The Secret Files of Lucky Ford: Operation Arm Breaker, Part 2 of 17

The officials have gathered, and planning for the Office’s largest mission in history has begun. New Allies join Lucky Ford, Grease, Miller, and Bucket to bring about the downfall of Department Three and the monsters they create.

The Secret Files of Lucky Ford: Operation Arm Breaker is now available as a Kindle ebook, in paperback, and as a DRM-free ebook.

This is Part 2 of Operation Arm Breaker. If you haven’t read Part 1 yet, check it out first.

Content Warnings: Tobacco Use, Mild Swearing

TUESDAY AFTERNOON, JULY 13, 1943
ABOARD THE HMS ST. GEORGE
THE SEA OF SARDINIA

The St. George's mess hall was packed to the rafters with the most diverse group of officials Lucky'd ever seen. Goldbrick Stephens' rag-tag gang of Western European officials made the Colonel's handpicked crew look like a Scout troop. Lucky could see men and women from each service branch across ten nations, but it was the swaggering American with the silver star on his shoulder that caught his eye first.

The brigadier general clenched a massive cigar in his shining golden teeth as he spoke to the Colonel, Commodore Dixon, and Miller. A cadre of BWEA officials surrounded them, chatting with Loud MacLeod as they waited for the briefing to begin. The Colonel saw Lucky and Bucket and waved them over. They wove through the heavily-armed crowd. Bucket quietly greeted a few officials as they squeezed between the milling commandos.

“Wonderful to see you gentlemen again,” the Colonel said, taking up Lucky's hand in a warm handshake, “All intact, and with Private Benolli, a rather unique new recruit!”

“A kraut experiment aboard my ship,” Commodore Clay Dixon grumbled, his Southern accent thickened by anxiety. The old sub captain was notoriously ill-tempered and paranoid. Lucky remembered how suspicious Dixon had been of him a couple days before, and Lucky wasn't an I-soldier. Lucky was sure the dozens of unfamiliar BWEA officials aboard his ship weren't doing anything to settle Dixon's nerves, either.

“Clay, you know Doctor Hellbörg is Romanian,” the Colonel corrected. “Private Benolli is no German experiment.”

“Don't matter much to me. Another untested unknown on my ship,” he mumbled, his glare lingering on Lucky.

“Private Benolli is a trained American paratrooper, and, by his record, an exemplary soldier. In addition, he's been vouched for by three of our own,” the Colonel continued, frowning at Dixon's reluctance to accept another new recruit. The frown made Colonel Sir Doctor Alistair Halistone, III's mustache look even longer and bushier than usual. He puffed on his clay pipe as he considered Dixon's agitation.

“From what I hear,” Goldbrick said, “The Benolli kid's gotten a lot more to offer since jump school.”

“If Doctor Pietrzak clears him,” the Colonel replied.

“What are you talking about?” Lucky blurted, suddenly concerned for Grease. His friend had been through enough already. Grease wasn't ready to get back in the field, and Lucky wasn't about to let anyone exploit him. That was exactly what the krauts had intended to do.

“Sir. ‘What are you talking about, sir’,” Dixon interjected, correcting him coldly. “The Office may work a little differently, private, but you are still an enlisted man in the Armed Forces of our United States and you will act accordingly.”

“Yes, sir,” Lucky said, snapping to attention. He hadn't been chewed out by an officer since basic training. It was jarring.

“Private Benolli has expressed interest in joining in our operation,” the Colonel explained. “I agreed, on the condition that Doctor Pietrzak clears him for duty. General Stephens has indicated that he'd prefer Private Benolli on his commando team if that is indeed the case.”

“I'm going wherever he's going!” Lucky declared, then noticed Dixon's glare. “... Sir.”

“Oh really? What are you bringing to the fight, little man?” Goldbrick asked, puffing his chest wide, standing a full six inches taller than Lucky. He blew cigar smoke down into Lucky face and grinned, showing off his gold teeth. Lucky could tell the man was razzing him, making sure he could keep his head.

“Private Ford has accrued an impressive field record in just a few days, Brigadier General,” Miller said. “He fought off Isaak Gerhardt bare-handed, participated in Operation Damsel, and lead a successful rescue mission into enemy-held territory in Spain.”

“By going AWOL with two of my men and one of my planes,” Dixon butted in. Bucket rolled his eyes at the accusation.

“You say he can pull his weight, Snowman, I'll believe you. Even if your buddy's towel is in for this one, you're with me for the drop, Ford,” Goldbrick declared. “Besides, both bureaus are running short, can't turn anybody able down. You still got most of your healthy people mixed up in Africa and Iraq, and the bulk of my crew is liberating Jewish camps in Poland or undercover in France.”

