The Secret Files of Lucky Ford: The Dragon, the Wolf, and the Maiden, Part 12 of 12

Lucky Ford and the officials have escaped the terrors of Vesuvius, but what lies beyond? Can they afford a moment’s rest? The final chapter of The Dragon, the Wolf, and the Maiden comes to an explosive conclusion.

The Dragon, the Wolf, and the Maiden is now available as a Kindle ebook, in paperback, or as a DRM-free ePub!

This is finale, Part 12, of The Secret Files of Lucky Ford: The Dragon, the Wolf, and the Maiden. If you aren’t caught up yet, check out Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6, Part 7, Part 8, Part 9, Part 10, and Part 11 before reading any further.

Content Warnings: Violence, Death, Mild Swearing, Tobacco Use, Alcohol Use, Fake News, Nazis

SUNDAY MORNING, JULY 10, 1942
THE SHORE OF THE TYRRHENIAN SEA
OUTSIDE THE CITY OF NAPLES, ITALY

Despite the fish stink permeating Putter's truck, it was Lucky's most relaxing moment in days. The cratered, cobblestone roads pounded his back like a vigorous massage, and the flapping canvas over the truck's bed kept out most of the morning sun. He could have almost fallen asleep.

An Italian man with an unsuspicious smile and all the right papers was behind the wheel, weaving the cannery truck through the rubble strewn streets south of still-burning Naples. Lucky, the surviving officials, and Putter and his men stayed quiet and buttoned down in the back, though there was too much chaos in the city for a couple beat-up trucks to raise much suspicion.

Bucket had made sure Cão was comfortable, but the Portuguese sailor hadn't opened his eyes since just after he'd speared Gerhardt. No one knew how he'd gotten on his feet, much less killed a man with his bare hands and broken through the bulletproof glass. A once-over by the Colonel revealed that the dōtanuke bullets had punctured his left lung five times. The only thing keeping him alive was the wet towel sealing his chest cavity shut.

Ajax, still disoriented and bleeding from his ears, was out, too. He had passed out as soon as he'd gotten in the truck, leaving Bucket to worry over him, chewing the end of a soggy cigarette to distract himself.

Neff had begun obsessively cleaning his rifle, determined to get the pervasive black dust out from its every nook and cranny. Throughout the entire ordeal, the French sniper had yet to remove his reflective sunglasses.

Next to Lucky, Loud MacLeod had gotten his hands on some clean water and bandages and begun to clean the gash in his forearm. The thought of Metzger slicing the old wound open and pulling out the miniature recording device made Lucky queasy.

The only benefit to MacLeod's involuntary surgery was that Dixon's suspicions of a spy on board the Saint George had been proven false. Lucky hoped that meant the commodore's insinuations about him would be abandoned when he came back aboard.

Still, the ease with which Department Three was able to listen in on the Saint George was concerning. Lucky had an idea or two about that that he'd have to tell the Colonel about before he shipped back to the Eighty-Second.

In the Army, everyone was part of a machine, a hive, and if one drone didn't do its part perfectly and the exact same way as everyone else, the organization fell apart. In the Office, everyone was there for a specific reason, because they were the best and trusted at whatever it was they did. The Office could only succeed when no one hesitated to use the best of their talents and ideas for the benefit of all. That was something Lucky could get behind, and why he felt comfortable speaking up, even on his way out.

If any single official had held back in any way, they'd all have died in the mountain. The Colonel had brought together soldiers, pilots, sailors, engineers, and thinkers, and, now knowing the true face of this strange new war, there is no other way Lucky could think of that that'd let them win.

The Colonel had settled in after the escape and was deep in conversation with Putter Selvaggio at the front of the truck. Though the Italian-American was twenty years younger, he had grown up hard and could match the Colonel story-for-story. Putter had a way of saying a lot without saying anything specific at all, so when he spoke it was important to read between the lines, a skill Lucky'd picked up during his short tenure as a deputy.

