The Secret Files of Lucky Ford: Operation Arm Breaker, Part 3 of 17

Lucky and Grease are in for something far bigger than they’d every signed up for. After Spain, they both want to have normal lives agin, but they can’t turn their backs on what they’ve seen. Their next moves could could change the course of the war, or end their lives.

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 3 of Operation Arm Breaker. If you haven’t read Part 1 or Part 2 yet, check them out first.

Content Warnings: Tobacco Use, Mild Swearing

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

Grease and Lucky made their way down to the shooting range, the most-armored section of the ship. The long room was unoccupied, save for Woody. The big Canadian quartermaster had his feet up on his target control console with a set on tiny glasses perched on his red nose, which was buried in a rumpled newspaper. The dog-eared front page sported a headline that read Billy Club Bastard: Patriot or Menace?. Lucky was sure they could have left him reading all day, but Woody jumped to his feet the second he heard Grease's steel peg leg clank on the deck. The big grin on his face was a total departure from when Lucky'd walked in on Miller trying out his new environment suit.

“Lucky!” Woody yelled, charging him like a mama bear. Lucky barely had time to cover his ribs before he was on him. Woody gave him a comparatively gentle hug this time, a relief on his healing bones. Still, Lucky could feel the blood pressure rise in his head and feet 'til he got set down.

“And you must be Grease,” Woody said, putting a hand out. Grease smiled and put his arms out wide. Woody didn't need a second invitation and he wrapped up Grease as well as he could.

“The one and only, sir,” Grease quipped onto the top of Woody's bald head. If Lucky could have rolled his eyes any harder they would have flipped upside-down.

“You can just call me Woody, son. I've been looking forward to getting you set up, but first we have to get you some proper threads,” the armorer said, finally letting Grease go. He cupped a hand around his mouth and called out: “Stitches, get over here and bring the big tape!”

An older man, probably around sixty, limped out of a side room with a long tape measure in one hand, a pincushion on his wrist, and a pencil behind his ear.

“You got your own tailor?” Grease asked as the old man silently went to work, sketching down the odd dimensions of Grease's bulging muscles.

“This is Quartermaster First Class Stitches Sullivan, and his needlework will save your life,” Woody said, suddenly serious. The little old man didn't notice anything any of them were saying and just kept to measuring. “If you ever have occasion to be thankful that your gasmask is bulletproof, that your parachute is fireproof, or that you can snap a bayonet against your breast pocket button, that's all Stitches' doing.”

Then he leaned over and whispered to Lucky:

“And let's just say I stand by his work.”

Woody flipped up his eye patch, revealing an empty socket sealed shut by the cleanest suture scar Lucky'd ever seen. Woody replaced the patch and beamed.

“When our Mark VI took a howitzer shell to the ammo box, that little Ottowan pulled me out by himself and had my eye closed up so fast and so easy that I didn't even feel it. Saved my life.”

As quickly as he had begun, Stitches finished his measurements and disappeared into a back room, a hefty bolt of olive drab cloth under his spindly arm.

“We'll get you pantsed in no time, son,” Woody said, suddenly genial again as he clapped Grease on the shoulder. “Now let's see what we can do for you, ordnance-wise. Step into my office.”

Lucky and Grease followed Woody from the range into his armory, a small, thick-walled room stacked floor to ceiling with weapons and ammunition from every country, in every theater.

“I got a couple ideas myself,” Grease said. “What happened to that big gun I brought with me?”

“I have it right here, but I hardly think a muzzle-loading punt gun is fit for the field,” Woody replied. He pulled a green canvas tarp off a stack of boxes, revealing the punt gun laying on top. He grunted as he lifted it. The shotgun was too long to stand straight up in the armory without taking out a light bulb. “Four yards long, heavier than a prize fighter? It won't even fit into the DIVERT capsule!”

Grease didn't say anything, he just lifted the hefty shotgun to his shoulder like it was an ordinary sporting piece. The big gun and the big man seemed like they were made for each other. Woody strained as he took the punt gun out of Grease's hands and set it on the deck with a heavy thud.

