by Ian Redman
Hastily, the Colonel cast a furtive gaze towards Doctor Descard. Yes, he thought, there’s that look again, “continue Sergeant!”
“The third wolf is the largest, the most powerful. At first it asked me to join them, but my feelings and my training won’t let this happen. These creatures kill for pleasure; that is part of the hunt. When they feel the urge to kill…they will, either human or animal.”
“Shit, now I’m feeling sick!” Nick slowly shook his head, his face rapidly losing colour.
“Nick!”
“Sorry Colonel.”
Piper continued, “the single wolf! I saw it again, behind the entrance door at the warehouse. It was as if…” he paused, his voice just a whisper, “he was waiting for me, knowing I would come face to face with him.” Then Piper roared with intensity, the reverberating, unholy sound of the wolf making Jeanette jump again. “I MUST HUNT HIM,” he yelled, “I MUST KILL HIM!”
“WHO SERGEANT,” shouted the Colonel, “WHO IS THE WOLF YOU MUST KILL?
“VON KURST,” yelled Piper, “OTTO VON KURST!”
The mist had cleared. The two large wolves wagged their tails in joyous celebration, for their true alpha, the pack leader had returned once again…into their dreams. Now the gentle flowing stream not only reflected the moon, but three markedly large, magnificent wolves.
“My friends, it is good to speak again.” The voice of Otto Von Kurst entered the minds of Jurgen Falck and Fritz Kempler as the largest wolf faced his companions.
“My Fuhrer, as always your presence is an honour,” Falck replied.
The larger wolf continued to talk, his voice drifting through the Were’s dreamscape, “Jurgen, Fritz, the time has come. I did not think I would require your assistance so soon, but the lone one will not join us, that fact is certain.” The other two wolves peeled back their snouts and growled, their razor sharp canines gleaming in the moonlight. “The war we require will soon begin, but I need your talents my friends, on Thursday evening. You know where to find me, report to my office in Dusseldorf on Wednesday at 12.00 noon.” With a resonant snarl the large wolf turned and walked back into the dark forest, eerily vanishing from sight.
Jurgen Falck’s Were form shook visibly, then awoke from its slumber as sunlight filtered through the treeline. Slowly, he opened his blood red eyes and pulled his lupine form off the leafy forest floor, then, with a terrifying, hideous growl he lifted his canid body onto his hind legs, outstretched his fur-laden arms and claws and howled like never before. Within seconds, Fritz Kempler had joined him, their dark sinister wolf song carrying through the thick canopy of trees, drifting through the air, travelling ever onwards. Once again their Fuhrer required the expertise of the two Waffen SS veterans.
So be it, thought Falck! It is time to kill again!
“Jean-Paul,” Commander Hertschell spoke calmly on his hands-free internal telephone, “is there anything new to report regarding the marches.” Everyone in the Commander’s office listened intently.
“Various reports are coming in sir. The violence in Paris has escalated somewhat, the gendarmes are using water cannon to break up what seem to be clashes between white and ethnic youths. I think it could get worse. There have been reports of gunshots in Rotterdam, I’m just waiting for more info on that and over sixty arrests have been confirmed in London. Munich has had a small amount of trouble, again with youths clashing and…that’s it!”
“Very well, thank you Jean-Paul,” the Commander switched off the hands free set.
“Ash, how are you feeling?” asked Jeanette.
“Better, thanks.” Each smiled at the other.
“Right, let’s get moving on a plan to get you into Von Kurst Electronics Sergeant, that is, if you still want to meet Von Kurst face to face.” There was a distinct look of foreboding in Charles Mann’s eyes and Piper had noticed it. “Nick, pull out everything you can regarding this so called cocktail evening at VKE’s headquarters on Thursday.”
“Yes sir.”
Nick was already leaving his chair as the Colonel continued, “and don’t forget to run a thorough check on the flight plan for their Learjet. I want to know every movement that plane makes.”
“Don’t worry Colonel, I’m onto it.”
Nick closed the door behind him as the Colonel turned to Tim Winters. “Well Sergeant Winters, it’s time you knew the facts behind Sergeant Piper joining CEATA and then we will discuss your return to Moscow.” Winters nodded in acceptance as he looked at the clock on the wall.
