The New Adventures of the Eagle

by Pro Se Press

  With no idea how his men were faring since passing the two trucks earlier, Meerozean was at first relieved to see the motorcycle in his rearview mirror. It was not until the rifle shot struck the boot cover that he realized the rider was not his trusted second.

  Hitting the gas pedal, Meerozean urged the Alvis faster as the motorcycle attempted to close the gap between the two vehicles.

  A second rifle shot hit the rear windshield, cracking the tempered glass.

  Meerozean swung the car into the middle of the two lane road and took out his Webley.

  ***

  The first shot caught The Eagle completely by surprise as it ricocheted off the road in front of him. He assumed Meerozean was shooting blindly out the driver’s side window in hopes of scaring him off.

  When the second shot struck the Brough’s headlight… that was when he realized that Meerozean was using the Alvis’ rearview mirror to aim the revolver over one shoulder while firing through its rear windshield!

  In response, The Eagle once more used one hand to maintain control of the motorcycle as he brought the rifle to bear.

  ***

  “Who does this schweinhund think he is?” cursed Meerozean, as a third rifle blast struck the roof of his Alvis.

  “Genug!” he screamed, as a fourth shot went through the damaged rear windshield and struck the dashboard next to him.

  The German was now angrier than he had ever been before, with a rage that burned hotter than the fire around him. With the chamber open, he trapped the revolver within the waistband of his pants and frantically started trying to reload it one handed.

  ***

  The Eagle saw the Alvis weaving back and forth across the road, and wondered what was going on. He wanted to take Meerozean alive to be interrogated and had intentionally shot only non-vital areas of the car thus far.

  It was a total surprise to him when it started to turn around.

  The Eagle paused, letting the motorcycle idle beneath him as the Alvis completed its U-turn and began to come towards him at a high rate of speed.

  Meerozean’s right hand emerged from the open driver’s side window, aiming the Webley Revolver at his target. The Admiral was mad and allowed his rage to consume him. He may have lost this day, but there was still hope of redemption by taking The Eagle’s life.

  The Admiral fired. The bullet went through the fabric of the gray jacket, but thankfully had passed in the open space between The Eagle’s arm and the left side of his body.

  Calmly the G-2 agent raised the rifle with both arms, aimed, and with one bullet, shot the revolver out of Meerozean’s hand. The weapon fell by the wayside.

  Shocked, the Admiral pulled his injured hand back inside the vehicle and stomped his foot upon the accelerator.

  With the fire burning out of control on both sides of the road and the Alvis speeding down the middle of the thoroughfare towards him, the only option left to The Eagle was to shoot at the windshield again in hope of dissuading Meerozean from his current course of action.

  Unfortunately, what he didn’t count on was dislodging the rearview mirror with the blast.

  The device struck Meerozean in the face.

  Blinded and in pain, the enemy Admiral lost control of the vehicle. Instead of striking The Eagle head on, the Alvis swerved and roared into the flames!

  Thinking quickly, The Eagle leapt off the motorcycle without the rifle, while pouring the rest of the canteen’s water over his head.

  With what little protection he had, The Eagle dashed into the blaze after Meerozean.

  ***

  The interior of the Alvis was safe momentarily, but flames were everywhere!

  As blood ran down the left side of his face, Meerozean tried to get out of the car as he heard the rear passenger door open. He turned and saw The Eagle reaching inside the back seat for his strong box.

  As the enemy agent turned to dash back out of the fire before he was seriously hurt, Meerozean emerged from behind the steering wheel and attempted to tackle his fleeing foe.

  As the Admiral fell forward, both hands reached out to prevent The Eagle from escaping with his strong box full of Imperial Navy secrets.

  Unfortunately his attempt fell short and Meerozean hit the ground hard. His fingertips only managed to brush the lower end of one pants leg as his opponent dashed back to safety.

  The last The Eagle ever heard of Admiral Hans Meerozean was the explosion of the Alvis’ gas tank.

  EPILOGUE

  Thankfully the fires were finally brought under control, if not totally extinguished, two nights later when it began to rain. However it would still be awhile before all the wounded were attended to and the death toll established. In the end, the loss statistics would be devastating.

  Other than heat exhaustion and some slight burns to his hands acquired between escaping being tied to a tree and rescuing the strong box, Jeff Shannon was alive and well. The codebook and other documents from the container were now on their way back to headquarters via a secured carrier.

  As per his instructions to the Galee’s purser, the shipping company had held his luggage at their dock office until he reclaimed it. Finding lodging under the circumstances was a bit difficult, but he managed and a week later, The Eagle was fully rested and finally able to keep his appointment with the Australian government to discover what his original mission in their country would be.

  “I’m afraid it’s a bit of a sticky wicket,” admitted the Cabinet administer assigned to the case. “A delicate situation that those above me thought could be best handled by an unbiased, outside agent instead of someone in house.”

  “I see. And what seems to be the problem?” asked Jeff, leaning back in his seat. His host seemed pleasant enough, but Shannon was a man of action and wanted to get to the heart of the matter.