“It is a fine weapon, I'll give you that, but as it is, it has no place in modern combat. How about a brand-new T33?” he asked. He pulled a gun off the shelf that looked like it could sheer the wings off a Mustang, a .30-cal Browning modified for infantry use. Grease took it, but even a machine gun looked like a toy in his hands.

“This thing's impressive and all, but that shotgun, it feels right,” Grease said as he looked over the T33 Stinger.

“I understand the feeling,” Woody replied, letting himself wax nostalgic for some long-lost firearm. “I'll tell you what: you take that T33, and I'll see what we can do for you with that punt gun, see if we can't make it a bit more tactical for you. I'll put my best men on it.”

“Thanks,” said Grease, and he slung the Stinger over his shoulder.

“Boys!” Woody shouted, “Get in here!”

A half-dozen officials appeared from another side room, each dressed in leather aprons, with jeweler's glasses and heavy gloves on. Their pockets bulged with gunsmithing tools that clanked with each step. The squad of armorers stopped in a row in front of their chief, awaiting instructions.

“Private Bennoli here needs this punt gun in tactical shape before he lights off tomorrow,” Woody said. “Turn this twelve-foot antique into something that'll spoil a kraut's day, do it fast, and see if we can't give him a stock of ammunition to go with it.”

“Absolutely,” one of the armorers said, “You won't even recognize it, private.”

It took three of them to pick up the gun and carry it into the depths of their shop. The sound of an impassioned but hushed argument sprang up from the other room, with each of the six gunsmiths eager to work on such a unique piece. Woody went on as if the squabble wasn't happening:

“And you, Lucky, I heard you already lost that new Garand I gave you,” he said, trying his best to look mad but not quite pulling it off.

“First thing I did was crash into a tree and drop it,” Lucky said.

“That's two now, isn't it?” Woody teased.

“I did manage to keep my Colt,” Lucky said, patting the reliable old pistol on his hip.

“Good thing you held onto something. I heard those minxy nurses stripped you buck naked,” Woody said. He let loose a deep belly laugh that Lucky could feel in his aching bones. Woody either blinked or winked then held out his hand for the Colt. Lucky unholstered it and handed it over.

“Looks a bit more seasoned than before,” Woody observed, making the.45 looking positively tiny in his big hands.

“I managed to pack about a pound of ash into it,” Lucky explained.

“This is a good gun,” Woody said, examining each battle-earned scratch and scuff on the worn weapon. “I'll have it up to snuff before you light off.”

He set the beat-up pistol down on a soft towel and motioned toward the near-endless shelves around them. Each overflowed with ammunition and gear.

“In the meantime, I've got some new bits for you. You'll get the cowboy stew of load-outs: a little bit of everything.”

Woody handed each of them an open pack.

“Now keep those wide open and hold on tight,” he said, then began chucking a barrage of items their way, leaving them scrambling to catch each flying piece of equipment. Clips of rifle ammo, grenades, bandages, a canteen each, replacement bayonets, flashlights, and a score of new equipment Lucky didn't recognize at all. By the time Woody'd finished, Lucky's pack was full to the brim. There was eighty pounds of ammo and materiel strapped to his back, a rifle on his shoulder and his pistol holster empty. Grease was struggling with his: the straps were barely big enough to fit around his biceps, and his huge back was far too wide for the pack anyway.

“Looks like Stitches has a full day,” he said, and took the uselessly-small pack from out of Grease's hands. “You boys get on out of here, Grease, we'll get you your new digs in no time.”

“Thanks, Woody,” Grease said.

“Thank you, chief,” Lucky added.

“You're welcome, now get on, I got work to do and you two look like hell. Grab some rack time while you can,” the big Canadian advised. He pulled out an empty pack and began readying it for another official going on the upcoming mission. He had already forgotten that Grease and Lucky were in the room. Lucky hefted the pack higher on his shoulders and led Grease out of the armory.

“I've had about eight hours of sleep since we left Africa, I'm so beat that I could sleep standing up,” Lucky said to him. “Let's find some bunks and get a few hours, then we'll get suited up for action.”

“Lucky, you got a good idea there, but...” Grease said, pausing to let his stomach rumble, a thundering growl loud as Frankenstein's groan, “...You think we got time for a couple more bites first?”

Lucky grinned; Grease hadn't changed that much.