Putter was one of the vice presidents of Selvaggio Olde World Furniture Imports, though none of his stories really had anything to do with furniture. It was more confusing when he explained it, because he used 'family' and 'business' interchangeably. Putter himself was a second-generation American with strong ties to his family back in Italy, and felt compelled to head to the homeland once he learned of the bloodshed taking place under the fascist regime.

His frequent trips to fascist Italy caught the eye of the Office, where Commodore Dixon recognized his name. The pair had met some five years back while Putter was running an underground bootlegger bar in Chicago. Putter would pour the hooch and Dixon would knock it back. 'Boots' and 'Thirsty' had become a running joke between the two of them.

Putter, now operating as Boots with resources from the Office, would regularly send Dixon updates on Axis projects and troop movements that he came across while setting up his black markets throughout Italy. It wasn't until a year ago that Putter began to smell something especially fishy.

Groups that the fascists and Nazis had rounded up, Jews, criminals, communists, were moved from their camps and taken to Sicily. At first Putter feared the worst, but after some investigation he found that had been forced into hard labor, digging a mountain base in the bowels of Mount Etna.

As soon as the Etna base was complete, those who were deemed untrustworthy were shot in front of the rest. The remaining workers, already experienced in the construction of volcanic facility, were able to hollow out Vesuvius in half the time.

While they dug, Putter was able to insert his own agents, and even himself, into the workforce. So long as no one asked questions and no one talked back, the Nazis couldn't tell the difference between the Selvaggio infiltrators and the laborers.

Putter and his men, working under the very nose of the Waffen-SS Department Three, were able to create a second set of twisting tunnels within the two mountains, allowing them unhindered access to and from the facilities. From here, Putter was able to monitor the activities of Department Three with impunity.

It wasn't until the activation of the transmitter in MacLeod's forearm and the realization that 'Agents Boots' was among them that Department Three security zeroed in on Putter's spy network. The Nazis were able to jam his transmissions during the Maiden's move from Etna, then listened in when the Office transmitted back. Between the radio intercepts and their little ear in MacLeod's arm, they organized the perfect ambush.

Though Department Three was able to listen in on the whole mission-planning and briefing, Putter was able to maintain his cover. The Colonel explained that he'd ordered Neff privately to provide long range sniper cover over the cannery, something the krauts hadn't been able to listen in on. After Gerhardt had left with the captives, Neff revealed himself to Putter and his crew who’d came to inspect the site after the ambush.

Lucky stayed quiet, listening, trying to understand how all the pieces had fit together to help him survive the night. One of the many things he didn't understand was Miller. The masked man was seated across from him, silent as well, picking at the hurricane tape sealing the hole in his chest. When Lucky had pulled out that sword, he could tell it was no trick. He'd felt Miller's heartbeat reverberating through the blade, and heard the scraping of metal on bone it slid from his chest.

“You're staring, Private Ford.” Miller said. Lucky almost jumped, embarrassed he'd been caught.

“Sorry,” he mumbled.

“It's quite all right, I can see your gears turning,” he said. Lucky thought he was smiling behind the gas mask. “Mine is an odd situation to say the least. When we get a moment to sit down aboard the Saint George, I shall answer whatever questions you may have. The files of the Office will be open to you.”

Miller unbuttoned his breast pocket and palmed a small object.

“Here,” he said, reaching across to truck. Lucky took it, a small patch, about four inches tall and two across, an embroidered red '2.' He said:

“Technically we should wait for your swearing-in, but I think you've earned it, Official Second Class, Private Lloyd Ford.”

MacLeod, who had just finished wrapping up his forearm, turned and clapped Lucky on the shoulder.

“Welcome to the family, lad,” he said, his big grin looking even wider on his dust-blackened face. Even Bucket brightened up a little bit, but Lucky could tell that Dutton was weighing on his mind. Lucky studied the patch for a moment, then stowed it in his shirt pocket, buttoning the flap so he wouldn't lose it. Lucky leaned forward to shake Miller's outstretched hand.

“Thanks,” Lucky said, too embarrassed to tell them that he wouldn't be staying.

“My pleasure, Private Ford,” Miller said. “You have earned it. You dove directly into the fire and held your own. That is something to celebrate. I am proud to serve the Office alongside you.”