“Indeed,” the Colonel said. Cão and Ajax laid up in the sick bay reminded Lucky of how dire things had been for their bureau recently. A loud voice rang out from the back of the crowded room, silencing everyone.

“Count me in!” Grease shouted. They'd seen a lot, but they'd never seen a seven-foot-tall, six-foot-wide Bronx kid push his way through a crowd waving a letter over his head like a winning bingo ticket. Like true officials, they got over their shock quickly and resumed their conversations.

Grease looked far better than when Lucky'd left him with the crotchety doctor. He smelled clean, with sterile antiseptics replacing the stink that had been wafting off his infected skin. Pietrzak had reinforced the staples and stitches holding Grease together, then mummied him head-to-toe in an olive-drab bandage wrap. To top it all off, the only clothes that fit him were a baggy set of white boxer shorts with red hearts under a hospital robe that wouldn't shut and barely reached his waist.

The doctor had given him some return to normalcy and removed the German helmet that had been bolted to his head. His old nervous habit had been to slick back his dark hair with pomade. He could do it again, though he'd still need to be careful around his pink scars in his scalp and the threaded bolts embedded in his skull. He grinned when he walked up, smiling around the armor plates bolted over his nose and chin. His increased height made him tower over the circle of officers, which only made his grin wider. He wasn't used to being the tall guy.

Grease chuckled and patted Lucky on the back, aggravating his ribs again. Everyone was getting one in on him.

“Which one's Colonel Hail Stone?” Grease asked Lucky.

“Colonel Halistone,” the Colonel corrected him, taking the letter in his left hand and Grease's armored mitt in his right. “An honor to meet you, Private Benolli, Lucky has spoken quite highly of you.”

“Hal-i-stone, right. Sorry, that Doctor P. talks in a way that don't give you a clue what he's saying. And for Pete's sake, just call me Grease,” he said.

“‘For Pete’s sake, sir,’” Dixon muttered, but the boisterous I-soldier didn’t hear a word.

Grease saw Bucket and grinned, saying; “Good to see that smile in one piece, four eyes.”

“You too, big rig,” Bucket shot right back. “Nice drawers.”

Grease looked down at the little red hearts on his boxer shorts and grinned:

“Still waiting on the tailor.”

“You sure you want to do this?” Lucky asked him quietly. “You've been through the ringer, you could go home today.”

“I'm taking this back to the bastards who'd do it. They need a taste of their own medicine,” Grease said, trying to alleviate Lucky's concern with bravado. It didn't work, but Lucky let him be.

“Good to hear son, 'cause the doc's given you the green light to run with me tomorrow, along with Ford and Miller here,” Goldbrick interjected, flashing Grease his gold smile. He put out a heavy mitt that Grease instantly swallowed in his own gargantuan paw. “Brigadier General Stephens.”

“You also have Lieutenant Benjamin as your second-in-command,” added Dixon. “No compromise on that.”

Grease jumped and dropped the general's hand as the commodore's omnipresent assistant seemed to materialize from nowhere right next to him. The lieutenant looked like a pile of elbows in sharply creased Navy khakis. The little man was scribbling on his notepad so intently that he didn't even react when he heard his name.

“Who is this, your secretary?” Grease asked jokingly, hoping no one had seen him jump. Benjamin paused mid-sentence to looked up from his notes to give Grease the coldest, most murderous glare Lucky'd ever seen emanate from an American. The big man leaned away like he’d locked eyes with a rattlesnake.

“Lieutenant Benjamin is my assistant and bodyguard, the chief of security of this vessel, and your superior among other things. I want proven feet on the ground so I know the job will get done, Private Benolli. A pair of children fresh out of jump school is not the assurance we need for this mission,” Dixon growled.

“Of course, sir, sorry, sir,” Grease mumbled apologetically while unconsciously coming to attention. Lucky smirked. Getting chewed out by a CO was a kick in the tail for anyone, even a smart-mouthed bruiser like him. Goldbrick took advantage of the awkward silence.

“Let's get this thing going, boys,” he said, “Time's running down, and the Russians aren't planning to wait around for us.”

“Agreed,” said the Colonel. He spoke over the murmur of the assembled officials: “Everyone take your seats, it is time.”

The disparate group quieted and sat immediately. The Colonel had barely raised his voice. The respect for Halistone, Goldbrick, and Dixon was obvious. Bucket, Grease, and Lucky took seats in the front row while Miller and Benjamin stepped off to the side to help with the mission briefing. The lights dimmed and a projector lit up the screen on the big wall of the mess hall.

“Officials, this is our target, the Department Three facility known as Eberkopf,” the Colonel began. An aerial photo showed a massive clearing, utterly flat and featureless save for a small collection of buildings on the north end. “What is visible in this photograph is officially a ranch maintained by the Nazis' propaganda department. It is located twenty miles north of the Swiss border. Its stated purpose is the breeding and revival of the aurochs, an extinct species of wild cattle that the jerries have declared an icon of their Aryan heritage.”