It was 12.35 p.m.
“I must admit, I didn’t expect so many people to turn up for this march, the sight below me is truly incredible.” Mathew Walsh was enjoying every minute of his day as he hovered, just over one thousand metres above the milling throng of protesters marching down London’s Bayswater Road. “The city really has come to a standstill, the numbers of marchers now well exceeding over one hundred and fifty thousand, all voicing their opinions to the British Government regarding the immigration rules in this country. This is truly an incredible sight!” Mathew pointed to the right of him, the Sky News cameraman instantly adjusting his field of view to a scene just off Hyde Park where a large group of youths were fighting and throwing stones. “As you can see down below,” he continued, “there are some ugly scenes at the moment, the Metropolitan police now confirming seventy three arrests, this figure seemingly increasing by the minute. But right now let’s take you back to the studio, where Jenny Crossman has several guests voicing their opinions on this March Against Immigrants. This is Mathew Walsh, in the Sky News Helicopter, over Hyde Park.”
Jean-Paul switched channels and sighed, a long deep sigh. Not in sorrow, but in frustration. The BBC’s news channel flickered onto his screen as a female reporter, this time in Rotterdam, talked quickly into her microphone. In the background armed police milled around her as the Frenchman sat back from his desk, with a large mug of coffee. On the screen, the reporter told of an immigrant youth from Africa running amok with a sub machine gun, killing four innocent people before he was shot dead by police marksmen. “Apparently,” she continued, “the police were amazed at the weapon the assailant used as it seemed to be a replica of a rare World War Two assault rifle.” Jean Paul nearly choked on his coffee as he sat bolt upright and reached out for the internal telephone.
It was 1.25 p.m.
“And don’t forget Terry, I want really first class, up front photographs of Jonathon White when he’s up on the podium, I won’t accept anything less, okay!”
“Yeah, sure Yvonne, leave it to me, we’ll do you proud, it’ll be a great front page.”
Yvonne Lang, the Political Editor for the Guardian Newspaper walked across her office to the large conference table, where nine senior members of staff sat cheerfully talking to one another. For a Sunday, the Guardian’s London Office was a relative hive of activity, but this was no ordinary Sunday, for the British People were speaking as one voice and in London itself, tensions were beginning to run high. “Schedules everyone, I want tomorrow’s front page to be a real cracker, with plenty of clout.”
“That’s if I’m happy with the clarity of your lads’ reporting,” said Bob Bartley, the Guardian’s Editor in Chief.
“Come off it Bob, you know the guys will get in the thick of it, they always do.” Yvonne smiled, a big cheesy grin, which always made her colleagues smile as well.
“I know Yvonne,” Bob held his hands up in a mock gesture of surrender, “I’m only joking.” Everyone laughed.
It was 1.30 p.m.
“Gun running, the bastards have been fucking gun running, that’s what the shipments are for, sell the weapons onto various gangs, immigrants, drug dealers, whoever…shit!” Ash Piper was angry, so was everyone in Commander Hertschell’s office.
“We don’t know the full facts behind this report, all we can do is contact the Dutch authorities to reconfirm what type of weapon the assailant used.” Commander Hertschell did have a point thought Piper, but this was once aga
in, far too co-incidental.
“If Von Kurst and Oratz have been importing these weapons to help start a war, who the hell has been selling them to the gangs?” asked Tim Winters.
“I would have thought that was quite obvious,” Jeanette interrupted, “I’ll bet a month’s salary it will be the grenadiers and their so called, scharfuhrers. Think about it! They make contact with different gangs from differing nationalities as they roam each city, each town. They probably have contacts all over the place! It’s easy. Sell the weapons cheaply, then make drops by unmarked VKE vehicles to each group. Of course, no mention would be made of selling the weapons to anyone else. So the gangs are armed, ready for war and ready for just about anything else, drug trafficking, robbery, you name it! The war Von Kurst wants begins, the gangs join in the violence and chaos ensues.”
“So Von Kurst and co are actually assisting the immigrants in killing each other!” “Clever bastards,” Piper muttered.
“You could have a point Jeanette,” said the Commander, “and if you’re right, these weapons could have been easily distributed over many weeks, even months. They could be all over the damned place!”
