Weapons of Peace

by Johnston, Peter D. ;

  He couldn’t fathom how Emma had arrived or why she was there. No one is going to stop me now, he vowed to himself, especially a woman. He turned swiftly, swinging his fist. The blow took her by surprise, striking her temple.

  She flew against the door, hitting her head. Dazed, she managed to stay upright.

  Sicke saw that she didn’t actually have a weapon, just a pen, which made him even angrier. He moved in, aiming his fist at her mouth. She blocked his wide swing, hitting him on the chin with her fist. Sicke fell to the concrete floor.

  She fights like a man. We’ll see if she bleeds like one.

  As Sicke rose, his hand crept toward his jacket pocket, feeling for his revolver.

  Emma kicked high at his fingers. The weapon fell. She kicked again, higher, her foot colliding with his head, again knocking him down. She moved over him, placing the heel of her foot firmly on his groin as she glanced at the clock. The back of her head was still throbbing from being slammed against the door.

  She had twelve minutes to stop the launch.

  “Get your foot off me, bitch,” he said, his smelly, unshowered body twisting to escape.

  “You might want to be more polite.” She drove her heel deep into his crotch.

  Sicke cried out, his mind trying to grasp how this lowly maid, who’d been manacled to his bed, had managed to show up in an SS uniform to fight him like this. She worked for him, he’d fed her and looked after her. Why would she do this?

  She smiled at him lying there. He looked like that young Gestapo officer in Berlin, Berg’s boy, whose testes she’d twisted 360 degrees before he coughed up the truth about where she’d find his family. Emma leaned over to pick up Sicke’s gun.

  “What are you doing? Guards! Help me!” he yelled.

  “Oh, I wouldn’t bother calling for help,” Emma said cooly. “This room, like the lovely one in your basement, looks pretty soundproof to me. I doubt anyone can hear you, Herr Sicke. Now get your ass up and walk over to that pipe.”

  He swore at her, moving as slowly as possible toward the lead heating pipe on the far side that ran ceiling to floor. With luck, Sicke hoped, Janson would come looking for him, Stark might wake from his stupor, or a guard might notice that something was wrong.

  Emma instructed him to turn toward the wall and raise his arms flush with the sturdy vertical pipe. She stepped closer and prodded him with his own gun, frisking him to make sure he was unarmed.

  “Are you just mad about last night?” he asked with a smirk. She said nothing, but reached into the lining of her jacket and pulled out the same handcuffs he’d used on her—a little memento of their time together on his bed. She handcuffed him to the pipe above his head. “What the hell?” he screeched.

  “But I thought you said you liked handcuffs,” she said, feigning disappointment.

  “I didn’t mean like this,” he sneered.

  “Oh, I’m sorry, I must have misunderstood.”

  His tone changed, sweetened. “Look, Emma darling, are you going to tell me what you’re so upset about?”

  “I’ll give you a hint, Sicke: it has something to do with you trying to destroy a major city. You’re right, though. I don’t like how you treated me last night, or how you treated Ania, who was good enough to show me where you keep your toys.” She added, “I assume you have a coin?”

  He looked at her, uncertain at first what she meant. Then it dawned on him. She knew about the führer’s rare gold coins. Who is she and how does she know so much? He smiled, knowing he’d soon be free. “Of course. Let me go and it’s yours.”

  “Sorry, your word isn’t worth much. Give me the coin.” Both glanced at the monitor showing the rocket, then looked at the clock: eight minutes to launch.

  “Fine,” he said petulantly, nodding at a locked cabinet drawer near the door. He told her the combination to the lock as she ran toward the cabinet.

  She undid the lock and began searching inside the drawer, finally locating a small purple pouch hidden at the very back of it. She turned the pouch upside down. The coin dropped into her palm. There it was in all its brilliance, with its intricate, detailed designs—looking as if he’d polished it that very morning.

  “Now let me go,” he commanded.