“Of course,” Lucky said. He moved to take the lead, but Grease pushed past. He'd memorized the path from the mess hall and Lucky followed him back through the zig-zagging hallways.

The only people more astonished by how much food Grease shoveled away than Lucky was were the poor cooks who’d thought their shift was almost over. Grease emptied one buffet platter after another, piling French food on top of British on top of American on top of Belgian and Greek before he wolfed it all down. Even before he was an I-soldier, he’d put away mountains of burgers and towers of sandwiches. Back in training, Lucky'd always made sure Grease had his wallet on him before going out on the town because his tab was one no one wanted to get stuck with.

The pair left the mess hall in rush. The French chef had started waving a cleaver when Grease slipped the eighth croque monsieur in his pocket. Lucky was never any good with French, but his meaning was universal. Even so, Grease had polished off his sandwich stash before they got to the bunks.

It took some searching to find rack space as Lucky hadn't officially gotten a bunk assignment yet. Up until then he hadn't yet spent a complete twenty-four hours on the HMS St. George. After a few inadvertent rousings of dogs-watch crewmen they finally found some unoccupied racks and collapsed.

As tired as Lucky was, that lumpy sailor mattress felt like a king's goose-down bed, though even a muddy fox hole would've worked for him by then. He somehow managed to set a clock, a feat in itself because his eyes wouldn't open once he was horizontal.

Lucky felt like he'd blinked, then the alarm was ringing, jolting him awake.

No dreams he remembered, but he was drenched in sweat all the same and the wool blanket was kicked off onto the floor.

Lucky'd set the clock for a full night, a solid eight hours, but they'd snoozed right through those eight and two more, even with the ringing. Ten hours straight felt like a New York minute, and Lucky woke up aching like a beaten mule. It really would be a long day.

Grease whispered something from his place on the floor. Lucky swung his feet off the side of the bunk and looked at him. The big man seemed at peace at first, even under the armor and bandages and stitches. It was only after a moment that Lucky noticed the twitches, the near-silent gasps and cries disguised as whispered dreams. His eyes were running laps behind their lids. He wasn't fine, but he wasn't a man to admit it either. He'd grind away at it in silence, behind jokes and a smile. If he ever changed his mind and brought it up, Lucky swore he'd be there to listen.

“Hey,” Lucky said, “Wake up.”

Grease didn't respond, he just smacked his lips and rolled onto his side. He was far too large for the diminutive Royal Navy bunks. In fact, they'd had to lay out two mattresses side by side for him to even lay down flat, with a third laid crossways to keep his foot off the floor. Long term, someone would have to come up with something for him, but this worked for now.

“Get up,” Lucky said again, poking him with a toe. He grumbled and swatted at Lucky, missing but putting an eighth-of-an-inch dent in the steel floor with his metal knuckles. The man could hear and identify a plane by the sound of its engine before it breached the horizon, but he could also sleep through the alarm like he was stone-deaf.

“Benolli!” Lucky yelled, imitating their sergeant from the Eighty-Second Airborne as best he could, “Get your hairy rear in gear!”

Grease instinctively jumped to his feet, arms at his sides, chest puffed out. It took him a full five seconds to recognize Lucky and remember where he was.

“Oh, damn Ford, I thought we were back in Louisiana,” he said, shaking himself out. Dead asleep to razor-sharp attention left a lot of circulation to catch up. He grinned at Lucky. “You always did do the best Sergeant Burke.”

“And he always knew how to get your ass moving,” Lucky said, then remembered the fate of the sergeant: flash-fried by an I-A grenade then disintegrated into ash by that nutcase Jonesy. At least that traitor was inside-out now. Lucky suddenly felt naked without the sergeant's Colt on his hip. It was then he noticed their new clothes by the door.

One was a small bundle, a new uniform and boots for him, tied and creased, dwarfed by the mound of fabric next to it: Grease's newly made shirt, trousers, and boot. His stack of clothing looked as big as a folded green circus tent. Stitches Sullivan worked fast.

The uniforms fit perfectly, and the matching clothes made Lucky look something like Grease's ventriloquist dummy when he stood next to him. Unfortunately they didn't have any helmets that covered the bare bolts sticking out of his skull, but then again a helmet wasn't necessary with all the layered steel and extra bone the Romanian had installed under Grease's scalp.