“I’ll contact the Dutch authorities Commander, I’ll have the info we require within half an hour.”
“Thank you Sergeant Piper. Very well everyone, the Colonel and I need to quickly finish our meeting with Sergeant Winters, then we’ll move back to the Communications Room. Give us thirty minutes. Dismissed!”
Ash Piper, Jeanette Descard and Nick Lucas walked briskly out of the Commander’s office as Jeanette looked tersely at her watch.
It was 1.40 p.m.
“Yes!”
“My Fuhrer, all Scharfuhrers and Grenadiers are in position. We are ready!”
Otto Von Kurst openly smiled at his reflection in the bedroom mirror, a reflection that spoke of true cunning and prowess. He turned around and looked at Helga, who was asleep, “excellent Untersturmfuhrer Kreutz, give the codeword, it is time for war.”
Jochen Kreutz sat back in his chair in the New Totenkopf’s Operations Centre, his heart beating excitedly, his eyes seemingly on fire as he monitored the television screens around him. He had been given strict instructions to monitor the Marches Against Immigrants and to keep his Fuhrer up to date with the movements of the Grenadiers and their Scharfuhrers. “Of course my Fuhrer, I will stay in contact.”
The phone line closed as Von Kurst returned his mobile to his trouser pocket. He walked calmly, slowly over to his bedroom’s large television screen and ran the fingers of his right hand over the image of the marchers in London’s Bayswater Road. He growled softly then spoke, “do you remember your nightmare lone one? I told you I want revenge…and now, I shall have it!”
It was 1.49 p.m.
Yvonne Lang spoke hurriedly, giving her thoughts on the front cover visuals for Monday morning’s Guardian, her arms moving frantically in gestures of what she was viewing in her vivid imagination “…an eye-catching show piece photograph of Jonathon White in the centre, headlines at the top, smaller photographs at the sides giving views of the marchers. I want a thorough, thought provoking front page, simple as that!” Everyone nodded their heads in approval.
“Right everyone, let’s have your thoughts on the content of the articles to be printed,” Bob Bartley turned his head slowly, viewing the ever eager senior members of his editorial team. “This is an historic occasion,” he continued, “so let’s make every word count.”
The phone rang suddenly on the side desk, next to the conference table. Louise Sheard, sitting next to Yvonne, picked it up. “Hello,” she said, putting one hand over her left ear, “HEY EVERYONE, I’M TRYING TO TALK HERE!” The Guardian staff lowered their excited tones as Louise continued, “yes…for Yvonne, hold on. Yvonne, it’s for you!”
“Oh, who is it?”
“I don’t know, it’s a man needing to speak to you, he says it’s important, something to do with the March Against Immigrants.”
With a slight sigh of irritation, Yvonne wheeled her high backed chair to the left and took the handset. “Yvonne Lang speaking, can I help you?” Just for a second or two there was no reply, “hello, can I help you?”
The voice was deep and conceivably threatening, “you mock the immigrants and their religions. You mock all of us!”
An accent she thought, yes…possibly middle-eastern. Yvonne Lang suddenly felt very cold.
“How dare the white peoples of Europe defile our name and our religions, HOW DARE THEY!”
“Look, if this is some sort of sick joke, then it isn’t funny!” The office fell silent as all around the conference table began sensing the fear in their colleague’s voice.
The menacing intonation continued, “first you invade Iraq, you kill thousands of innocent people, then you dare to insult ordinary people who struggle for a living. THIS IS A MOCKERY!”
“WHO THE HELL IS THIS?”
“I speak on behalf of the European Muslim Freedom Fighters. The time has come to destroy the wretched pestilence of Christian supremacy, to smother the white people of Europe and to slowly slit their throats…”
“WHO IS THIS?”
“…to make you all choke on your own blood,” the frightening voice continued, “so heed my warning, AND PREPARE FOR WAR!”
As the line closed, Yvonne looked around at her colleagues. “Oh my god,” she whispered.
It was 1.55 p.m.
