Shatter War

by Dana Fredsti

  “Mullah, I have no doubt Baghdad was very beautiful in your day,” she finally said, “but with everything that’s happened, we don’t know if it still is the same city you left—we can’t even know if there is a Baghdad anymore…”

  “How could it not be? Surely God would not allow his greatest city to disappear. What hubris to think otherwise! Come with me and you will see. If your father were here, I would entreat him to allow me your hand in marriage, and you would have a truly blessed life with me there.”

  Leila looked down quickly to hide her reaction. Did she dare tell him that, as far as she knew, his beloved Baghdad had pretty much been destroyed seven hundred years before her time, and had never regained its full glory? Could she tell him she had no interest whatsoever in marrying him?

  “Young one, I have three other wives in Baghdad. They would be like your new sisters. How wonderful a gift for you, is it not?”

  Desperate to change the subject, Leila turned away.

  She gasped audibly.

  “Child? What is it?”

  She pointed to the others, sleeping on the deck.

  “Where is Amber?”

  46

  German Afrika Korps Encampment

  Twilight – Eight days after the Event

  At twilight, the sound of a lone bagpipe echoed out of the pit, filling the dying wasteland with a plaintive melody of almost inexpressible sorrow and loneliness.

  Harcourt detested the bloody racket.

  He was not impressed that their German captors had allowed MacIntyre to keep his bagpipes. On the contrary, he was certain the Huns had only granted the favor in order to increase the suffering of their prisoners.

  The North African desert operated in only two modes, the professor decided. Unbearably hot by day, insufferably cold at night, interchanging from one to the other without even the benefit of a modest surcease at dusk and dawn. Most damnably uncivilized. At least down here in the pit there was shade and a modicum of shelter, if not creature comforts. Miserable, Harcourt longed for an isolated corner to escape the noise, but in the circular chamber, the Scotsman’s Celtic caterwauling was inescapable. Deucedly vexing.

  Confoundingly enough, it didn’t seem to bother the others. One of the soldiers had a deck of cards that was getting good use. The Indians appeared to be quietly meditating in what Harcourt could only imagine was some devilish ritual of the Hindoos. The three Zouaves in their outlandish circus outfits were engaged in some odd game involving an intense staring contest punctuated by sudden slaps to the opponent’s face, always provoking a spate of raucous laughter.

  Most of the men, however, seemed to be trying to make sense of what Harcourt had told them, perhaps pondering their own mortality. Even the professor was not immune. He silently counted the number of times he had very nearly died in all manner of dreadful ways over the course of the last week.

  Indeed, he’d been so filled with hopeless despair he had even put a gun to his head and pulled the trigger. His cowardice ate at him. At that moment it had been easier to kill himself than to try and shoot his way out. He wasn’t a killer—he couldn’t even bring himself to turn the gun on his captor. Small comfort that the gun wasn’t even loaded. If János Mehta had not been playing a cruel jape, he would be already dead by his own hand.

  MacIntyre’s infernal piping suddenly ceased. The Scotsman stared up the well of light. A murmer arose and some of the other soldiers drew closer, shushing the rest.

  “Quiet! Something’s happening up top!”

  The prisoners all fell silent, straining to hear. Harcourt heard the mechanical rumbling of one of those damnable horseless war-carriages approaching. The vehicle ground to a halt. A commanding voice began barking orders, and the fawning Carthaginians replied in very broken German.

  “This is it, lads,” one of the South Africans said glumly. “We’re done for. The Jerries have come to finish us off.” The men continued to stare upward in anxious silence. A stray bit of grit and dust trickled down from above, and then the ladder came down. A German officer descended into the pit, stepping off the ladder without fear. He silently regarded the ring of captives, his gaze traveling the room until it finally settled on the anxious professor.

  The officer removed his cap and Harcourt stared in disbelief.

  “Blake?”

  The newcomer gave Harcourt a rare smile and clapped a hand on his shoulder.