  “Not a chance,” she replied. He swore. On her way back to Sicke, Emma eyed Stark’s uneaten bratwurst. That’ll do. She tore off a piece of the meat and moved in closer, savoring the moment as she thought back to his disgusting games. She punched him in the lower gut. Unable to protect himself, Sicke, bearing the full force of her blow, keeled over. As he leaned toward her, she pried his mouth open, reaching to the back of his throat.

  “Swallow, or I swear I’ll kill you,” she said, pointing the gun at his head. He didn’t want to swallow a truth serum or a knockout drug—whatever she’d hidden in the mouthful of bratwurst being forced upon him—but he had no choice.

  “You’re crazy,” he said. “I should have killed you when I had the chance.”

  “You certainly know how to woo a woman, Sicke.”

  She turned to walk out the door. He shouted, “Where are you going? I gave you the coin! You owe me. That’s how the coin works.”

  “I didn’t promise you anything,” she said, “and I’m going to need it.”

  “You don’t know who you’re dealing with,” he said, seething.

  “Really? Who am I dealing with, then?”

  “One of God’s chosen few,” he said, smiling again, waiting to see her reaction.

  “Well, that’s good news, Sicke. With connections like that, you shouldn’t need my help or anyone else’s in the next few minutes.” She moved to the door. “Someone told me you’d be a happy man if the last thing you ever saw was your brilliant bomb blowing up. So I’m going to give you that opportunity. Just keep your eyes on that monitor up there.”

  “You must be joking. You can’t detonate it in that clearing,” he said. “It will decimate this entire area.”

  “I’m guessing there are more lives at risk in Paris than in this remote mountain range, wouldn’t you think?”

  She opened the door to leave. “If you’re not coming back,” he said, pleading now, “at least give me the key to these handcuffs. Please! Please!”

  “I’d never leave you here without that tiny key,” she said. He gasped in relief. “But you’re the one who swallowed it, so there’s not much I can do.”

  His face turned white, his hands above him useless, his eyes rolling back into his head.

  “God will strike you down for this! You’re going straight to hell!”

  “Probably true,” she said on her way out. “If so, I’ll see you there.”

  Emma didn’t enjoy inflicting pain. She far preferred being a lifesaving nurse. But since arriving in Germany she’d come to believe firmly in the power of payback for one’s negative deeds—and she was even beginning to suspect that this power might be part of the solution to the final influence puzzle Nash had shared from his hospital bed.

  Running along the catwalk, she took one last look at Sicke. If anyone deserved what lay ahead of him, it was the red-faced man screaming obscenities at her from inside a command center that he no longer controlled.

  Chapter 44

  Sunday, March 25, 1945

  4:56 p.m.—Ore Mountains, Sicke’s Facility

  Emma stopped at the thick steel door.

  She composed herself, straightened her clothes, pushed some hair over her forehead to cover any mark left by Sicke’s fist, and thought about what she was going to say, or do, to Kammler’s aide, who’d remained with the console.

  She didn’t want to shoot Janson, because the guards would hear—Sicke’s gun didn’t have a silencer. Shooting him would be her backup plan. Given what she’d seen of his size when she watched him and Sicke from down below, she might need a few bullets to take him down—or an elep
hant gun.

  She took a deep breath, pushed the door open, and strode outside, where the red sun had reached the horizon.

  “Herr Janson?” He turned toward her as she spoke. “I’m Emma Zell. We don’t have much time. Max—I mean, Sicke—wants you in the control room immediately. Kammler’s changed the plan and wants to target London. I’m to remain here.”

  He looked surprised, then nodded at her, moving briskly past her toward the door, his cheeks bright red. “Absolutely, Fräulein Zell.”

  Emma felt relieved at not having to kill him. She watched the door close behind him and ran to the control box, scanning the switches. She flipped one labeled “Halt”—which she assumed would stop the launch. The second switch she flipped indicated that it would lower the rocket.