“Likewise,” Lucky said. The men around him nodded or smiled, or in the case of Neff, grunted and blew his smoke up instead of at Lucky's face. He forced a thin smile and sat back, looking at the patch.

He was leaving them.

Everything hit Lucky like a ton of bricks, and he leaned back to close his eyes, only for something hard to jam him right in the ribs. He reached behind him and grabbed an angular piece of metal. When he pulled it out, he was surprised to find Werner's clipboard, complete with the Nazi’s own dried blood.

In all the confusion of the escape, Lucky had tucked the clipboard into his belt, not knowing if he'd need to clean any more clocks with the heavy notepad. Bucket's eyes went wide when he saw it, and he snatched it out of Lucky's hands.

“Holy shit, Lucky!” he exclaimed, so excited his unlit cigarette dropped out of his mouth. He began flipping through the pages, skimming the macabre notes as fast as he could. “My German's rustier than my grandfather's wheelchair, but from what I can tell, this is a gold-mine!”

“What have you got there, Sergeant?” the Colonel asked, curious about the racket at the end of the truck.

“Lucky Goddamn Ford here scooped the mother lode, Colonel!” Bucket said as he turned page after page, eyes getting wider and wider 'til they were bigger than his Coke-bottle glasses. “Let this be the only compliment I ever give that Benedict Arnold bastard: Werner von Werner he kept some meticulous notes.”

“Let me have a look, Sergeant Hall,” Miller asked. Bucket flipped a couple more pages in awe then handed the clipboard over.

“My Lord,” Miller said, sounding especially chilled through his mask filter. “We have experiment results, code words, agent names, facility locations, prisoner lists, blueprints... This might prove to be a major intelligence acquisition.”

Miller was in awe, absorbing page after page.

“Pure dead brilliant, laddie!” MacLeod said, clapping Lucky on the back. “Ah've been on me 'eels waitin' ta' give them krauts a right skelp in the geggie since they stuck me arm the first time.”

“Indeed, Corporal MacLeod. We will have to see what we have once this information has all been cataloged,” the Colonel said. He'd made his way over to Miller and was examining the blood-stained papers over his shoulder. “I hesitate to say, but this might be what we needed to get a step ahead of Department Three. We'll be able to take the fight to them. Proactive rather than reactive for the first time in this war.”

Lucky barely heard what the Colonel was saying. One of the things Miller had listed from the files stood out to him.

“Miller,” Lucky said, “What exactly does it say about prisoners in there?”

The masked man listed the information without turning back any pages.

“Names, ranks, capture dates, destinations,” he said. “Whom are you looking for?”

“Do they have anything for the night you found me?” Lucky asked. Miller was silent for a moment, continuing to read as if he had not heard Lucky's question.

“Yes...” he said eventually, almost hesitant to tell him what he’d found.

“What’s the name?” Lucky asked. If any of his old platoon was alive, Lucky was only one left on this side of the planet who'd remember them.

“Benolli, M., private first class,” Miller said. “Last listed as wounded but stable.”

Lucky's jaw dropped.

Grease. He was alive.

“Where did they take him?” Lucky asked, ready to charge right back into battle. His aches and exhaustion were drowned by a flash flood of adrenaline.

“He was sold to the Romanian,” Miller answered, almost whispering.

“The who?” Lucky wondered. Miler had said the name with resignation in his voice, the sound of impossibility. He was a man who'd survived a sword through the heart and escaped from a Nazi volcano fortress. Nothing should be impossible.

“We have been trying to keep tabs on the Romanian for several years, Lucky.” the Colonel said, taking a seat next to Lucky. “If he has your friend, Private Benolli is no longer the man you knew.”

“Metzger is a true monster, Ford,” mumbled Neff, face lit in the dark truck by the glow of the cigarette he was dragging on. He removed the butt from his mouth and looked at it, blew smoke across the cherry to make it burn bright. “But at least Metzger's victims stay dead. Hellbörg, the Romanian, he is not so generous.”

These men, the men of the Office, had seen and fought the same madness Lucky had. They shouldn't be scared of anything.

