Designated Targets

As her intelligence boss left his station, McTeale struggled briefly with the RAF officer. Air Vice Marshal Simon Caterson, she now recalled—a bit of a prat with an irritating habit of holding forth on all manner of topics, whether he knew anything about them or not.

“Air Vice Marshal, you will restrain yourself, or I will have Mr. McTeale turn you over to the SAS lads, to use as a practice dummy. They broke their last one.”

With that, she headed for ops. She was certain she heard Caterson say, “Wretched woman,” as she left.

Howard joined her there, a few steps down the corridor in the central hull. It was a smaller version of the CIC, with backups for many of the same systems. It was also mercifully free of ’temps.

“You’re familiar with the Muller jacket, Mr. Howard?”

He nodded. Howard was responsible for tracking all the skin jobs on their bionet. Thirteen in all. “He was going after an engineer. One of the brighter kiddies.”

“Well, he found him,” said Halabi. “And this guy claims to be our secret admirer from yesterday. Do you think it’s possible?”

“Brasch?” The lieutenant commander thought it over. “It’s definitely possible. The project data we received matches up with his AOR. But it matches a couple of others, too.”

“How many?”

“Two. An admiral in the Kriegsmarine, and a Luftwaffe colonel.”

“What’re Muller’s mission specs?” she asked.

“Quick and dirty. A hostile debrief, followed by Sanction Two.”

“Really?” said Halabi. “I thought Muller was a pilot. He’s not really trained for that sort of business, is he?”

“Jacket says he volunteered. He’s a Jerry. Figured he’d fit right in.”

Halabi, who had an intimate understanding of cultural dislocation, doubted that, but she didn’t have time to debate the point.

“Excuse me, ma’am,” the comm operator called over, interrupting the discussion. “Eyes only again, for you.”

Halabi took the message on the nearest screen. She had a feeling it was Muller again.

She was right. It was a one-line message, but it cut through the Rubik’s Cube of possibilities she’d just been playing with.

Brasch requests extraction.

“Better get the War Ministry for me,” she told her comm officer.

“Captain! We have incoming. Sorry, no, we don’t. London does.”

“What do you mean?” she asked. “More jets.”

“No, ma’am. Missiles. Cruise missiles.”

30

NORWAY

These were the finest men Aryan blood had to offer, and he was immensely proud of them. There were only eight of them, two units of four men each, something they had learned from England’s much-vaunted Special Air Service. The SS wasn’t so arrogant as its opponents imagined. It was more than willing to adapt and improve upon their ideas. But if they wanted to think of his troops as mindless automatons, then let them.

He would laugh on their graves.

It felt strange, however, to be standing in front of an American aeroplane—a Douglas Dakota, they called it, captured in North Africa. Stranger still to be addressing men dressed in the uniforms of the enemy.

As the moment finally arrived, and Operation Sea Dragon began to unfold, Reichsfuhrer Heinrich Himmler could have been at the missile base in Donzenac, or with his new airborne regiment at Zaandam. These eight men, however, were about to embark on a personal odyssey entirely of his own design. They were going to drive a dagger into the heart of England, and so he had chosen to join them on a small, nameless airfield at the edge of the North Sea.

Three of them spoke English perfectly; most of the others with a slight accent, hence the uniforms, which identified them as Free Polish forces. Englanders thought of all Europeans as essentially the same. Wogs or wops or some such insulting nonsense. That ill-considered sense of superiority would cost them dearly over the next few days.

Only Colonel Skorzeny, the commander of the group, would proceed without a thorough mastery of English. But he was the one man Himmler knew he could trust with a job like this. Given the need, he would walk through mountains if they stood in his way. The Reichsfuhrer’s only regret was that he wouldn’t personally get to watch as Skorzeny completed his mission. But if the colonel survived, he would entertain everyone at the Wolfschanze with his vivid tales of the adventure.

The giant storm trooper, who was dressed as a simple corporal, stomped up and down in front of his men as they stood in line like carven marble statues. “So who amongst you will slaughter this fat pig for the fuhrer?” he roared at them.

“I will, sir!” they all chorused in return.

“No,” he boomed back, laughing like an elder God. “I will choke the life out of him, and you shall do nothing more than gather around to slap me on the back, and tell me what a fine fellow I am. Are we understood?”

“Jawohl, Herr Korporal!”

Skorzeny seemed to find that immensely funny, and another gale of his rich laughter peeled away into the night sky. It was uncomfortably chilly on the runway, which had been carved out of an ancient birch forest high above the waters of the Skagerrak, and Himmler wrapped himself more deeply into his greatcoat. He would never share the bond Skorzeny had with these men, the easy familiarity they had with each other and with the likelihood of their own deaths. But he could appreciate their camaraderie, and even Skorzeny’s high spirits.

He coughed loudly, and the colonel yelled at the men to attend to his words.

“Please, please, stand at ease,” said Himmler.

They unbent just a fraction.

“You men make me proud to be German,” he said. “You have all volunteered for this most dangerous mission, and it will take you into the deepest recesses of the enemy’s lair. You are few in number, but the effect of your actions will be unmeasurable. To me, you personify all that is great in our party. You are supermen, and my best wishes go with you. Heil Hitler!”

“Heil Hitler!”

Himmler bowed his head slightly in acknowledgment, and Skorzeny yelled at the pilots to spool up the Dakota’s two engines. As they coughed into life, thick smoke and blue flame belched from the cowlings. Skorzeny slapped the first man in line on the shoulder and he turned with mechanical precision to climb into the cabin. The others followed, until only Skorzeny was left.

“The fuhrer has much to occupy him right now,” said Himmler, “but he wanted me to tell you that he will be thinking of you and your men especially.”

An uncharacteristic solemnity came over the SS colonel. “Thank you. That is most gracious, Herr Reichsfuhrer. We shall earn that honor, or die to a man in trying.”

They saluted, and Skorzeny disappeared in through the darkened door of the plane.

MOSCOW, USSR

The lights hadn’t been put out in the Little Corner for nearly a week. Even with Hitler’s attention elsewhere, this was a very dangerous time for the Soviet Union. Josef Stalin had napped only fitfully during the last three days, although physically he felt fine, thanks to the medicines his physician had been given from the British ship named Vanguard.

Sitting in his office, the Soviet leader allowed himself a rare moment of relaxation, sipping from a long glass of hot tea, as he contemplated a world remade in his own image. It might take another ten years, and it would without a doubt be a bloody business. But at the end of it, the revolution would be safe from fascists like Hitler, traitors like Khrushchev, and imperialists like Churchill and Roosevelt.