Once they were suited up they headed to the hanger for the mission launch.

Grease's stomach growled the whole way.

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

Both teams were already assembled in the vast hangar by the time Grease and Lucky arrived. They had separated into two groups and were going over their equipment together. The Colonel and Goldbrick were discussing maps and logistics with Miller, Sinclair, Dixon, and Benjamin. Green and Shaw were helping with any details they missed. Grease and Lucky slunk over to Goldbrick's Team Two, wary about getting chewed out for their apparent tardiness. Miller noticed them arrive and gave a distracted wave but didn't leave the Colonel's side.

The three officials at the prep table waiting for them were all from the Western European bureau, officials Lucky had not yet had a chance to meet. He watched them set out their gear before saying anything.

The first thing he noticed was the six-foot longbow set out by a slender brunette. She was taller than Lucky, a feature he hadn't appreciated in a woman until just that moment. She glanced up and caught him studying her.

“Are you the rogue duo?” she asked. She was English, maybe a year older than Lucky, and toned, tanned, and athletic.

“The what?” Lucky stammered. Even after fighting side-by-side with gorgeous women like Angel and Emilia in the weirdest places, he still got tripped up by every single one of them.

“The second-class who ran his own mission into a neutral country,” said the older of the other two officials, a Frenchman with a thick black beard and graying hair. He looked about thirty plus stress.

“That sounds somewhat familiar...” Lucky answered, careful not to admit anything they didn't know yet. The Frenchman gave Lucky a once-over with dark, piercing eyes. Lucky been a deputy, and by that look he knew that the Frenchman had done some kind of police work. He’d visually disassembled and rebuilt the pair in an instant, taking in their details, analyzing them individually and as a whole, then filed his conclusion away to apply to every action and interaction he'd ever observe in them again.

His most striking feature was not his analytical eyes but the yellow-green markings on his face. The rectangles of color across his cheeks and forehead didn't look like paint, as they were in his skin rather than on it. They might have been tattoos or scars. Lucky'd seen stranger things, so he didn't dwell on them.

The third official smacked Lucky hard on the shoulder then put out a calloused hand.

“John Graves, Five Grand, call me Grand, pleasure to meet another free thinker,” he said in a thick British accent. His smile was wide and crooked underneath a bushy handlebar mustache. A knotty scar ran from his forehead, up and over his buzzed blonde head, all the way down to the top of his neck, then split and traced the base of his skull to either side. It moved when he spoke.

“Free thinking. The last thing we need on this mission,” the Frenchman snorted.

“Watch it, buddy, his 'free thinking' saved my can,” Grease said. The Frenchman looked like he might have something smart to say in response, but Grand blustered past him, nudging him aside with a smile on his face.

“John Graves, Five Grand, call me Grand, good to have you,” he said. His hand was devoured by Grease's huge mitt.

“Grease, it's good to be had,” Grease replied. He let go of Grand's hand and leaned in toward the lady. “Marco, a pleasure to meet you.”

“Cheddarwright,” she answered. She shook his hand but recoiled before he could kiss it, venom in her eyes. She leaned around him to speak to Lucky.

“And you are...?” she asked. Before he could answer, the Frenchman butted in again.

“The new one, Neff's boy, Ford,” he growled. Grease jumped to Lucky's defense.

“Hey, I don't know what your problem with Lucky is, but...” He was cut off once more by Grand pushing himself back between the two men.

“Calm down, big guy, Bastedo here is a stickler,” Grand said in an attempt to calm Grease, but the big Bronx boy could smell a cop a mile off.

“The only stickler here is the one he needs to take out of his - !” Grease started, but Lucky interrupted before he could get any more graphic.

“Let's take a look at all this stuff the chief gave me,” Lucky said, dumping his pack on the table as loud as he could.

“What is all that?” Grease asked, successfully distracted. Bastedo went back to work on his gear, carefully cleaning a top-loading large-bore carbine Lucky couldn't identify.

The typical load-out was all there, the same equipment Lucky'd lost on two missions in a row. Three, if he counted his plane crash with the Eighty-Second. He began packing it all back away, organized for quick access on the ground. Grenades and ammo went on his belt, his new knife in a shoulder sheath, canteen and gas mask case on his hip. He felt naked without his Colt, but didn't have time to worry.