Miller advanced the slides, the next showing a huge bull, rippling with muscles from its thick hump to its two-yard-wide set of horns. The Colonel continued:

“First through selective breeding, then with genetic manipulation, they've made an animal that superficially resembles the aurochs, though by all accounts they have quite a different temperament than the ancient cattle.”

“They're the bastard kids of Spanish fighting bulls and all other species of unpleasant cow. And there's four thousand head of them,” Goldbrick interrupted.

“Normally we wouldn't be concerned with such a facility, as it only serves as a drain to our enemy's resources...” The Colonel tried to take back the floor, only to have Goldbrick cut in again.

“I'd be perfectly happy to leave the krauts to get themselves gored and trampled,” the general added, flashing that gold smile. The Colonel nodded, then continued. His and Goldbrick's briefing styles were a bit different.

“Indeed, but the information recovered during Operation Damsel by Official Second Class Ford has alerted us to the fact that there is more to Eberkopf than is visible from our reconnaissance.” Five or six hands patted Lucky hard on the shoulder, accompanied by whispered congratulations. His ribs ached with each touch, but he managed to stay quiet as the Colonel plugged along.

The slide changed to a page from Werner von Werner's notes. Lucky couldn't read a word of German, but he could tell that most of the other officials were already poring through the information. The Colonel continued:

“As you can see, this particular page caught our analysts' attention. It is the itinerary for a meeting at Eberkopf between Isaak Gerhardt, Johann Metzger, and two individuals called the Fifth and Seventh Sparteführers, people we've never heard of before this information was revealed. Not even a rank we'd been aware of. ‘Branch leaders,’ only one of whom is named in the itinerary: the Seventh Sparteführer, Katrin Abendroth.”

“Cataloguers are saying that 'sparte' means 'section,' 'branch,' or 'arm.' When they set ADA on the scent using new decryption algorithms derived from this information, the term popped up over and over,” Goldbrick said. “We thought that the arms were independent cells run by men like Metzger or von Oberndorf, but this new information has proven that wrong.”

“Who’s ADA?” Lucky whispered.

“A big box that spits out encyclopedia articles,” Bucket hissed. “I’ll tell you later.”

The slide changed again, this time revealing a circular symbol, a swastika bulging with too many prongs, like several crooked crosses were stacked atop each other then twisted.

“My men will recognize this emblem, we've certainly seen it enough when kicking down Dee-Three doors. We always thought it was a remnant of Himmler's occult influence, some Thule Society, Zentaist bullshit or what have you. Looks like we were wrong on that, too.” Goldbrick paused to take a draw off his cigar, then got back to it:

“So once we got ADA crunching this new intel with cataloged information, new connections started lighting up her board. The Library figured out that each of the eleven branches of that swastika represents a separate Arm of Department Three. From the early numbers we're seeing, every one of those eleven Arms is larger than the entire combined forces of the Office.” He paused to let that sink in. The officials began to whisper among themselves.

Lucky was blown away. The behemoth of the German secret war machine had access to more than eleven times the personnel of the Office, but had also managed to keep it wholly hidden. The only way two men could keep a secret was if one of them was dead. Department Three had thousands of men.

The Colonel took this opportunity to step in. He changed the slide to show an extensive table of organization.

“It also appears that each of the Arms is focused on a different area of scientific pursuit. Until now, it would seem that most of our bureau's encounters have been with the seventh arm, which is focused on the biological sciences, that which employs Metzger and Gerhardt. The seventh arm has been code-named July, and the other ten have been similarly designated.”

The table of organization was more question marks than anything else, an upside-down tree that sprouted from Hitler and Himmler before splitting into eleven branches labeled 'January' through 'November.' Katrin Abendroth's name and the tag 'Biological Sciences' topped the July Arm, which branched into labels such as 'Vargulf Korps' and 'Projekt Kobold' with a short list of names underneath. Someone had marked a couple fat red lines through a few names under the Vargulf Korps, but there were still plenty more Nazis to go around.

Other arms remained unknown, not even tagged with the name of their leaders or the scientific disciplines that they pursued.

“Now you're going to recognize a few of the krauts on here, officials” said Goldbrick. He jabbed at the names with his cigar. “You got Gerhardt, your queen of clubs; Metzger, your ace of hearts; Jakob von Oberndorf's running the January Arm, he's your ace of clubs; and Karl Adler, the Black Baron and jack of diamonds, is in charge of the March Arm.”

Around Lucky, officials were shuffling through decks of playing cards, each of the fifty-two marked with a German name and mug shot. A clever way to help memorize the faces of their enemies.