“There is another name, another captured on the same night,” Miller said after a moment, “The Romanian bought him as well.”

“Who?” Lucky asked.

“Jones, J., private.”

Red flushed across Lucky's face. His neck got warm.

Jonesy, that crazy bastard, had survived when everyone else had died. The Nazis'd save his hide while Doc's blood still dripped from his hands. He'd done something unforgivable and had escaped justice.

Lucky knew what he had to do. Those men, Jonesy and Grease, no matter what, were not going to die at the hands of Hellbörg, whoever he was.

“I don't care where they are, I'm going,” Lucky said, leaving no room for doubt in his voice.

None of the officials said a word. The fish truck slowed to a halt and Putter peered from beneath its canvas cover. Salty air and blue sunlight cut into the gloom. Wisps of smoke followed. They were at the docks. To the north, the port was still burning from the previous night's bombing raids.

Lucky took a deep breath. He knew what he had to do. No man of the Eighty-Second deserved a fate that terrified even officials.

Grease, Lucky would rescue.

Jonesy, well, justice would be served, one way or another.

SUNDAY MORNING, JULY 10, 1942
ABOARD THE CHIGHIZOLA
ON THE TYRRHENIAN SEA

None of the officials had said a word to Lucky since he'd made it clear he was going to find Hellbörg, the Romanian.

Putter had set them up on a suitably inconspicuous fishing boat, riding out from the Gulf of Naples into the Tyrrhenian Sea east of Sicily to rendezvous with the Saint George. They'd all changed into civilian clothes to disguise them in case a German patrol ship stopped them, but Lucky knew his disguise would only work until he opened his mouth. He spoke as much Italian as he spoke Chinese.

The fish stink in the shirt and overalls Lucky was wearing didn't do much to distract him from thinking about Grease. He couldn't imagine what those sick bastards were doing to some guy from the Bronx. He’d dropped into the Sicily all right, but he didn’t understand what this war was. Grease would have no idea what they were doing to him.

Last Lucky saw Grease, a German tank designed to smash through anything stupid enough to get built in front of it had sheared off his right leg. He was covered in his own blood and carried off by the creatures he'd just seen tear the rest of their squad limb-from-limb. Lucky'd thought Grease was dead then and there.

Jonesy didn't deserve the fate Department Three had in store for him, but that didn't mean the rat bastard didn't have something coming his way, either. He'd tried to defect to the Vargulf after killing one of his own squad mates. Traitors reaped what they sowed.

Half a mile ahead, the waves roiled as the Saint George surfaced, tons of water pouring from her flight deck and command tower. Putter’s men cheered and chattered at the sight. Within moments, dozens of officials gathered on the flight deck, watching the fishing boat approach. They hooked a rope ladder to the edge of the deck and kicked it over the side. Its bottom rung splashed into the sea thirty feet below.

Among the gathered officials high above, Lucky could see Achilles, Ajax's twin, foot in a cast complete with metal splints. The young Greek man, even this far out, looked worried as he leaned on a set of wooden crutches.

Lucky caught a glimpse of Angel standing next to Achilles, given away by her blonde locks, glowing as they caught rays of the early morning sun. He never took her for the sentimental type, but she was smiling as the fishing boat pulled up alongside the Saint George. She was a welcome sight.

Dixon was also on deck, with his ever-present aide Lieutenant Benjamin, waving enthusiastically. Putter waved back at him from the fishing boat's helm. The commodore held up a bottle sloshing with amber liquid and a pair of shot glasses, eliciting a grin from Putter.

A deck team had prepped a stretcher they could lower down via a loading crane. Nearby, the gray-haired doctor flanked by a his team of nurses waited fitfully for their patients. The stretcher began its slow descent, with every official watching it go.

Bucket and MacLeod carried Cão up from below-decks. The Portuguese sailor hadn't woken up since his attack on Gerhardt and his breath was was weak but steady. The Colonel had said that was the best they could hope for until he was stabilized in the Saint George's sick bay.

Ajax, assisted by Miller, came up next. The Greek soldier was awake again but still hadn't been able to find his balance, and the motion of the boat made it worse, leading to extreme seasickness. Miller didn't mind, and was gentle and patient with his charge.