A Hawkins anti-tank bomb went into his bag, followed by three C-rats. It wasn't until he picked up the flashlight that he noticed anything out of the ordinary. It felt odd, definitely lighter, and the weight inside shifted like it was full of liquid. Lucky went to unscrew the bottom cap but Cheddarwright noticed what he was doing and stopped him.

“Don't open it like that!” she snapped, grabbing the flashlight out of his hands. “You really are green, aren't you?”

“What was I doing?” Lucky asked.

“Trying to spill out your Franklin torch all over the deck,” she answered. She turned the flashlight upside-down and took off what should have been the battery cap. The inside bubbled with faintly-glowing green goop and expelled a distinctly earthy odor.

“What is that?”

“That's your foxfire. Keep it well fed and your light will last forever,” she said. Seeing he was still confused by that explanation, she pulled a piece of gum out of her pocket and dropped it into the slime. She replaced the cap then shook the flashlight vigorously before tossing it back to Lucky.

“Now try it.”

Lucky pushed the switch forward which lifted a blinder cap off the torch's lens. An eerie, greenish-blue glow poured forth, strong enough to illuminate the opposite wall of the hangar.

“What is that stuff?” Grease asked.

“Foxfire fungus and a few organic chemicals to give its bio-luminescence a rise. No batteries needed, so that muck will never leave you flat,” she said. She smiled and went back to work on her own kit. Lucky clamped the lens cover back onto the torch and clipped the fungus colony to his webbing. The next couple items he came across, a thermos-sized can labeled 'Conveyable Cellulose Conversion Organ' and a pill bottle containing 'Positive Epinepherine Propagator,' he just threw in the bag. He didn't want to embarrass himself in front of Cheddarwright too many times in a row.

The other officials left them to their own devices, Lucky packing and Grease twiddling his thumbs.

Grease wasn't one to let silence persist. He always had stories about growing up in Newark, about brawls and mobsters and ballgames. Sometimes he told them to brag, sometimes to get a laugh. Sometimes he just needed to talk and he didn't know why.

“So back home, a couple years back, this wise guy, Salvatore Sigillito, an old-blood hood, was running my block, squeezing all the shops. He didn't even get that much scratch from us, it was more of a hobby to him. He just did it 'cause he could. Everybody called him Cousin Sal, 'cause he was just like family: always coming around looking for money.”

Lucky was only half-listening as he packed.

“Cousin Sal starts raising his fee, upping it a little every week, but times were tough. It got to be too much, too fast. So the store owners get together and they decide that enough's enough. The cops wouldn't do anything for us 'cause they were in Sal's pocket. So the block hired some goons, micks I think, and had them go after Sal.”

He chuckled and shook his head at the memory.

“So these five micks catch Sal when he's all twisted up on grappa. Bust him up good. Break both legs, smash his hands with a brick. Sliced his throat with his own liquor bottle, and left him in the gutter. He was done.”

“So your neighbors hired muscle to kill somebody?” Lucky asked. This story sounded about as true as any of his other ones. Grease didn't hear the question.

“But he didn't die. The wop pulled through, and two years later he lined up the five Irish boys in the street in front of our store, put 'em on their knees, and put a bullet in each of their heads. Killed 'em right in front of my dad.”

Lucky hooked his T-shovel under the straps and secured the last of his gear, then gave his full attention to Grease.

“Then he left and never came back to the block, but before he did he told my dad: 'If you're going to hurt me, you better kill me. I die, we're even; I live, I owe you a debt.' He paid up with five corpses. My dad went out of business in a month.”

“Damn,” Lucky said.

“It's a hell of a philosophy,” Grease replied. He stretched his hand out, examining his own patchwork skin. He sat quiet for a minute, then changed the subject.

“Looks you got a whole kit there, Luck,” he said. The squeak of a loose wheel pierced the hangar. It was Woody, pushing a heavy-duty cart piled high with munitions.

“I knew you all wouldn't leave without all this tackle,” Woody called out. He grunted and shoved the overloaded cart forward. “Have your pact-breaker beacons right here, along with Grease's kit.”