“And your ace and king of spades at the top,” Dixon added, pointing at Hitler and Himmler's names.

“Your Target Identification cards will be updated and reissued when we fill in more of these blanks,” Goldbrick said. “Unfortunately we have a heck of a lot more faces to add than we have to take away.”

“Maybe we can make a supplemental chess set, too,” Dixon suggested. The Colonel gave him a dirty look, then cut back in.

“The point of this information is that our enemies have multiplied, but our resources and capabilities have not. Our current and future strength is in our flexibility. We are able to launch an assault at any given moment across half the known world, and now the Germans have given us a target.” The Colonel nodded to Miller, who changed the slide again.

This one showed a blurry photo of two man shaking hands on the lip of a giant pit. The men were instantly recognizable as Himmler, with his goofy Hitler-imitation mustache, and Goebbels, the gaunt, sinister propagandist. Beyond them, the pit extended for thousands of feet across, maybe more than a mile. The massive excavation dropped deep below where the camera could see, but from the ant-sized cement mixers and the microscopic crews of forced laborers manning them, it had to be hundreds of feet deep. The photo was labeled Eberkopf, 1935.

“Though the Germans were able to conceal the true nature of Eberkopf from us, Library informants were able to smuggle us this picture. Constructed over the course of two years, it is of a roughly ovoid shape, more than three kilometers in length and half that in width, extending four hundred or more meters below the ground. It is larger than the Vesuvius base by an order of magnitude. Its defenses are unknown, as are its contents. It is our target.”

The Colonel let information stew for a moment.

The slide changed, beaming the itinerary onto the screen again, and the Colonel tapped his finger against a single, hand-written bullet point. It was marked '14-18 Juli, Versammlung zwischen Sparteführer Abendroth und die Fünftel Sparteführer, Eberkopf.' A meeting between Abendroth and the Fifth Arm leader at Eberkopf over the next couple days. A small window for a vital operation.

“It is here that we will deliver them their war. Department Three has given us the chance to cripple two of their Arms by putting both leaders under the same roof,” the Colonel said. Goldbrick cut in again:

“That roof is made from more concrete than the Boulder Dam, and tomorrow we will bring it all down on their rotten Nazi heads.”

“As much as I hate to admit it, the key to Operation Arm Breaker is the Ivans,” Goldbrick said, pulling hard on his cigar as he considered the involvement of the Bureau for Eastern European Affairs. “But they're only putting the last nail in this coffin. We're the ones who have to mill the pine, tack it together, and fill it with a corpses.”

“General-Major Ryazonova also recognizes the importance of this operation and has dedicated the full power of her bureau's magnetronic rail mortars until thirteen-hundred hours local time on the fourteenth, ending the barrage with a salvo of pact-breaker anti-fortification shells,” the Colonel said.

“As you all know, relations with the Russians are SNAFU'd at best, so this operation represents the first major cooperative effort between them and any other bureau,” Goldbrick added. “They still won't give us the specs on the mortars or even their location, but I don't care about that as long as they keep dropping those bangers on Eberkopf.”

Miller changed the slide to show an aerial photo of a collapsed castle.

“It took only three hits from the rail mortar to turn this fairy tale palace into rubble,” Goldbrick said. “Far as we can tell, the shells are at least a meter across and carry more boom than a battleship's main guns.”

The next slide was the same photo of the wrecked castle, but not magnified. The whole countryside around it looked like it had been carpet bombed. Not a single tree was left standing for miles around.

“Now you can see why we don't have the Russians blow the place away from wherever they are. Those three hits took eighteen-hundred misses over two weeks. We don't have that time, even if those rounds could punch through all that concrete. That's where the pact-breaker rounds, and where we, come in.” Goldbrick held out his hand and Miller passed him an armored case about the size and shape of a mailbox.

“The Ivans sent us blueprints to build these things. By the time we launch tomorrow, we'll have three more. We're only going out to be their delivery boys,” Goldbrick said. The Colonel took the box out of his hands and held it up for everyone to see.

“You'll notice that this device is a sophisticated radio transmitter,” he said, turning it over to display the different parts to the officials. “What's not the antenna in this box is the battery. There is no 'off' switch. It stops transmitting when the battery dies or the entire device is destroyed.”

“It's a duck call,” Dixon said.

“What the Commodore means is that these are homing beacons for the anti-fortification rounds fired by the rail mortar,” the Colonel clarified.

“The Russians' big shells detect the signal this little box puts out and self-correct when they're in the air,” Goldbrick said. He stubbed his cigar out on the bare wooden table top. Benjamin appeared long enough to scrub up the ash with a handkerchief. The general snorted, then said: “Our job is to stick these things to any support elements inside Eberkopf. We consulted with the Fossor General. If you’ve seen the Grave, you know he’s an expert in subterranean architecture. He says that with that much concrete overhead, if even one critical support element goes, the whole thing goes. So we set the duck calls, and Ivan sends enough thermite and thunder to ring the angels' ears and burn the devil's toes.”