Putter's Italians prepared to dock with the Saint George, hanging old tires off the port side of the boat in readiness to make contact. The helmsman brought the fishing boat up next to the submersible aircraft carrier, gently bumping into her hull to stop directly under the dangling stretcher.

Miller and Neff helped to load and strap Cão into the dangling stretcher first. The medical team watched intently over the edge of the flight deck. Cão rose slowly, and the nurses hauled him aboard once he was up top. It only took a second to transfer him to a fresh stretcher. A team of bearers rushed him away and the crane came down again.

Ajax only needed a little of Miller's help to get onto the stretcher. Achilles watched anxiously while Ajax ascended. The gruff doctor was peering into his ear with a flashlight within thirty seconds.

Once the wounded were secure, MacLeod grabbed the rope ladder and began to make his way up. Bucket, Tommy gun strapped to his back and Werner's clipboard tied with triple-checked knots to his webbing, started up after him. The sergeant almost fell off the third rung when he looked up and learned the hard way that MacLeod wore his kilt in the traditional style.

Putter climbed up the ladder next, and was immediately greeted by Dixon, who hadn't been able to wait for his old friend to get up the ladder before diving into the bottle face first. The Selvaggio men followed and were greeted by the red-coated guards, intent on patting them all down, but Dixon waved them off.

Neff and Miller made their way up the ladder after the Italians. Neff pushed his way through the crowd of welcoming officials, not stopping to be greeted by anyone, and everyone knew him well enough not to try. Miller had barely made it over the top rung before being wrapped up in one of Woody's bear hugs that lifted the masked soldier off his feet.

Lucky stayed back, too lost in his thoughts to be made up like some kind of returning hero. He felt cool Mediterranean air wisp over his face and neck, and a misting of seawater settled onto his skin. The sheriff's old cross felt cold against his chest, and he could feel it softly shifting as the boat rode the gentle waves.

The Colonel had told Lucky that everything that happened was the will of men, that they make our own choices and their own destinies. Lucky wasn't so sure.

He had escaped too many deaths in the past thirty-six hours, from North Africa to Sicily to Naples, to think that everything that happened to him wasn't connected and controlled by anything. The cross tapped his chest again.

Lucky didn't know if it was God that had saved his life, but he knew then that he wasn't ready to say he was only alive by chance, by luck. He had been kept alive through events so horrific that only ancient myths could describe what Lucky had seen, and now he knew why.

He had to save his friend.

The Colonel joined Lucky at the starboard rail of the fishing boat, looking to the north-eastern horizon. All they could see of Naples from this far out was a black cloud rising from burning buildings.

“Lucky,” the old soldier said, resting his hand on one of his pistol grips. He pointed to the smoke, saying: “Out there is a massive conclave of some of the worst men in the history of the world. Now that we've exposed their operation, I cannot even imagine how they'll retaliate.”

“The Maiden was destroyed though,” Lucky offered.

“Believe it or not, the Crying Maiden was one of Department Three's more benign creations,” the Colonel told him. “But having this base compromised will take a heavy toll on them. Though the losses we have suffered... This war is like drowning in molasses, I'm afraid. One can fight and thrash, but you still sink, albeit slower, and tired. And you won't sink alone. This can drag down continents.”

“I have to save Grease, but he's just one man, in this whole war,” Lucky said, trying to make sense of it. The Colonel understood his sentiments and required no further explanation.

“Our fight is to save millions, my boy. Every single life counts toward that.”

Lucky nodded. He didn't know what to say. The Colonel sighed, saying:

“Dixon will hate it, but you shall go find your friend.”

“Where is he, the Romanian?”

“Spain,” he said, patting around his pockets for his pipe before again remembering it was lost in Naples. “The nation is officially neutral and one of the only places in Europe the Office cannot go. Our sponsors dare not risk Franco's enmity. and the blasted Romanian knows it, too.”

“Then how can you let me go?”