  “Yes, it’s me, you worthless old grifter,” he said with genuine warmth. “And don’t worry, it’s the real me, not some hypnotized slave.”

  “Blake! This is utterly astounding!” Harcourt turned to his fellow captives. “Listen, all of you. This man is a British officer!”

  The prisoners gathered around the two men in excitement, Harcourt repeating the news in French and Greek before turning back to Blake.

  “I must say, my good man, I never dared hoped to see you alive again.”

  “Not just me,” Blake said. “Nellie survived the explosion, too.”

  “Good heavens, Miss Bly as well? That’s splendid!” Harcourt beamed with happiness for a moment, then sobered. “Though I am dreadfully sorry to see you here, old boy. So the Huns captured you, too?”

  Blake raised an eyebrow.

  “Not exactly.” He held up his new pistol.

  “I say! However did you come across that?”

  “I traded a knife for it—but don’t worry about that. I heard your Scot playing on the pipes, and now we’re busting all of you out of here.”

  * * *

  Without any further pleasantries, Blake crouched down and went into action mode. The soldiers crowded around as he traced out his plan on the floor.

  “First off, I need three lorry drivers.” Three of the English Tommies each raised a hand. “Right—you, you, and you. You’ll come with me back to the back of the leaguer here. I’ve got more DAK caps in the lorry up top. Put them on, alter your shirts or just take them off, keep your heads down and let me do the talking. I’ve got two more lorries ready to go. We’ll be coming back here to pick up the rest of you. It’s going to be pretty cramped for all of us—we’ll be bringing some souvenirs with us.”

  “Where are we going, sir?” one of the men asked.

  “Alexandria,” Blake answered. “Problem is, the Germans are headed there, too. They’re already on their way, playing leapfrog across the desert with two, maybe three battle groups of Panzers and some mixed support vehicles. We’ll need to beat them there if Alex has any chance of holding them off.”

  “Alexandria?” Harcourt huffed in disbelief. “You can’t be serious, man! What we need to do is flee at once and get to the South Pole post-haste!”

  “And how do you propose we do that?” Blake shot back. “Steal a lorry and drive across Africa? See if there are any charter boats available at the Cape of Good Hope to sail to Antarctica?”

  Harcourt shut up.

  “Look,” Blake continued, his voice calmer. “I don’t know how we’re going to do this without the Vanuatu. Maybe we can build a blimp, jury-rig a propeller-engine from car parts—I just don’t know. But right now, the Germans are advancing on the city with tanks and machine guns. Do you think they’ll stop long enough that you can convince them to help us?”

  “I take your point, old boy,” Harcourt said, “but it seems a damnably slender reed to hang our hopes upon, don’t you think?”

  Blake leaned in close to him and lowered his voice.

  “Let me tell you what I think,” he said, his unnaturally calm tone making it all the more menacing. “I think I am going to do whatever is in my power to save the last bastion of civilization for as long as it can hold out. And if that means I’m left fighting Nazis when the end of the world comes round, then I will go to Judgment Day with a smile on my face, and so will you. Are we clear?”

  The Victorian nodded profusely. “As a bell, my good man, clear as a bell.”

  Blake leaned back again. “Right, then. Whatever we do, we are going to need the Alexand
rians’ help. They’re our only chance.”

  “How strong are the defenses in Alex now?” another soldier asked.

  “Slim and nil—and to make things even more fun, the whole town’s stuck back in the fifth century, so it’s up to us to do all the heavy lifting. I don’t think their spears and short swords are going to be much help.”

  The soldiers chuckled with gallows humor. Blake quickly repeated the plan in French for the Legionnaires and Zouaves, while Harcourt explained to Lucius.

  “Getting everyone aboard the lorries is just part one,” Blake continued. “We also need a strike team. How many demolitions men do we have?”

  Several of the New Zealanders and Sepoys raised their hands.

  “Right. You four will be taking out as many of the petrol lorries as we can. The more fuel we can destroy, the more Afrika Korps forces we can maroon in the desert without having to fire a shot.”