  She looked toward the horizon and watched, able to make out the missile in the distance as it began to return to its previous horizontal position.

  Excellent.

  Emma searched for the switches that would complete her task.

  “Don’t touch anything else,” Janson instructed from behind in his deep voice. “And please back away from the console.”

  Damn. She turned her head slightly and saw Kammler’s aide pointing a gun at her.

  She noticed that he looked smaller than before, his arms tight to his body, his shoulders slightly hunched, his chin down, his voice wavering ever so slightly—all signs of uncertainty or a lack of confidence, like a turtle retreating into its shell, as Nash had described it.

  He’d been gone twenty seconds at most. Emma knew that wasn’t long enough for him to catch sight of Sicke and discover the truth, so he had to have at least some doubts about the dangerous game he was playing. Right now, the gun game seemed to favor him. She decided to play a different one.

  She didn’t attempt to touch the console, because she needed his trust and didn’t want to risk his overreacting. She turned toward him slowly, predictably, keeping her hands where he could see them, using open body language to show transparency and confidence. Talking wouldn’t cost him anything except a little time. Shooting her might cost him a lot more if Sicke actually wanted to see him. Emma needed to change the way he perceived his choices.

  “You can put that gun down, Herr Janson. It’s completely unnecessary,” she said in an authoritative tone. “Why would you try to stop me from doing this?”

  “I quickly did the calculation in my head,” he said, holding his gun steady. “London would be out of range. Kammler would never request such a change. Your arrival is very suspicious.”

  She nodded understandingly, listening, not interrupting.

  Adapt. Muddy the waters. Grow the doubt.

  “Well, for the record, I didn’t want you to leave, Herr Janson,” she said as a strong gust of wind shook the platform’s foundations, inspiring her. “I could actually use your help here. Sicke and Stark made a change in their own calculations, which allowed for Kammler’s new choice of city—something to do with prevailing winds, which I don’t profess to understand. Personally, I don’t care which city we target, as long as it’s a big one.”

  Janson nodded, even less sure of himself now. She could sense it in his face—his mouth more taut, his eyes shifting where they hadn’t before.

  “So if this is all true, why are you bringing the rocket down to the rails?” he asked.

  “Because of the winds and our new target,” she explained. “Sicke insists that he wants the rocket repositioned, and it can’t be moved when it’s upright on the rails.”

  “Where does he want it moved?”

  “Closer to us, on this side of the clearing.”

  “That makes a difference?”

  “Apparently,” she said. “Now, will you please help me? Sicke said he’s already shown you how to use this box, and he’s not going to be happy that we’ve been delayed. I don’t know if you’ve ever seen him angry, but it’s not a pretty thing.”

  He laughed. Thank God he’s coming onside, Emma thought.

  “I know what you mean about Sicke’s temper,” he said. “As for the console, I only pulled one switch earlier, though I did find everything on it well marked.”

  She turned back toward the rocket, signaling to him that she believed their trust was complete. He mirrored her approach, lowering his gun and returning it to his holster as he moved to her side. They could both see the missile now, lying completely flat, its four guards standing at attention.

  “This switch is labeled ‘Umkehren,’ ” Emma pointed out. “I assume this would do it, since we want it to reverse and come this way.”

  “Yes, right,” he said, not wanting to delay things further. She motioned for him to pull the switch, which he did.

  There was a delay, followed by a lurch, and the missile began to move toward them, warhead first. Even from a mile away, Emma could tell that the guards in the clearing were confused that the rocket was now moving back toward the mountain. Two of them stopped, looking up at the observation deck with their hands in the air.

  “Maybe you should wave to show it’s okay,” she said to Janson.

  He nodded and waved. One of the guards seemed to wave back. Emma shuffled behind Janson, pulling Sicke’s gun out as she moved. She reached up high and swung hard at the back of Janson’s head. Sensing movement, Kammler’s man turned at the last second, the gun hitting him in the throat. His eyes bulged as he looked at her, his large hands flying to his neck. As he crumpled to the platform, Emma hit him again in the Adam’s apple, knowing that his trachea would no longer be able to get oxygen to his brain.

