Schultz. His big arms patted his freshly-shaven jaw delicately. He was known by the team as ‘Der Anker’, ‘The Anchor’. Capable of lifting a man over his head, he had won several strong man competitions around Munich and caused the Quarter-Master General untold problems in finding a uniform that would fit him. He was the nearest thing Brandt had to a pack mule. Sometimes, looking back over his shoulder on a mountain ascent, all that he could see were equipment and supply cases and a pair of arms sticking out from them.
‘It will be in a few hours,’ interrupted Bader. ‘Let’s hope there’s more equipment for us other than that idiot’s cameras.’
Koheller and Voight remained quiet throughout, occasionally smiling at the banter.
‘Let’s hope our last meal has generous portions,’ remarked Kramer, towelling his craggy features. Kramer, the veteran of the unit, was the last to shave. He had fought Franco’s forces in the Spanish Civil War and had been put into Mauthausen concentration camp for it. Prison tattoos covered his chest and arms, and a prison serial number had been branded into his forearm. Brandt had saved him from the gallows, needing an experienced climber for an operation in the Pyrenees. The harder the terrain, the higher the altitude, the better Kramer performed. His entire frame was sinew and bone. Scars and weals embellished it where years of hard mountaineering had taken its toll. He seldom spoke and usually moved around like a ghost.
There was a discreet knock at the door and Olga stepped in. Amid the leers and winks, she disrobed and showered in the furthest cubicle, her knife wedged firmly between her teeth. Never once taking her eyes off the men, she worked the soap through the cable that was her hair.
‘Sergeant, your girlfriend’s a barbarian….’ said Kramer.
‘That’s my girl,’ said Kant with a grin to the mirror.
The table was laid out with exquisite silver service and crystal glasses on a tablecloth of delicate lace. Two large candelabras stood in the middle with candles lit. The company was being attended by Rathenow’s personal staff, with Rathenow himself behaving like the captain of a Mediterranean cruise ship, discussing his wines with Schenker. Regan, to his amazement, got a whiskey-sour.
Brandt and his soldiers declined alcohol, requesting strong coffee instead. They glowered at Schenker quaffing down champagne and shouting over the conversation. The food was delicious, prepared by Rathenow’s personal chef, Raul, accompanied by French wine from Rathenow’s ‘cellar’.
Olga and the translator sat side-by-side in warm army woollens and yet appearing feminine. Both had used belts to turn the bulky material into a dress of sorts.
The American, whose name was Kincaid, sat with Regan drinking whiskey and laughing. The coffee was fresh and served from silver pots. Rathenow, aware of his company, kept it coming in large mugs. Brandt and Rathenow pored over the maps once the meal was finished. The map was Russian, the train’s journey marked in red pen. There was a dried bloodstain framing a bullet hole in the top fold.
The woman, introduced as Eva, translated the map into German and answered any question that was asked. Out of her sable overcoat, she had a good figure, long legs, and a narrow waist, and couldn’t have been more than 25 years old. Brandt was aware of her long fingers tracing the route, elegant like those of a concert pianist. Kant stood back, taking it all in and watching Schenker who was too busy looking at Eva. Kincaid never seemed to be a foot from her at any stage, hovering over them, shouting questions that Eva had already answered.
Brandt called his unit over and the plan was agreed. A sequence of charges would be laid along the track at a point a mile away from their location. Small detonations leading into one large one would force the locomotive to leave the rails without over-turning. The unit would disable the troop carriages and eliminate the security detail.
Regan then discussed his camera angles and wanted to know in what available light he’d be filming in. He was ignored.
Brandt watched the staff clearing the table and looked up at Rathenow.
‘Captain Rathenow, I have a request. As a professional courtesy, I’d like you to put the remaining food onto the transport we arrived in and deliver it to General Fretter-Pico’s forces along with any spare medical supplies you have,’
Rathenow looked at Brandt for a long time before he spoke. ‘Isn’t the German Army able to survive in any habitat, anywhere in the world?’
Brandt didn’t break the stare. ‘Yes, but we have exceeded our expectations in our advance and have stretched the supply line. The glorious advance to Moscow would be accelerated further with Luftwaffe support.’
Brandt let the sarcasm hang before moving on; the bastard wasn’t going to help them. Anywhere else and Brandt would have hit him, and hard.
Eva watched the exchange and was drawn to Brandt’s voice and his cold-grey eyes. Not conventionally handsome, he was attractive with a quiet charisma; a natural leader. She glanced quickly up and down almost as a reflex. He was lean, not muscular but strong, with wide calloused hands and no wedding ring.
Unlike the SS officer, he was without conceit yet looked like he was capable of fighting his corner. She had to remind herself he was the enemy who, along with his friends, had half of Europe under the jackboot. As soon as this was over, and if she survived, she planned to discuss the future with Peter. In the presence of this officer she found herself forcing herself to think of him.
Peter was in Helsinki waiting for her, with a berth booked on a ship to New York. She knew the relationship was coming to a crossroads. The choice for Peter was whether to divorce Martha and start anew with her. She was going to use the voyage to discuss it. He was worried about her situation with Kincaid. She was very close to some very powerful and dangerous men. Chainbridge warned her that she could get killed if Kincaid suspected she was a spy. Women had a habit of coming to harm around him. She had been offered a cyanide tablet to use in case of being discovered, but declined, accepting instead a brooch filled with a liquid agent for inducing strokes, just in case Kincaid got rough.
The airship slipped its moorings, rising gracefully into the weak twilight, ascending to just above tree-height. Keeping this altitude, Rathenow gunned the engines, banking it smoothly away from the pre-fabricated hangar. Within minutes it was in position half a mile from its launch, lying like a shark in the shallows.
Rathenow’s crew watched for enemy aircraft from machine gun pods stuck out from the bridge area. The bridge was warm and roomy, with comfortable seats that allowed for some rest. Brandt was amazed how much a meal, a shave and a shower could change a man. Their uniforms were new also, though a little large for their bodies.
‘If you’re gonna be shown all over the world,’ said Kincaid, ‘you gotta look your best!’ He had remained behind with the stunning girl in black.
Despite his efforts at concentrating on the mission, Brandt’s thoughts kept drifting back to her. He told himself to snap out of it.
Kramer had confirmed all the equipment was sound, the ropes, harnesses and hardware new. Nothing had been left to chance. Schultz, Koheller and Kant were in position below, out beyond the forest’s edge. The explosives were placed along the rail, the timers of Swiss manufacture, water resistant and shock-proof.
Regan was leaning out through one of the doors filming, harnessed to the frame almost horizontal to the terrain below. Another camera was mounted on the bow, taking still photographs for the Propaganda Ministry in Berlin.
The half-track acting as a radio tower linked the airship to Berlin with weather details, especially wind direction. It also acted as an interceptor for any Russian communications in the area. On a secure radio band it kept constant communication to the bridge. After the airship had cleared, the hangar was broken down and loaded onto the transport planes. Within hours, apart from the half-track and the two anti-aircraft batteries hidden in the trees, it was as if the hangar had never been there.
Ten minutes had passed when Schultz’s voice crackled over the radio operator’s headset. The bridge went silent. ‘The Train’s coming.’
Brandt opened the bridge door and slid down the rope to the ground below. The hiss of bodies on ropes beside him, and the thump of equipment landing ahead of them, gave him a rush. From the airship's bridge, he had studied the distant Ural Mountains and agreed with Kramer there would be rewarding climbs there. Maybe sometime in the future the Russians would sue for peace and allow Brandt’s Alpine Korps to climb for the sheer joy of it. Maybe this mission might be the first step to ending the war.
