “I take it you mean, am I having…heartfelt feelings for Sergeant Piper?”
“Precisely!”
“No sir, I am not ‘falling in love’ with Sergeant Piper and I am not some silly little school girl with childish fantasies!”
The Colonel sat back in his chair and folded his arms. “Fine,” he said, “but I’ve been observing you closely over the last few days Jeanette and especially when Piper was fighting in the Ardennes,” he
paused, carefully watching Descard’s facial expression. “At that time you showed, how can I say…an overly emotional response to Piper’s predicament. I saw the look in your eyes Jeanette, when the Eurocopter was firing at him, and that look is still there when he is near you!”
Descard fell silent. Don’t push your luck Colonel, she thought.
“I’m sorry I have to bring this matter to your attention Doctor, but you know as well as I do, emotional involvement of any kind between members of staff in CEATA, is strictly forbidden.”
“DON’T BLOODY WELL PATRONISE ME, COLONEL!” Descard’s outburst caught Charles Mann by surprise as she quickly stood up, her face like thunder. “I DO NOT HAVE FEELINGS FOR SERGEANT PIPER AND PERSONALLY, I THINK WE HAVE ENOUGH TO WORRY ABOUT AT PRESENT!”
“Sit down Jeanette.”
“NO SIR, I WILL NOT!”
“SIT DOWN, DOCTOR DESCARD!” She did so. “Yes, you are right,” the Colonel continued, his eyes narrowing, “we do have a great deal on at present, and this New Totenkopf business is taking its toll on all of us, especially with losing Bescann, however, the fact still remains, I am not convinced you are telling me the truth.”
CEATA’s Chief Criminal Psychologist sighed as she realised the Colonel was only doing his job. Now she felt ill at ease with her superior. “Colonel, I apologise for my emotional outburst and yes, in a way, you are right,” the Colonel nodded his head. “I admit, I find Sergeant Piper fascinating in the context of his psychological make-up. He is an interesting man and of course…he is a werewolf. That means a great deal to my studies and to my role in CEATA.”
“Very well, I will accept your comments on this matter, but just remember what I said!”
“Thank you sir, now if you don’t mind, we both have a great deal to do!” Hurriedly, Jeanette got up, walked to the office door and let herself out.
The mobile phone call had been brief and straight to the point. At the time, upon his arrival at Dusseldorf International Airport, Wilhelm Oratz knew exactly what his Fuhrer was suggesting. “…and don’t forget Wilhelm, keep a ‘lookout’ for any new business opportunities while you are in St Petersburg.” From now on, both he and his close friend were being…followed. The codeword was simple enough and had been discussed several times during the planning stages of Project Amen. Now, that same word had been spoken in a seemingly innocent telephone conversation. ‘Lookout’! In other words, watch your back and plan all your movements carefully and with precision. The Fuhrer was taking no chances. You pathetic fools thought Oratz, follow us if you wish. It will do you no good…no good whatsoever!
“This is indeed a wonderful, historic day for the British people,” Jonathon White, the self proclaimed leader of the far right British National Party seemed genuinely flushed with pride. “I am truly delighted with the turnout for this march. As you can see by the massive support we are receiving for this event, the message from the British people is clear! Immigrants go home, get out of our country and stay out.”
“This guy is a nutcase,” mumbled Nick Lucas, “he’s relishing every minute of this free publicity on all the news channels.” Worriedly Nick shook his head and turned to Ash Piper and Tim Winters, the two of them keeping quiet as the news reporter for the British Broadcasting Corporation continued his interview.
“But you do realise Mister White, you are stirring up a great deal of trouble and racial tension with this march?”
“Tell that to the British people right behind me, we have a right to protest like this, we have a right to freedom of speech and we have a right, TO BE BRITISH!” The leader of the BNP turned around and asked the BBC’s cameraman to focus on the crowds behind him, “look at all these people! The last estimate I heard was approximately ninety thousand joining us, right here, right now, and apparently there are many more supporters on the way. I cannot truly express my feelings at present. I feel so very, very proud…to be British!”
“Are you expecting any trouble along the route Mister White? There is talk that immigrant gangs will target the marchers at some point,” continued the reporter.
White looked smug as he gazed into the camera, “well, if there is any trouble, the British people will give even further support for this march, won’t they?”
“And what time are you giving your speech in Hyde Park, Mister White?” The noise from the banner laden marchers was deafening as shouting, music and loud horns could be heard in the background. A large part of London itself…was at a standstill.
“I will be addressing the British people at two thirty this afternoon and I hope news channels from around the world will record my speech, obviously for posterity’s sake!”