“In order to place the beacons, we shall send two teams into Germany, one commanded by myself and the other by Brigadier General Stephens, each carrying two transmitters,” the Colonel explained.

“On foot?” Neff asked from the back of the room, swimming in his cloud of cheap cigarette smoke.

“We looked at every other possibility, but placing them by hand is the only way we can guarantee that they end up where we need ‘em to be,” Goldbrick answered.

“The ash cover is too thick for bombers to aim, even if the approach wasn't through a wall of flak. Our ships can't get close enough to the coast to lay down ordnance with the big guns, not the mention the damn Alps, and without these transmitters to help aim, the rail mortars won't do anything but make noise,” Dixon listed.

“If there's too much flak for a high-altitude bomber, how do you expect me to get The Express through to drop your teams off?” Angel asked. She was already running the dangerous flight plan through her head.

“We won't be parachuting in,” Goldbrick replied.

“Nothing so safe,” Dixon muttered.

“We talking Rocket Airways?” Bucket asked. He popped up on the edge of his seat.

“Rocket Airways,” Dixon confirmed. Bucket rubbed his hands like a hungry fly and sat back.

“Only the USS Elijah Kelly and the USS Andrew Portnoy are available to launch tomorrow, limiting our number to sixteen officials on the ground, one for each DIVERT rocket on the two ships,” Goldbrick said. “The teams will be combined BAMA and BWEA forces to take advantage of our varied skill sets. Anything you BAMA boys can't handle, my men have seen. And vice versa.”

“I will command Team One,” the Colonel said. “Sergeant Hall, Lieutenant Neff, Official First Class Farisi, Lieutenant Sinclair, Sergeant Castaño, and Corporal MacLeod will be joining me on this expedition.”

“Ye miss me already?” Loud MacLeod boomed. Even in this grim atmosphere he was grinning.

“And I got Bastedo, JG, Cheddarwright, L-T Benjamin, the Snowman, Ford, and Grease on Team Two. Grand and Grease, you're handling our transmitters. Rothenberg will be lining up our exfil through our local contacts,” Goldbrick said. “We're dropping in hard and fast in less than seventeen hours. Everyone named meet with your team leaders, everyone else has jobs to do right now. Get to it.”

The mess hall burst back into a temporary chaos, with dozens of officials scrambling over each other to start preparing for the mission. Achilles Adrastos limped out last on crutches, no doubt eager to get back at his brother's side.

In seconds the room had been abandoned, save the fourteen named commandos and the Colonel, Goldbrick, and Dixon. The general sat down on the table in front of them and rubbed the burn mark that his cigar had left in the wood.

“How many of your boys have ever ridden a DIVERT?” he asked the Colonel.

“Lieutenant Benjamin, Sergeant Hall, and Miller, I believe,” the Colonel replied.

“Al, you've never flown Rocket Airways? My tommy friend, you are in for a treat.” Goldbrick flashed his gold grin at the Colonel while the BWEA officials chuckled. “Ham, get Green and Shaw in here. Let's get these officials checked in, mentally.”

A Western European bureau official, Ham, Lieutenant Hampton Sinclair, popped up out of his seat.

“Absolutely, sir,” he said with a cocksure smirk and a distinct Cockney accent. Sinclair was the general's second-in-command. He had a few years on Lucky and he would have been around the same height were he not decked out in cowboy boots and a ten-gallon hat atop his regular British Army uniform. The Colt Peacemaker in the quick-draw holster on one hip and the lasso on the other finished out his confusing ensemble. On top of it all, he somehow looked familiar. He walked out the door with a gait that somehow blended Wild West swagger and English sophistication.

“As Captain Green is going to address the infiltration question, are there any other concerns you have noted with the operation?” the Colonel asked the room, seemingly eager to change the subject from the DIVERT system. Lucky looked around: it was a strange set-up, the officers asking the grunts for their personal opinions. Lucky'd only ever been issued opinion before, never had to generate his own. There was one thing that bothered him, though.

“Sir,” Lucky offered, hesitant that they'd want a private's input. The Colonel's eyes lit up when he saw Lucky awkwardly stand up off the bench.

“Yes, Lucky, of course,” the Colonel responded. He was actually eager to hear what Lucky had to say.

“This whole thing hinges on those boxes squawking...” Lucky said.

“And Ivan,” MacLeod grunted behind him.

“What's plan 'B' if they don't work?” Lucky asked.

“Sergeant Hall will be able to determine if our signals are transmitting from within the base,” the Colonel assured him. “If they are blocked, our priority will be to neutralize that blockage, be it a radio jammer, a Faraday cage, or anything else.”