“Thank you, chief,” the Colonel called out. Miller came over and took three of the four mailbox-sized radio transmitters off the top of the cart. Woody grinned and motioned Grease and Lucky over.

“Here's your old friend, Lucky, good as new,” he said, handing over Lucky's Colt, as polished and clean as the beat-up old pistol could get. It slid right back into into its holster. Its weight was familiar and reassuring. “Doc P. had some pharmaceuticals for the pair of you, too.”

He handed Grease a brown bag rattling with pill bottles and tubs of topical creams. It was supposed to be enough to manage the pain of the extreme surgeries he'd received only days before and prevent any subsequent infections.

“This one's from me,” Woody said, handing Grease a canvas bundle. Grease unrolled it to find a kit containing machine oils, wire brushes, screwdrivers, ratchets, and an adjustable wrench. “In case that peg needs any work in the field. I'd hate to see it get jammed. Grit's not just coming up from the ground, these days.”

Grease leaned hard on his steel prosthetic. It responded flawlessly, but he knew that anything could happen out there.

“And for you, in case the rockets rattle anything loose,” Woody said. He handed Lucky four Osteo-Bond syringes. The bone-sealing cement still felt like a cold mass under Lucky's skin. He gagged at the thought of having to use the stuff on himself. Woody smiled, then directed Grease's attention to the pile of gear on his cart.

“After some marathon work from Stitches, we've got you squared away, my friend,” he said. “Turn around and take a knee for me.”

Grease complied, getting down and putting his back to the cart. Woody threw a pair of massive straps over his shoulders.

“There you go,” Woody said. Without so much as a grunt, Grease lifted the huge canvas and leather bag off the cart. It was big enough to fit Lucky inside along with a couple friends.

“You got you typical kit here, same as Lucky, and some precious cargo,” he explained as he stuffed one of the mortar transmitters into the pack. “Plus you're carrying eight hundred rounds of thirty-cal ammo for your new T33, as well as a dozen extra grenades, smoke, drum, frag, firefog, spinnennetz, and thermite, a couple anti-tank mines, and you're hauling about a hundred mini-rockets for Bastedo's M13. Anybody who can carry this much can bet I'll make 'em a pack mule every time.”

Woody handed Grease the T33 Stinger, but the thirty-cal machine gun looked as disappointing in his hands as a stubby little Sten would look in Lucky's.

“Now throw this on,” Woody said and handed him a massive bandolier. At first Lucky thought it was filled with small smoke canisters, but then he recognized them as massive shotgun shells, each three inches wide and eight inches long. Grease's jaw dropped.

“You did it?” he asked. He was acting like it was Christmas morning as he threw the bandolier over his head.

“Here she is,” Woody said. He opened a long wooden crate to reveal the modified punt gun. The quartermaster grunted when he tried to pick it up, but Grease lifted it with one hand.

Woody's gunsmiths had chopped the twelve-foot barrel down to a mere six feet and had sawed down the stock, leaving an ogre-sized pistol grip. The biggest change was the breaking breach the smiths had created, allowing Grease to reload it as quickly as a quailing gun. The whole thing had been painted matte black, completing its menacing look. The gun was an impossible cannon for any man, but for Grease it was perfect. He was strong enough to fire the monstrosity from the hip.

“She's beautiful,” was all Grease could manage.

“She'll pack a hell of a wallop, one you'll be able to hear for miles. God help you if you fire it inside.”

“God help anyone in front of her.” Grease said.

“The boys built you up a few choices, too,” Woody said, pointing at the shells slung across Grease's armored chest. “Those yellows there are solid slugs, eleven-pound chunks of lead that can knock in a bunker door and turn half-tracks inside-out. Green is the bee-hive, sixteen-hundred steel BB's, and red is the room-clearer: two-hundred-seventy double-ought buckshot pellets.”

“Can she handle the hairy bastards that scooped me up?” Grease asked.

“Vargulf? Consider them pulp.”

“Good,” Grease said, “I owe them something.”

“So here we are,” Goldbrick said. He puffed away on a Cuban and looked over the two teams. He had a map of southern Germany up on a board behind him. One red circle denoted the location of Eberkopf and two smaller green circles, both about fifteen miles away and twenty apart, had to be the landing zones.