  He’d been silenced.

  She grabbed his gun from his holster, heaved it over the railing, and moved back to the console, finding and pulling the switch labeled “Maximaldrehzahl.”

  She looked out. The missile picked up speed right away, as she’d intended. The guards in the clearing were shouting now, obviously concerned, running to keep up with the open rail car. She looked for one last switch, not sure she’d find it.

  Thankfully, it was there: “Beim Aufprall”—“On Impact.”

  She figured she had five to seven minutes at most to run clear of the mountain.

  She turned toward the door. As she did, she tripped over something and lost the grip on her gun. It was Janson’s foot. The man jumped up and dived on top of her, hitting her with the fist of one hand while the other hand clutched his neck. She felt the dent in her cheek. His fist rose again. She rolled to the side. His hand hit the cement platform, clipping her ear. His eyes burned with hatred. He’d trusted her. She knew the feeling.

  She got back up and aimed her clenched hand at his throat, trying to crush whatever remained of his windpipe. He intercepted her fist, twisting her arm behind her and pushing her backward, toward the edge of the observation deck and its protective railing. She resisted, keeping herself low to the ground, but he was too strong and almost a foot taller. She felt her back hit the high railing.

  Janson kept pushing, bending her over the railing. It felt as if her spine was going to snap. Straight down, she could see the tracks she’d be dying on. She’d finally met her match in this huge Nazi.

  So this is how it all ends? No Axel, no Everett, no stopping the bomb, Hitler still alive.

  Janson was breathing heavily, erratically, taking in large gulps of air whenever he could, but, still, he managed to smile.

  “Little Fräulein thinks she can beat me?” he hissed as her feet began to pull away from the ground, her body rising, her back fully arched.

  She spat upward, into his eyes. She felt his hands loosen and, in that moment, acted. Summoning all her energy, she gave one final push upward with her head and chest, sinking her teeth into the side of Janson’s already damaged neck. He let go, backpedaling from the railing and grabbing once more at his neck, which was now missing a huge chunk of flesh.

  Emma spat it out into her h
and. “Is this what you’re looking for?” she asked as she began to stalk him. He stared at her with revulsion, blood spurting from his neck, his breathing more labored. Before he could recover, she sent her left foot into his stomach, pounded his groin with her right, and, as he fell toward her with a pained, forlorn look on his face, kicked him hard under the chin. She heard bone cracking.

  “ ‘Little Fräulein’ is sure she can beat you,” she said. She saw her gun lying on the platform and leaned over to reclaim it.

  What the hell . . .

  She felt his arms around her legs. He’d managed to stay conscious and regain his feet, tackling her from behind. The gun flew out of her hand—again.

  Okay, enough is enough. I’m trying to save a city here.

  As she fell, she twisted her body, leaning closer to his face, readying the index and middle fingers on each hand, as she’d been trained to do. They hit the ground together. When Janson raised his head to get his bearings, she drove her fingers into his bright-blue eyes. She forced her sharp fingernails deep into both of his eyeballs, piercing them beyond repair. The big man shrieked, and released her.

  Emma leaped to her feet.

  The incoming warhead had disappeared into the trees, winding its way back along the sinuous portion of the rail line in the forest, before it would emerge and run straight downhill into the tunnel. She grabbed her gun and turned to Janson, who was on his knees. He could barely breathe or speak.

  She couldn’t risk his finding the control box, as unlikely as that might be in his current state. Nor would he be able to move fast enough to escape with her. Her options were limited, as were his.

  “Janson, I’m sorry it’s come to this, but you’ll be better off this way.”

  “Better off which way?” he slurred through his tears and fractured jaw, hobbling to his feet, his eyes sealed shut with blood.