“As for the Ruskies, we'll just hope that Ryazonova hasn't gotten bored with us being alive just yet,” Goldbrick added.

“If transmission is impossible, our priorities shift. Our goal will then be to eliminate as many high-value Department Three resources as possible,” the Colonel explained. They all knew what 'resources' meant. He'd have them be assassins. That took a second to sink in.

“Unless the continuing analysis of the Vesuvius information cache yields any alarming or contradictory intelligence, we are less than seventeen hours from mission launch. In that time we must each make our preparations, including armament and ferrying to the launch platforms. I suggest a good meal and a full eight hours sleep,” the Colonel said.

Sleep sounded like a good plan to Lucky. His ass was starting to drag and he'd need all the get-up-and-go that he could muster.

“It has been some time since our two bureaus were able to sit down together, so you may see some unfamiliar faces among our ranks.” The Colonel look around, then extended his hand toward an African man with skin as dark as crude oil sitting in the third row, only the second colored official Lucky'd ever met. The man's intense eyes burned a stark white in his dark face.

“Official Farisi, for instance, has just returned from conducting guerrilla operations in Ethiopia,” the Colonel said of the intense man.

Farisi was tall and thin, built like a lightweight boxer: lithe but punishingly powerful. He proudly wore a bright blue flag patch on his left sleeve emblazoned with the a single yellow star, the flag of the Belgian Congo. He was around Lucky's age, but had a look of a man who'd grown old twice as fast. Every feature of him was weathered and burned in the way that only months scraping by in the field can do. His piercing amber eyes made Lucky look away the instant Farisi saw that he'd twisted around to study him.

“How are the Italians, Corbyn?” Bucket asked.

“Still monsters, but we slayed many. Local forces are prepared to handle the last hold-outs,” Farisi replied. His strange accent was one Lucky'd never heard before, that of the Belgian Congolese. His English had a heavy sprinkling of French, Dutch, and Swahili influences that one doesn't often run into in Indiana.

“That's what I like to hear,” Goldbrick said.

“I thought the dagos surrendered Africa last year...” Grease ventured, voicing the very question Lucky was thinking.

“There are a few isolated units who are more stubborn than the surrendered forces,” Miller answered smartly.

“Italian insurgents have been using Ethiopia as a staging ground for sabotage, assassination, and ambush,” Farisi clarified. “My wife and I spent over a year fighting the last of the Sons of Italy. The Ethiopians I trained will finish the job.”

“Sounds rough,” observed Grease, “Us wops don't know when to quit.”

“And what's your story, big guy?” a grizzled Mexican-American sergeant asked, this one a Western European official. The man was a scarred-up veteran of many battles. Six or seven deep parallel scars ran down his right cheek, down his neck, and dove toward his right shoulder under his collar. His right arm was a sleek mechanical prosthesis, like the limb of a Greek statue forged from chrome.

“Grease, paratrooper, just woke up on the wrong side of the operating table,” Grease replied. He flexed his hydraulic prosthetic leg. “And what about you, tin man? Doesn't look like I'm the only one bringing a little flash to the team.”

“Quint Castaño,” the sergeant stuttered, shaken by Grease's candid response. “US Army, formerly First American Volunteer Corps, Finnish Army and Royal Navy in Norway.”

“That where you got that hood ornament?” Grease pried, pointing at the metal arm. A few jaws dropped around the room, including Castaño's. He clearly wasn't known to be thrilled with Grease's line of questioning and was on his feet in an instant

“You best button that lip,” Castaño flexed the arm. The rev of an engine purred from within as dozens of small hatches opened and stretched on it like a bird fluffing its plumage. A varied array of blades, harpoons, flamethrowers, rockets, grenades, and firearms peeked out for an instant before getting locked back away. Castaño was carrying an armory that could put a whole platoon to shame. “Mine isn't some glorified peg leg.”

A few officials jumped to their feet, getting between Castaño and Grease.

“He didn't mean anything by it, Quint,” Bucket interrupted.

“Ye boys really know ‘ow t' take the proper piss out of a reunion, don't ye?” asked MacLeod. Now that Lucky'd had some practice deciphering his Scottish brogue he was actually able to make out most of what MacLeod was saying.

“Sergeant, we don’t have time for this horseshit!” Dixon shouted, misting Lucky and the rest of the front row with ten-proof spittle. His face was glowing red. Quint Castaño instantly dropped into his seat, silenced. His arm throttled down and cut off with a diesel cough.

The room waited in harried silence for a few seconds. Bucket was the first to break the tension:

“You know Tesla himself recruited me,” he whispered to Castaño. “I'm sure he wouldn't mind if I got a peek under the hood...”