“The plan's simple, execution is what's going to be the bug,” he continued. “Two teams, four transmitters. We're not launching two teams to support each other, we're doubling our odds. One goes down, we still got the other.”

He turned and stabbed at the map with a stubby finger, indicating the northernmost circle.

“Team One, led by Colonel Halistone, is launching from the USS Andrew Portnoy and will infiltrate from the west.” His finger traced downward, over the second circle. “My team will hit them from the south, off the Kelly. Captain Green, is everything set for launch?”

The New Englander nodded to Goldbrick, then stepped up.

“The Deep Strike fleet is in place and in formation as of half an hour ago,” Green reported. “Eight rockets are prepped on both the Kelly and the Portnoy. There is no reserve. The Harold Queen is in dry dock and the Valentin Desrochers is still in use by the Pacific fleet. These sixteen rockets are all you've got. X.O. Shaw has the launch protocols.”

“Thank you, sir,” Shaw said. She smiled but quickly caught herself and adopted an officer's scowl. Her intense facade didn't quite make Lucky forget how genuine that smile was. She was happy to be recognized for her talents.

She was at least six inches shorter than Green, who was just barely average height to begin with. She didn't have the calendar girl looks of Angel or Cheddarwright, but her confidence and engaging green eyes more than made up for it. Another smile threatened to crack her poker face. Her curly red hair had been done up in a tight bun, but a few rebellious ruby locks had wrestled their way free and made her ivory skin glow in comparison.

She took one more second to consult her notes, then hid them behind her back.

“Officials, your entry vehicles are fueled and ready to launch, they simply require their burn-time algorithms and atmospheric adjustments to be programmed,” Shaw said. She took a deliberate breath, then went to work on a chalk board. “Those of you who have been through DIVERT training at the Bellegarde School will already know the procedure, but we will briefly cover it here so none of you are caught off-balance at two-hundred-thirty-thousand feet.”

With that, she drew a harsh parabola onto the board. At the base, she wrote 'launch' in barely-decipherable chicken scratch. At its apex, where the line curved over to even out to horizontal, it became dashes that extended all the way across the board before solidifying again to drop back down with the arc of a falling bomb. At the bottom, she wrote 'LZ.'

“The first stage of the launch serves to get the rocket to altitude, in this case about forty-three miles. The acceleration will put your bodies under three times the normal stress of gravity for three minutes and fourteen seconds. Then you will feel a bump,” she explained. She tapped on the chalkboard where the near-vertical line turned to dashes and evened out.

“This bump will be your main booster separating from the glide rocket and landing capsule. The second stage sees your travel rocket carry you at speed in an assisted glide for ten minutes and forty seconds. This your time to relax, to enjoy your oxygen feed before the g-forces come back. The second bump you feel will be your braking rockets activating. At this point you will be moving at over thirty-six-hundred miles-per-hour. The glide-brakes will slow you to a navigable speed. After thirty-two minutes and fifteen seconds of deceleration and increasing stress, your third bump indicates stage three separation.”

This was the point where the horizontal dashes became a steep, solid drop.

“Your capsule will free-fall drop from thirty-two miles for one-hundred-point-nine seconds. The fourth bump is your parachute deploying, which slows the capsule enough for the landing rockets to do their job. The rockets activate two seconds later at half-mile's altitude, marking your fifth bump.” She smiled and pointed to the point on her diagram marked 'LZ.' “Your sixth bump will be the ground. Please do not remove your mouth guards or ear plugs until after the sixth bump. You will be hitting the soil with the force of a locomotive.”

She looked around the room to make sure everyone was listening. She made deliberate eye contact with every DIVERT virgin and spelled out her rules:

“Six bumps and you are clear. Do not remove your oral or ear protection until the hatch blows. Do not disengage your safety harnesses until the hatch blows. Thirty minutes after your hatch blows, the entire capsule self-destructs. Do not be nearby.”

Lucky nodded despite himself. This would be intense.

“You will each need to gather your gear and weigh in. Every bullet, every button, every eyelash must be accounted for. If you even need to use the loo, do it before weigh-in. The programming for the rockets is measured in ounces. Any mass missing or added on can throw everything for a loop.”

