“Have you never heard of radio intercepts?”
“Of course, I’ve read the manuals. I wrote some of the more important ones myself.” Lang was almost- smirking again. “But there was high ground between the transmission site and the Ivans.”
“Not the Ivans you have to worry about…” Marcks was interrupted by an escalating roar. Beside him Lang could swear that he saw a black streak race down across the sky and hit the center of the now-deserted headquarters. There was a white puff. For a split second, he thought the shell was a dud. Then the whole center of the camp bulged, looking for all the world like a saucepan of milk boiling over. It inflated and rose upwards, impossibly large before bursting open to send a shotgun hail of frozen mud, snow and ice into the air. The two officers dropped flat as it scattered down around them. Even before it had landed, a second shell had slammed into the area, a little to the south of the main camp area. A third landed to the west of the camp. The ground rolled and shook, punching Marcks and Lang with body blows from the repeated concussion of the Shockwaves.
It went on and on, shell after shell slamming into the camp. The semi-armor piercing shells penetrated deep into the frozen earth before exploding. The boiling milk of the ground threshed and contorted under the remorseless hammering. As the ground wave from the last shell passed away, it collapsed as if the heat had been taken from under the pan. What was left of the HQ area was utterly devastated. Not a single building left standing. The ground itself was destroyed, snow and mud stirred and shaken into a blended, featureless nothingness.
“As I was saying, it’s not the Ivans you have to worry about. It’s the Amis. You see, Lang, the Amis are rich. They fight their wars with machines. When we fly a Tante Ju transport up here, everybody fights for centimeters of space, for every kilogram of load, because we do not know when the aircraft will be available again. When a mother in Arkansas wants to send her little boy some cookies, if there is no space on the aircraft,
“Some of those transport aircraft are stuffed with radio intercept equipment. For some reason the Amis call them Rivets. They orbit safely behind their lines and listen for somebody foolish enough to use their radio links. When they find one, they triangulate for his position. Aircraft are good at that; they can establish a long baseline quickly. So, they get a quick, accurate fix and send it in. In this case to a railway gun battery north of here. Your call was a gift to them. A long call like that, they had every chance to get hold of it and fix the position exactly.
“Then that railway gun battery fired on us. You saw those shells? They weigh 1,300 kilograms each and they penetrated thirty, perhaps forty meters into the ground before exploding. The ground down there is like quicksand. It’s been shattered, powdered. We can’t go back there until it freezes solid again. Lang, so far today you’ve destroyed one of my artillery batteries and my headquarters. Could I ask if you have any plans for the rest of the day?”
Lang shook his head dumbly, still shaken by the immensity of the explosions that had destroyed the base. He’d never thought of railway guns, had no idea of their terrifying power and accuracy. It was a lesson he knew he would never forget.
There was a lot Marcks wanted to say but Lang was on first-name terms with more important people than he could easily count. For the moment, Lang was untouchable. Sarcasm would have to substitute for the more direct action he longed to take. “Well, if I may be permitted to make a suggestion. Have you considered serving the Fatherland by transferring to the Russian Army?”
“How was the flight?” The question meant more than it sounded. ‘The flight’ was a long trip for the Pan American Constellation. It was a civilian airliner in name only. It had military-style seating and equipment; its Pan American paint job was a gesture towards the countries on its route. The first leg on the outward journey, Washington to Lajes in the Azores, was trouble-free enough, both were American territory, although the ever- cynical Achillea had her doubts about Washington. The second leg, Lajes to Casablanca, was where the fun kicked in.
Casablanca was technically Vichy French but it was actually run by the Free French. To be more precise, the faction of the Free French lead by Admiral Darlan. So, there was a constant underground war going on between the various groups and the resulting level of intrigue and conspiracy was surpassed only by Cairo. The third leg, Casablanca to Rome was even more interesting. There that the civilian cover of the Constellation was essential. Italy was a neutral in the war. Its economy was booming as a result and Mussolini had every intention of keeping it that way. So, the airliner had to be civilian. The final leg of the journey was the train trip from Rome to Geneva where Igrat, Achillea and Henry McCarty would meet up with Loki and pick up the monthly economic intelligence data. It was a regular trip and the question had actually been ‘did you get the data?’
“Pretty good. We got the stuff. Had a little trouble in Casablanca on the way out though.”
“Germans?”
“Nah, OSS.” McCarty leaned back in the limousine seat. Let me tell you about it.”
Gusoyn grinned to himself. McCarty was an excellent storyteller and this promised to be good.
“Special operations are for skilled professionals, not amateurs.” The local OSS man leaned back in his seat, radiating scorn for his company. Behind him, Igrat looked around the Cafe, it was empty, even the staff had made themselves scarce. In Casablanca, everybody knew when shady stuff was going down and those not involved took off in any convenient direction. It wasn’t that they were afraid of the authorities. It was well known that the Vichy police only arrested the innocent as a last resort. It was just smarter not to be involved.
Frank Barnes was emboldened by the lack of response to his comment. “And look at you. You’re supposed to be couriers for some important documents. An old man and two women. Weak, undisciplined civilians. You need to be in peak condition and have specialized training for this sort of thing. I’ve a good mind to make a report to Washington on this. What would happen if Nazi agents attacked you? Huh? Suppose a Nazi came at you with a knife?” Barnes pointed at Achillea. “What would you do? Huh?”
“I’d take it out of his hand.”
“This isn’t funny. A Nazi could take that case away from you right now. Look, let me teach you what to do.” Barnes reached into a pocket and pushed a pencil across the table. “Pretend that’s a knife and come at me with it and I’ll show you the tricks.”
Achillea looked down at the pencil. “No need to pretend. Uhhh, wait a minute.” She got up and walked across to the counter where a selection of chef s knives hung on the wall. She inspected them for a minute before selecting one, not quite the longest but one with a broad, strong blade. Then she touched the edge with her thumb and pushed her lower lip out in disgust.
Frank Barnes started sweating slightly. “I’m only trying to help you know. This is a dangerous business, too dangerous for amateurs. You should leave it to us.” Igrat smiled at him; in the other corner, Henry just stared
“Madam, you can’t come in here. Staff only.” The cafe manager’s voice was smooth and cultured, although muffled by the closed service door.
“Hand please.” Achillea’s voice was abrupt. A split second later there was an outraged squeal followed by an irritated “still blunt.” The sounds of a knife being sharpened grew in energy.
“Uh, I just hope my old war wound won’t interfere with this.” Barnes was sweating heavily now and glancing around. The cafe was still empty. Then the service door swung open and Achillea stepped through. Her eyes fixed on Barnes and she dropped into her habitual crouch, knife in her right hand, down low, point aimed unerringly at Barnes’ groin.
“Err, good Lord, is that the time? I have to make my scheduled call to headquarters.” Barnes tried to rise, but his foot got caught in something and he half-tripped. Igrat steadied him and helped him to his feet. “Perhaps we can schedule this another day.” He was backing towards the door now, colliding with it, trying to open it the wrong way before finally getting out. He climbed into a passing taxi and was swept away.
“I wonder where he’s going.” McCarty sounded vaguely amused. Achillea sighed with disappointment and put the knife back in its rack.
“I don’t know, but he’s in for an interesting time when he gets there.” Igrat sounded smug as she reached inside her blouse. “I’ve got his wallet.”
Gusoyn’s snort of laughter almost caused him to crash the car as he backed out of the parking spot. “When did you give it back to him?”