Bucket couldn't wait to fiddle around with whatever mechanisms ran the diesel-powered arm. Both Castaño and Grease smirked at that, but quickly flipped scowls when they noticed the other smiling.

“You have no time for jokes!” an officer shouted from the back. He had a strange accent and wore a uniform Lucky didn't recognize, save for the blue band with the Star of David worn prominently around his bicep. “The Nazis are not going to sit and watch you step out of your DIVERT capsules and welcome you into their base.”

The young man scowled at Bucket, whose faux-scowl instantly disappeared. He wore his beard thick and curly, though the rest of his hair was cut short and clean and topped with a small knit skull cap.

“We cannot afford distraction,” he said. His accent was thick, one Lucky couldn't place. “They would slaughter us like animals.”

“Lieutenant Rothenberg is absolutely correct,” Goldbrick confirmed, glaring around the room to make sure everyone got it. They each knew the score. They knew what the Nazis had done to the Jewish people and so many others. They knew what they’d do to them if they got half the chance.

“Sorry to interrupt, General,” Rothernberg added, sheepish over his outburst.

“It is always important to be reminded for whom we fight, Keshet,” the Colonel added. Everyone in the room nodded. They knew what the krauts were doing in Europe.

“Yes sir, it is,” Rothenberg said, then sat back and crossed his arms, allowing Lucky to see the patches on his right sleeve. Beneath his OCUO Eagle, Eye, and Sword and his red Official First Class rank he wore a badge embroidered with a sword and two sprays of wheat over Hebrew lettering.

“We do not have time for this,” Goldbrick grumbled. He impatiently checked his gold wristwatch. It matched his teeth. “So where in the heck is...”

“Right here, sir,” said Lieutenant Sinclair. He escorted a thin US Navy captain with a gray mustache into the briefing, followed closely by a short, shapely younger woman in a Royal Navy uniform. She had a serious look on her face and even more serious curves.

“Captain Green, of the USS Elijah Kelly,” Goldbrick said, introducing the Navy man to the room, “And Miss...”

The captain cleared his throat loudly.

“Excuse me, this is Executive Officer Shaw.” Goldbrick corrected. Captain Green nodded with approval.

“What can we help you with, General?” Green asked with a New England accent. “We have a lot to set up for tomorrow. Between the Kelly and the Portnoy, we're lighting off sixteen rockets.”

“We were hoping you could explain the DIVERT, there are a few virgins in the room,” Goldbrick said.

“How many?” Green asked. “You know that even the accelerated training program for DIVERT drops is over two weeks.”

“Just strap 'em in and light 'em off,” the general suggested as if it was the easiest thing in the world. “All they need is a preview. Half of them haven't seen the Bell Towers anyway, and we don't have the time to show it to them now.”

Captain Green and X.O. Shaw looked exasperated surveying the motley crew. Their eyes widened when they spotted Grease's gargantuan frame.

“This one's going?” Shaw asked, miffed and very British. “We'll have to recalibrate the entire system, if he even fits into the capsule! How much do you weigh?”

“Actually, I… uh… have no idea,” Grease said. He looked like he wanted to shrink into himself.

“You don't... he doesn't...” Shaw pulled a pencil out from behind her ear and began scribbling figures down on a note pad as she babbled.

“It is extremely important that we know the exact weight of the contents of each capsule before launch, because over such a great distance, the landing zone shifts by miles for every pound we miscalculate. We could drop you anywhere from the side of a Swiss mountain to right in Adolf's lap,” Green explained.

“I wouldn't mind getting up close and personal with the Führer,” Rothenberg muttered. “I have a few policy points to discuss with him.”

The officials around the Jewish commando chuckled, but Lucky could see Rotherberg's knuckles going white around the worn grip of a blade on his belt.

“The Direct Insertion Vehicle, Expendable Rocket Type is a system that can place individual soldiers behind enemy lines from a launch platform over one thousand miles away. However, with these kind of maths, one misplaced number will kill you,” Shaw said. She shook her head and crumpled up all the figures she'd been scribbling down, then sighed and looked at Grease. “We shall have to get you on a scale.”

“So how exactly does this thing work?” Grease asked her, but Goldbrick fielded the question.

“They're going to jam you into the nose of a forty-yard-long rocket, blast you into outer space, then drop you into Germany in a glorified artillery shell,” he answered.

“That, that is... accurate,” Shaw said, considering Goldbrick's analysis.

“If we're falling out of the sky, how do we get out of Germany?” Grease wondered. A few other officials nodded in agreement. It didn't seem like the DIVERT left any life line, and the officials around me were concerned.

“Trust me, son, this isn't a suicide mission,” Goldbrick replied, “We will get you home, but also trust that getting into Germany will be the easy leg of the journey.”