“I agree with you Nick,” said Piper, “he is a nutcase, and full of his own self importance!”
“So, what’s happening in London?” Jeanette Descard walked briskly over to her colleagues as she noticed the time on the CEATA Communications Room’s large European based digital clock. It was 10.30 in the morning. Sunday morning!
“Hi Jeanette, it seems the March Against Immigrants is well underway in London,” said Winters, his face grim with concern. “An estimated crowd of ninety thousand people are taking part in it.”
“Nick, we’ve got an hour or so before the meeting with Commander Hertschell and the Colonel, switch to the EuroNews Channel will you? Let’s see what’s happening in Paris, Munich and Rotterdam.”
“No problem, Doctor Descard.”
The raging still coursed through Otto Von Kurst’s veins, but his control was strong. It had to be, for Helga’s sake. His telephone conversation with Jochen Kreutz had brought about his worst fears, for there had been no contact with the New Totenkopf’s Standartenfuhrer for some time. They could only assume the worst, not that the authorities would have taken him alive thought Von Kurst. No, that was not Bescann’s way. He would have taken his own life, for his Fuhrer and for the cause.
He had decided not to tell Wilhelm or Lana until they met on Thursday. But the news itself had enraged him, the thought of another casualty, and such an important one, being another thorn in his flesh. How he craved revenge! And revenge would come, he thought. For him it would be pleasant and sweet, for it was only a matter of time before the lone one would be in his and Lana Franke’s clutches. He had foreseen it, in his dreams. His sixth sense had told him so. Von Kurst was sweating again, his blood curdling, rushing quickly through his veins at the very thought of his protagonist strapped down on Lana’s operating table. How he longed for that moment and to view the recordings that would surely follow. He smiled to himself as he thought of his little secret, the serum to control the lone one, to prevent the beast inside him from erupting from his body. Your time is coming lone wolf, thought Von Kurst. Your time is coming!
But for now, the wolf inside himself must be controlled. The Key to the specially built room in his house could not be used, not this time, for while he would be locked away with the beast raging inside its steel cell, Helga may well, at some time or other, begin to rage herself. That could not be allowed to happen. No, there had to be changes, for the new addition to the Were, the woman he implicitly trusted and loved once again…had to be taken care of.
As his thoughts returned to Helga, Von Kurst’s concerns grew even more, for he knew there was something dreadfully wrong. She was not talking as much, her beautiful, sweet voice was now slightly deeper, more monotone and her eyes were still so very bloodshot. As anxiety raced through his tired mind, Otto Von Kurst picked up a large plate of fresh meat and a glass of water. He quickly left the kitchen and walked upstairs to his ornately decorated bedroom where Helga sat comfortably in his king sized bed. As he gently placed the tray beside her, a sympathetic smile sitting placidly on his face, his mobile phone rang. Removing the phone from his trouser pocket, Von Kurst looked at the glowing facia; the wording was as he expected…LANA. He pressed the receive button, “my love, how are you?”
“Otto, you haven’t rang me…I was worried.”
He had to
admit to himself, Lana did sound concerned and perhaps…overly emotional. “It has been a busy time for me Lana, Helga has been very sick.”
“Oh…how is she?” Lana’s voice had become excruciatingly sentimental.
“She is comfortable, and how may I ask, are you?”
“I am missing you, my love.”
“Lana, I miss you too, but we will have our time together, on Thursday evening.” There was giggling over the phone, as always it reminded Von Kurst of an immature schoolgirl on her first romantic date.
“I am so looking forward to Thursday evening Otto; do I still come prepared, as you told me?”
“Oh yes, I will have plenty of the serum ready, that I can assure you.” Von Kurst tried to hide his feelings of lust, the slight smile on his face rapidly becoming a sneer as he thought of what Lana would do to the lone one, once she had him as her patient.
There was further giggling, Lana’s tone of voice making plain her own arousal, “oh Otto, just thinking about it makes me feel…so moist.” There was silence for a few seconds, then Lana spoke again, her tone hushed, “you do miss me Otto, don’t you?”
“Lana, you know I miss you, but Helga needs help and attention, you know that!”
“Yes…yes of course,” her voice was just a whisper, “are you watching the television…the marches?”
“Yes, we are.”
“It is exciting, isn’t it; to think none of them know what’s coming?”
“Indeed so Lana, indeed so,” Von Kurst paused, he had no time for this small talk. “Lana, I will ring you again later this evening. What are you doing tomorrow, shopping perhaps?”
“Yes, I thought about going into Paris and treating myself to a special dress, ready for Thursday.”