  “With that nasty business brewing in Europe, we’ve been warned for months to be on the lookout for any potential Axis sympathizers, fifth columnists, or spies. While admittedly, what little evidence we have is questionable at best, some fear the possibility has arisen that there might actually be one in our country now.”

  “Who do you suspect, and why?” inquired The Eagle, sitting more alert now.

  “A businessman of some note in this region. Met him a couple of times myself. Nice enough chap, so I cannot see how it might be possible. Yet, I suppose that’s why you’re here, to find out for sure. Would hate to accuse the wrong fellow unjustly. Anyway, the situation involves a bloke by the name of Henry Waters…” began the administer, as he started to lay out the circumstances behind the suspicion.

  The Eagle simply leaned back in his chair and smiled.

  THE END

  On Friday, January 13, 1939; Victoria, Australia suffered one of the worst wildfires in the country’s history. While several individual brushfires were already burning across the region that fateful day, a strong northerly breeze united them into one giant conflagration, resulting in the destruction of almost five million acres of land, several towns, and the loss of seventy-one lives. A rainstorm that Sunday night broke both the fires and the heat wave that contributed to them.

  THE MELTING SKIN

  by Ashley Mangin

  The man behind an oak desk had the regal posture of a royal, his aged brown eyes heavy with exhaustion. He had hair the color of silver and a voice like silk. The voice was one of several tools that he used to become the Director of the Secret Intelligence Service for the Queen's England. Director Fletcher was at his desk doing that very job, looking over a stack of papers, when his best intelligence officer barged in.

  “Smith!” he rumbled. “What the hell are you doing?”

  “Sir, we've just gotten this report from the field.” Smith replied handing Fletcher an envelope. He stood expectantly, like an overworked bellhop waiting on a tip.

  “That'll be all Smith,” Fletcher dismissed the young officer with a flick of his hand.

  As Smith ducked his head and exited, Director Fletcher examined the en
velope. It was a standard manila letter size envelope with a string closure and a color between gold mustard and a biscuit. His name scrawled on the front in a haphazard script. He opened the package and removed the report. As he read, a red flush forced by frustration grew from his neck up to his forehead. His doctor was right, he silently admitted, this job would be the death of him. First he poured himself a generous snifter of scotch, then Director Fletcher pressed the button for his secretary.

  “Yes, Director,” came the delightfully feminine voice from the speaker box.

  “Doris,” Fletcher addressed the woman who secretly ran everything with respect usually reserved for the Queen herself, “I need you to get me Jeff Shannon.”

  “Shannon? Are you sure?” Doris asked with trepidation.

  “Yes Doris. We're going to need him,” Fletcher explained with reservation.

  “Of course, Sir, at once,” she acquiesced.

  ***

  On a sunny beach in Mexico just south of California sat an average man of almost thirty with a beautiful blonde woman. They were basking in the sun, obviously enjoying a romantic getaway when a young Mexican man dressed in the resort's uniform came running out.

  “Mr. Shannon, this message just came for you,” the cabana boy said with thick Latin undertones in broken English handing the man a folded piece of paper.

  “Thank you, Jesus,” acknowledged Mr. Shannon and opened the sheet of paper.

  Inside was a message. But it was more than just a message. It was written in code. So much for my vacation, Jeff Shannon thought as he began mentally decoding the message. It was from the Director of the SIS in England. The Eagle was needed in a non official capacity as soon as he could get away. There was trouble with the damn Nazis again.

  Joan read the look on his face.

  “Where are you going this time, Jeff?” she asked with a sigh.

  “England, my dear,” he responded and gave her a small kiss on the cheek before packing up his bag and leaving for the airport.

  ***

  After waiting in an outer vestibule for twenty minutes, Shannon was growing impatient. He had been perched on the burgundy leather sofa across the room from a woman whose nameplate identified her as Doris for far too long. Just when he was about to cause a ruckus, Doris announced to him that the Director would see him now.

  With a sour attitude, Jeff Shannon went into the inner chambers of one of the most privy men in all of England. He took a seat in a high back chair that was a mate to the sofa in the outer room, and waited for the Director to speak. He was an older balding man with white wisps crowning his head. He had a mustache to match, and a ruddy complexion in a stark contrast to the snow around his skull. His forehead was glistening with a thin layer of sweat, and his breathing had gone up just enough to tip Shannon off to the severity of this mission.

  “Mr. Shannon” began Director Fletcher, “I've sent for you because I have received a report originating from one of our men in Germany. It seems that the Nazis are developing a weapon that can melt living tissue, a death ray, if you will.”

  “Do you believe the report, Director?” Shannon asked. It sounded unbelievable to him, but the Nazis had been known to dabble in unusual scientific ventures.

  “I don't know what to believe,” admitted the Director pulling out his scotch again. Pouring two glasses, one for himself and one for his fellow compatriot, he continued, “I have to believe that the intelligence I receive from the field is reliable, but I haven't ruled out that it may have been false information fed to my men. That's why you're here.”

  “You want me to find the source of the information and verify whether it is true or not?” Shannon asked as more of a statement than a question.