  “A very sound plan,” one of the turbaned Sikhs commented with a nod.

  “There’s a crate of mines in the lorry up top, mostly Teller mines for tanks, and maybe a dozen or so anti-personnel, German ‘S’ types. You can booby-trap the undercarriages with them, wire them to the axle, bury them just under the tires, I’m sure you can think up some other party tricks.”

  The Sikh looked over at his New Zealander counterpart. They exchanged knowing smiles.

  “With all due respect,” the Sikh said, “no thank you. You save those for Alexandria. We can take out the petrol tankers just fine. Leave that to us.”

  “Excellent. What’s your name, soldier?”

  “Singh, sir.”

  “Khuśakisamatī, Singh,” Blake nodded, wishing him good luck in Punjabi.

  * * *

  Watching from the sidelines, Harcourt was dismayed to see his thunder stolen so effortlessly by Blake. But his peevishness was more than mollified by the thought of escape, and in that regard, the man was eminently capable. Still, he couldn’t deny he’d miss being regarded with respect and admiration.

  “I need three volunteers for something special,” Blake said. “J’ai besoin de trois volontaires.”

  “Ç’est nous!” The three Zouaves stepped forward. Blake waved them close, and outlined his plan for them in rapid-fire French. They smiled and nodded eagerly.

  “I say, one word of caution, Blake.” Harcourt stepped forward, eager to be seen contributing as well. “You’ll want to be sure to keep a sharp eye out for János Mehta. He’s managed to insinuate himself with the German commander. Who knows what mischief—”

  “What did you say?” Blake cut in, his eyes narrowed. “János Mehta is here? And talking with Rommel?”

  “Well, erm, if that is the old chap’s name…”

  Blake stood up. “Then that’s one more job to do before we leave here.”

  47

  German Afrika Korps Encampment

  Night – Eight days after the Event

  Blake knew the day’s password, having tricked it out of a soldier earlier that afternoon. Driving back toward the main encampment, the English soldiers sitting next to him sweated bullets, but the only sentries they encountered let the lorry continue unchallenged.

  The earlier commotion had dwindled now that night had fallen, and the support teams were finished loading up and making final preparations for the battle group’s departure in the morning. Driving around the western end of the camp, Blake kept his speed glacial and avoided any major areas of activity. Every now and again they passed by the odd bunch of two or three soldiers taking a smoking break after their long day. None gave him or his nervous passengers a second glance.

  Normally, the square of Panzers would have stood like a fortress wall, guns out, with just enough space between each vehicle to allow a lorry to pass through. Now they had to make do with less than a quarter of their regular number, so the tanks stood more like a row of beachside lifeguard stations than an impregnable iron barrier.

  Blake pulled to a stop outside the northwestern corner, close to where two other lorries rested. It was a good location—out of the way, easy to get in or out, and the line of petrol tankers was close at hand. He opened the door and let the man next to him take the driver seat. All three would wait for his signal.

  “If you run into anyone, take them out fast,” he said in a low voice. “Here, I’ve got one extra pistol, and two wrenches. You sort out who gets what, but keep quiet about it.”

  He moved around to the back, yawning nonchalantly and nodding to a passing pair of mechanics. Once they moved on, he poked his head in the back, where his Kiwi and Indian demolition strike team waited. He gave then a curt nod.

  “Stay out of sight and hit as many as you can, but when you hear the signal, hightail it as fast as you can back to the lorry and get out of here.” He checked once more that the coast was clear, then pulled the canvas back and rushed them out in silence. They slipped into the shadows between the parked vehicles.

  Blake walked away from that corner of the leaguer, looking for the motorcycle he’d left there earlier. It had disappeared. He frowned.

  Ah well, too much to hope it would still be there, he mused. Just have to look for another, or do without. In any case, he’d have to get a move on if he was to finish his own work before the signal came.

  Harcourt had given him a reasonably good idea of where Rommel’s command tent was located. Blake simply had to be sure to look for it without looking as if he was looking for it. He ambled past the rows of camouflage tents, trying to appear as just another bored and exhausted soldier. Then he spotted it.