“That's literal, folks,” Green added. “Uneven mass distribution can cause your capsule to tumble. If you're toes-up at the wrong time, the braking rockets will do just the opposite and you'll be crushed into cranberry sauce.”

“Stay still, stay calm, and you will be in Germany in an hour. After this briefing concludes, gather your gear, weigh in, and report to your field commander to shuttle to the launch platforms. Thank you, officials,” Shaw said. She finally let her smile break through, but it slipped away before it could light up the room long enough to embarrass her.

Goldbrick stepped up and took her place.

“Thanks to the X.O.,” he said. Goldbrick carefully set his thick cigar on the edge of the briefing table, then turned his attention back to his soldiers.

“You all know the DIVERT system is a one-way ride. I won't give you the run-around: it is loud, it is complicated, it is dangerous, and it is terrifying. It is also the easy part.”

Goldbrick nodded to Sinclair, who replaced the projected map of the Eberkopf region with a larger one depicting both southern Germany and northern Switzerland. Eberkopf's location was marked in red, nestled between the towns of Ostrach and Altshausen. Further to the south, between the base and the Swiss border, a blue mark encircled the town of Immenstaad.

“After your teams plant the pact-breaker radio beacons, your next goal is here, in Immenstaad,” Goldbrick explained. The town was twenty-five miles south of Eberkopf, perched on the shore of Lake Constance. “Lieutenant Rothenberg will be coordinating your exfil with a local resistance group, the Hundred Deacons. He'll be going in solo, just outside Immenstad to link up with the Deacons early and making sure everything is prepped. Under his direction they will provide us secure transport across the lake.”

“The Swiss are going to let us in?” Farisi asked.

“It's already arranged,” The Colonel answered.

“With a boatload of money,” Goldbrick added. “The same way we're getting the rest of this mission done. The Deacons want cash and intel, the Swiss are working off a threat that we'd pull out our deposits, and our air cover is a squadron of wanted mercenaries.”

“Mercenaries?” Angel spoke up from the back of the group. Lucky hadn't even seen her come in.

“Yes, Lieutenant. We've contracted the Black Wings,” Goldbrick said carefully. Angel jumped to object but the Colonel put up a hand to stop her.

“I know more than anyone,” the Colonel told her. “These are desperate times, but we are not fools and we do not forget. You have full control in this mission, and you have authorization to use any means to keep them on objective”

“I thought no one could fly through this Vesuvius mess,” Sinclair piped in.

“You can thank Hall for that bit,” Angel told him.

“I didn't get much sleep, but I slapped a filter together that'll let her fly,” Bucket explained.

“And we've sent those plans on to the Black Wings,” Goldbrick said.

“Your P-38 is loaded and ready to go on deck right now, Seacombe,” Commodore Dixon said. He pointed over his shoulder to a sea-blue double-canopied fighter swarming with flight crew at the other end of the hangar. There was a weird cartoon creature and the name 'Brizzy Bunyip' painted on the plane's nose. “You'll have Tramp on your rear guns and you're to rendezvous with Masterson and the rest of his Black Wings at their base near Mirecourt, outside Épinal, before leading them on the ground support mission to Eberkopf.”

“I've been to Mirecourt,” Angel growled. She didn't seem too eager to work with Masterson. “Is Tramp cleared to fly? His leg isn't healed yet and Ajax is still laid out.”

Tramp was Achilles Adrastos' call-sign. Angel was right. For Achilles, leaving his brother would be rough. He already blamed himself for not being there when Achilles got hurt.

“You don't fire that turret with your feet, Lieutenant,” Dixon snapped. “And he took the same oath we all did. He is an official first, a soldier second, a Greek third, and a brother last. Collect him, collect your flight plan, then get to France.”

“Yes, sir,” Angel said. She snapped off a quick salute, then left the hangar. Lucky watched her disappear. The air seemed to cool down around Lucky once she was gone.

“Even with Angel and the Black Wings covering our rears, we still have to get twenty-five miles to our rides, presumably with an army of chafed Nazi devils on our heels,” Goldbrick said. He looked around the somber hanger and flashed his golden grin.

“Like I said, the thirty-mile fall will be the easy part.”

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Copyright © 2023 Daniel Baldwin. All rights reserved.

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