“He’s a smug little bastard isn’t he?” Metropolitan Police Constable Richard Willsby looked around at his colleague, Woman Police Constable Tracey Clarke. He smiled, “who’d have thought that pompous, over righteous twerp would have brought so many of the British people together in one march. It’ll certainly be interesting to hear his speech in the park.”
“I didn’t expect so many people to turn up, tensions are running high.” Tracey looked around at the mass of people gathered on the Bayswater Road, many of them unhappy looking ethnics watching the marchers, the ever-present music, shouting and loud horns adding to Tracey’s consternation. Worriedly, she noticed Jonathon White being interviewed again as he slowly continued walking on. He had a big smile on his face. No wonder she thought, the BNP have never had so much support. Tracey was nervous, her stomach churning slightly at the thoughts of the recent wave of bombings by the European Muslim Freedom Fighters. Things just haven’t been the same since those dreadful attacks she thought, there was far too much racial tension, far too many revenge attacks on innocent people.
“Here they come! ALRIGHT EVERYONE STAND BACK PLEASE, STAND BACK!” PC Willsby and his colleagues stood by the now jeering crowds. It had been the same all over the route for the march, jeering and taunting, the feeling of hate growing by the hour. But the marchers themselves didn’t care, for there were thousands of them. “YES, OKAY, PLEASE EVERYONE…JESUS BLOODY CHRIST…”
The explosion came from a cafe, blowing fragments of glass, brick, bone and blood into the crowds. There were screams, terrible heart-rending screams. Then came the second explosion! Further down the Bayswater Road, very loud, a considerable size.
“GET DOWN!” shouted PC Willsby, “EVERYONE, GET DOWN!” The crowds panicked, confusion reigning supreme as people of many nationalities, young and old alike ran for cover. The detonations were accurate, catching the marchers and their audience completely by surprise.
Dear God, thought WPC Clarke, PLEASE GOD, NO!
“OH SHIT!” Nick Lucas sat open mouthed by his computer.
“THE BASTARDS!” shouted Piper.
“I WANT REPORTS FROM ALL LOCATIONS, IF THERE’S A DETONATION, I WANT TO KNOW ABOUT IT!” Commander Hertschell ran back to his office, closely followed by Colonel Mann.
“It’s started,” Jeanette Descard turned quickly to Piper and Winters, “the war Von Kurst wants, and you know what will happen next?”
“Oh yes,” muttered Piper, “I know what’s coming next. Further sporadic detonations, all spread throughout the grenadier’s target zones, and then…”
Piper didn’t finish his sentence. Tim Winters did it for him, “…retribution and conflict.”
“Oh no, look at this, all the marches have been hit, JUST LOOK AT THIS!” Horrifying images were appearing on various CEATA monitors as Jean-Paul openly shook his head in dismay.
“God help us,” said Winters.
“We need more than God,” replied Piper, his face seething with anger.
“Let Europe ignite!” Otto Von Kurst laughed aloud at the image of carnage on his television screen. He was pleased, very pleased indeed. Phase Four of Project Amen had commenced. As he leaned over Helga Zeist, he smiled and kissed her voraciously. She returned the gesture, passionately, their bodies embracing once again in wild celebration of the brutal destruction that was about to engulf Europe.
And at the same time, in another high-class area of Dusseldorf, the Sales Director of Von Kurst Electronics slowly began packing for his business trip to St Petersburg. He too watched the scenes of destruction, mayhem and horror as he neatly folded a shirt and placed it in his suitcase. With a cunning glint in his eyes, Wilhelm Oratz picked up his mobile phone and prepared to reconfirm the flight plan for VKE One the following morning. Then, he thought, another much needed phone call was required to his good friend in St Petersburg.
Namely…Vitali Menkov.
6
BLUE?
It was a rain sodden Monday morning as Otto Von Kurst and Helga Zeist entered the luxurious reception area of Von Kurst Electronics’ Dusseldorf offices, both having already sensed they were yet again, being followed. As usual, Erika Platz, the company’s normally bright, intelligent young receptionist, sat typing steadfastly at her desk. “Good morning Mister Von Kurst,” she said, her tone low and melancholy.
“Good morning Erika. The weather is dreadful outside, better to be in doors today I think.” Erika didn’t reply as she quickly signed VKE’s Managing Director and his Personal Secretary into the daily office roster.