  An unobtrusive placard on the tent marked it as the field marshal’s. A pair of sentries stood guard outside, watching a nearby group of soldiers and a trio of Carthaginians. The troopers were bargaining loudly—though ironically, much of it in sign language—trying to barter for a chicken. Blake strolled over to join the two sentries and watch the show.

  “Awful big fuss over a chicken,” he offered.

  The sentries nodded. The bargaining session grew more animated as the bird suddenly became agitated, squawking and flapping its wings wildly.

  “Maybe somebody should clear them out so all this racket doesn’t bother the field marshal and what’s-his-name, the Doktor,” Blake suggested. Neither sentry budged.

  “It’s fine,” one said.

  “You think?” Blake asked, a hint of concern in his voice.

  “They’re not here—went to the new Mobile HQ,” the other added.

  “Ah.” Blake kept his voice neutral and uninterested, and after a short pause, stifled a yawn. “Well, I think I’ve heard enough. See you.”

  He turned around and started back the way he came.

  “Holtz!” Someone called from behind.

  He carefully kept his gaze straight ahead and his pace even.

  “Stabsgefreiter Holtz!” The voice came closer. Blake calmly turned a corner and walked between two tents, increasing his pace considerably once he was out of sight. He turned another corner, hoping to lose his pursuer in the maze of canvas, but the other man was close on his tail.

  “Damn it! Holtz! Where have you been! I’ve been looking for you for hours!”

  Blake halted, and then slowly turned around. By the insignia on his collar, he saw that his interrogator was a major. The officer, already furious, frowned at this stranger with HOLTZ on his uniform.

  “You’re not Holtz!”

  The German drew his Luger and fired—but Blake was faster, shooting the major in the forehead. He didn’t stop to make sure his foe was dead, but turned on his heel and ran through the rows of tents, glancing around to get his bearings. He’d have to head deeper into the center of the leaguer if he didn’t want to lead everyone back to his men.

  Too late.

  The shots had already attracted attention. Shouts and footfalls came from every direction. A soldier appeared around the corner of a tent, rifle in hand. Blake whirled, dropping to one knee to fire. The shot caught the soldier in the chest, sending him flying
backward to the ground. Blake rose to sprint away, but he could hear a squad of soldiers heading in his direction.

  Quickly, he dropped to his knee again and fired three shots to the south. The German troopers rushed around the corner, guns out.

  “Quickly!” Blake yelled in rapid-fire German. “He’s getting away!” He fired another round into the darkness between the rows of tents. The squad leapt into action, laying down suppression fire and advancing tent by tent in pursuit of their unseen quarry. Blake slipped away, this time moving back to where his strike team was at work. A siren began wailing. He ran smack into another mass of soldiers, nearly colliding with their commander, who grabbed him by the lapels.

  “You!” the man barked. “Come with us—the shots are coming from this way!”

  “Jawohl!” Reluctantly Blake headed back the way he’d just come, wondering how long he could keep up the ruse. The siren blared, and more commotion came from nearby. Had his demo team been discovered?

  He shot a glance over his shoulder.

  Chaos erupted behind them. Gunfire, screams, and an ominous rumbling. Blake stopped in his tracks, and several of the uneasy soldiers halted with him. A nearby tent exploded into a torn bundle of canvas thrown skyward, and then a dark hulking shape burst into the light.

  The soldiers around him scattered in fear, leaving Blake standing there in wonder as the first of three war elephants charged past him, smashing everything and everyone in its path. The other two laid waste of their own to either side. Their Zouave riders weren’t so much steering the beasts as encouraging their rampage, hanging on like American cowboys, laughing and howling in maniacal glee as their steeds tore through the camp.

  “You mad, magnificent bastards,” Blake muttered in reluctant admiration, shaking his head as he watched the path of destruction. Leave it to the Zouaves to improve on an already insane plan—and give the signal, as well.