The concern that Grease's question of escape had introduced evaporated. Though his answer still left the question unanswered, Goldbrick's word alone was enough to assuage the officials' fears. Lucky'd only known the man a few minutes, but he'd learned enough to know that he would fight for him, and that he meant every word he said. A terse Australian voice spoke up from the back of the room. Lucky twisted around, never one to give up a chance to look at Adele Seacombe.

“Do you lot still call the rockets 'supersonic coffins?'” the Angel asked, crossing her arms across her chest. She seemed perturbed that her services weren't needed.

“We have made it much safer in recent months, Flight Lieutenant,” Shaw answered. “Sergeant Hall can vouch to that.”

“Fixed up the landing system myself,” Bucket added.

“Still don't trust it,” Angel mumbled, though she never seemed wholly relaxed unless she was in the air.

“Trust it or not, it's the only way we're getting into Germany inside our window. The Nazis have made a critical error, and the time for our attack has come.” The big general smirked goldenly to settle the matter.

Angel re-crossed her arms and leaned up against the wall. She was haloed by framed photos of fallen officials.

Dozens of men and women were memorialized on that wall. Five new photos had been hung at the end, the casualties of Operation Damsel, names Lucky'd never forget: Japhet Moore and Nikolas Delroy were killed in action by gremlins, Jeff Lee had been executed while bound by Isaak Gerhardt, and Willie Dutton and Brett Rossling were both murdered on Doktor Metzger's operating table. The Colonel caught Lucky staring at the pictures of the departed.

“Many officials died to bring us this information,” the Colonel said gravely. Silence hung heavy in the room. The Colonel waited for a moment, then cleared his throat and continued. “Let us not dishonor their memory by squandering this opportunity.”

“Agreed,” said Goldbrick. “Officials, we launch in sixteen and a half hours. You have twelve to get your affairs in order and meet your team in the hangar. Field teams, get sleep, get a meal, write a letter, do what you like, but then gear up for the fight of your life, and be ready and be sharp to go over the edge. The support crew is making ready for launch as we speak, so prepare yourselves.”

The big general looked over his two squads. There were men and women, soldiers and scientists, captains and crewmen, people of all races.

“I never made a speech that was fit to be written down in a history book, and I'm not starting now. Officials, tomorrow we turn this war around, and we will grind these animals into pieces so small that ants will turn them down.”

The general snapped to attention, pulling his hand to his brow in a sharp salute. Every official in the room, no matter their nationality or rank, hopped to their feet and returned Goldbrick's salute. He brought his hand down, and the whole room followed suit.

“Officials, dismissed, except for Sergeant Hall and Lieutenant Seacombe,” he said. Most everyone filed out, whispering among themselves.

“So where to, buddy?” Grease asked, patting Lucky on the shoulder as the room quickly emptied, save for a few stragglers. Four of them stayed back in the mess hall, aside from the furiously planning huddle of Goldbrick, the Colonel, Dixon, Green, and Shaw.

“Well, I say we should...” Lucky started, then saw Bucket. He stood before the picture of Willie Dutton, his deceased assistant. The picture was all that was left after the eruption. The young soldier had been cremated under cubic miles of collapsed volcano and burning lava. Bucket stood silently, staring at the man whose death he blamed himself for. The drop into Spain had been his self-imposed penance for Dutton's fate.

Angel stood by him, her hand on his shoulder. She wasn't saying anything, but Bucket wouldn't have wanted her to anyway. She looked back at Lucky and attempted a smile, but he could tell from the look in her ocean blue eyes that she knew loss. Bucket tried to smile back with about as much success.

“Hey Romeo,” Grease chided, “Give the dame a break with the puppy eyes for a minute and tell me what the plan is.”

“Sorry,” Lucky said, snapping out of it. He had forgotten that the last few days hadn't been just long for him. He led Grease out of the mess hall, leaving Bucket and Angel with Dutton.

“Let's see if we can't find you some real clothes and lock down our gear,” Lucky said.

“Sounds good to me,” Grease answered through a full mouth. He pointed down and opened the pocket of his robe. Somehow he'd snagged a stack of napkin-swaddled ham sandwiches.

“How'd you get those?”

“Thought I'd take advantage of the mess hall while we were in there,” he answered, then took another bite. “Want one?”

Lucky shook his head and couldn't help but smile. Even wrapped up like a green mummy, twice as wide and half again as tall as before, dressed in a baby blue robe and red-hearted boxers, with every eye on him, Grease still managed to be stealthy and nimble.

“Come on,” Lucky said, pointing down the hallway, “Let's go see Woody and find you some real pants.”

“Deal,” Grease replied, grinning around a mouthful of ham.

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Copyright © 2023 Daniel Baldwin. All rights reserved.

Written and edited by Daniel Baldwin. Art by Dudu Torres.