  “Yes, then report back to me,” ordered Director Fletcher. “If this is true, if the Nazis are developing a weapon that could obliterate life, we must do something. If it's not, then my man's been made. Time is of the essence here Shannon. If this is true, we must act immediately. I trust you can get results?”

  “Yes, sir,” Shannon answered, then swallowed his scotch and asked, “Where can I find your intelligence officers?”

  “Our presence in Germany is small but well placed. We have two men who have infiltrated the German admiralty. They have a standing appointment with a go between at a beer garden a few blocks from their posts in Wilhelmshaven. They meet every Tuesday after duty and give coded messages to a woman there. She sends them on to me. That's where you need to go.”

  “What are the names?”

  “Konteradmiral von Mussen and Vizeadmiral Strohl. They're German nationals who've defected to our cause. They think Hitler's a damn loon too. We're getting some good Intel from them, but I've just got this feeling that we're going to get so much more out of this before it's all over. Oh, and the frau's Gretchen. Good luck, Shannon,” Director Fletcher added as he dismissed The Eagle through his heavy oak doors.

  From the director's office, Shannon went to a hotel to sleep for the night. It was only Monday, and Shannon could get to Germany by plane tomorrow and meet up with his contacts on time. He closed his eyes and thought of Joan.

  The sun rose on Jeff Shannon. He was applying hydrogen peroxide to his hair. He had gotten documents in the name of Klaus Schaeffer for entrance into Germany. It was standard operating procedure for him lately. In a few hours, an average German young man would board a British plane bound for his homeland. He would find a beer garden and have a frothy brew.

  At the corner of Edenburgstrasse and Papingastrasse was a small building with a collection of iron tables and chairs. They were contained within a matching black fence made imposing by the presence of spikes on top. The canopy of the restaurant was green and there were people going in and out with steins full of golden, foaming beer, and plates of crispy pommes frites. Shannon entered the garden and blended in, becoming one of the masses of patrons just unwinding from a long day of work. In the corner of the outdoor area next to the building was a table occupied by two German men wearing Naval officers' uniforms. A buxom red haired waitress was paying special attention to the two middle aged, but still marginally attractive officers. To the average onlooker, it would have appeared that she was angling for a better tip, but Shannon knew they were who he needed to talk to.

  Inching his way over to the table, he paid special attention to his surroundings. His companions were good at their jobs. There was an unused gate directly behind their table. Good for making a quick escape. No one in the garden looked threatening, but then again, neither did he.

  “Guten tag!” Shannon greeted them, shaking the hands of both men and hugging the woman. In the embrace, he spoke: “Gretchen, I am Jeff Shannon. I've been sent to gather special information.”

  Sitting down at the chair Gretchen pulled out for him, the men spoke in hushed voices.

  “Von Mussen. Strohl.” Shannon acknowledged them with a nod.

  “Shannon.” they nodded back.

  “Tell me about these rumors,” Shannon began.

  Von Mussen replied, “It's not our department, see, but we've been hearing some chatter lately coming from headquarters.”

  “Word is, they're developing some weapon,” Strohl chimed in.

  Shannon knew what weapon they were talking about, but he let them continue so as to hear it straight from the source.

  “Yes,” Von Mussen continued, “It is supposed to be the most deadly weapon the world has ever seen. In the hands of the Fuhrer… that would be catastrophic.”

  “What details have you heard about it?” Shannon inquired.

  “It uses radio waves,” Strohl answered, “Somehow they vibrate living tissue at such a frequency that the body simply falls apart.”

  “Liquifies,” added Von Mussen.

  “Where is it being developed?” Shannon wondered already beginning to formulate his plan.

  “There's a facility in Frankfurt that specializes in weapons technology,” Von Mussen volunteered. “It should be easier to get there. It's somew
here on the grounds of the airport. We have a few friendlies on the base that can help you out. Weiss and Hoffstetter. I'll give them a call to let them know you're coming.”

  “Thank you gentlemen,” The Eagle said as he finished his beer and walked from the patio. His next stop would be to get on a plane to Frankfurt. He was going to need some help. “I hope their guys come through,” he thought as he boarded his plane. The plane was a standard touring vessel made for short flights, just the kind he needed.

  When his plane touched down in Frankfurt, Klaus Schaeffer was greeted by the airport personnel and cleared. He then walked out the door only to be greeted by the stark cold and damp air that is Frankfurt. He took a taxi to the hotel nearest the airport. He thanked the driver with a “Danke” and a few Pfennigs and went in to get a room for the night.

  Klaus Schaeffer checked into a moderately nice room with a twin size bed and a great view of the tree line. He'd have a little dinner in the hotel's cafe before he headed out for his evening adventure. With him, he carried a handsome leather satchel seemingly innocent, but filled with a German military uniform. He'd change in the woods and leave his bag there.

  The cafe was nice, simple and rustic in a modern German way. The walls were green and the floor was wooden. His table was a sturdy oak whose shine had worn away years ago. He was waited on by a young woman who looked less than thrilled to be there. He ordered a schnitzel and sat back to take in the room. The dining room was fairly full, with mostly businessmen here for a technology conference, but there were some obviously intoxicated young boys having a good time.