“Oh, my boy, I cannot let you go. You'll just go. Keep it quiet, make it fast, and I don't know a thing about it,” he said. Lucky looked at him, and the old soldier winked. The Colonel's ears perked up, like a gray bloodhound. Someone on deck was yelling for him. “I believe I'm needed, private.”

“Colonel!”

Bucket was leaning over the edge of the flight deck, hands cupped around his mouth. He shouted again:

“You got to hear this! Tune in to Axis Sally!”

Everyone knew Axis Sally, the voice of the German propaganda machine who alternately threatened, taunted, and made false promises to any Allied listeners. The Colonel left the bow and made his way to the boat's bridge. Lucky followed close. The Colonel found a radio set far too expensive for the run-down boat and tuned it to Sally's frequency. Her voice crackled to life mid-sentence:

“-uption intentionally triggered by American and English bombing of the geologically unstable area around the mountain.”

“What?” Lucky asked.

The radio crackled and her transmission started over:

“I repeat, as of six-forty-two this morning, the city of Naples, Italy and all surrounding areas have been burned from the surface of the Earth in a massive volcanic eruption. Over four hundred thousand civilians live in the area directly devastated by this monstrous attack on humanity itself. Geologists agree that the eruption was intentionally triggered by American and English bombardment of the geologically unstable area around the mountain.”

Axis Sally went on to repeat the report in Italian, but the Colonel was no longer listening. His eyes went wide and his mouth hung open.

“Dear God,” he whispered, “They wouldn't...”

As if in response to his terrified plea, a bright blue flash lit up the eastern horizon.

The Colonel rushed out of the cabin, back to the aft rail. Lucky watched another bright flash light up the smoke cloud rising from the burning city. It looked like lightning, but he knew better, he'd seen that blinding blue light before. The flare left an afterimage of Vesuvius' peak baked onto Lucky's corneas.

“It's the I-A,” Lucky realized, “They’re I-A bombing their own base!”

The flashes continued, growing in frequency and intensity. Within a minute, the flashes were near-constant and as harsh as staring into the summer sun. A violent wind whipped up, blowing warm, dry air westward.

“Hold fast, private,” the Colonel advised. Lucky looked at him, but he offered no more answers. The flashes had merged into a blinding, unbroken light, forcing them to cover their eyes. The wind blowing from inland had become abrasively hot against Lucky's skin.

As quick as it began, the light blinked out. Axis Sally's Italian broadcast suddenly died, blaring only static.

“Look away,” the Colonel whispered. Lucky knew what happened next.

Just as he looked down, the light blazed back to life, exponentially more powerful, brighter than anything Lucky'd ever experienced, even through the pulsing red filter of his clenched eyelids.

The calm ocean roiled up, tossing the old fishing boat hard against the Saint George's hull. A deep rumble emanated from all directions, then a crack sheared the air like the loudest lightning blasting through an oak a hundred years old.

Vesuvius' peak reared upward, sending a tower of searing gases and rock six miles into the air. The supersonic concussion wave that followed rock swept through Naples like a stampede, dragging a three-hundred-mile-per-hour barrage of millions of tons of burning boulders behind it.

The cannery, at the foot of the mountain, was instantly flattened, like every building around it. Those that stood were lifted and thrown over a mile, or battered into dust.

Thousands died in an instant as the Roman catacombs they were hiding in caved in on top of them. Those in sturdier bomb shelters were cooked alive as air temperatures rose to seven hundred degrees in less than a second. Those not lucky enough to die instantly from heat or collapse had their tunnels flooded with volcanic gases and lived just long enough to cough their insides onto their outsides. The unfortunate souls huddled in airtight bunkers would suffocate over the next forty-eight hours when their exits were sealed in by eighteen feet of ash, stone, and lava.

A massive avalanche containing five cubic kilometers of lava and stone swept down the southeast slope of the mountain, where Lucky had been not an hour before. All the small communities living in the mountain's shadow were practically erased, torn into the sea by the unstoppable gray cataclysm.

The avalanche hit the sea at speed. The tidal wave it created in the Gulf of Naples slammed into fishing communities on the opposite shore at a hundred miles-an-hour and twenty-five feet tall, causing catastrophic flooding on top of the eruption. The wave dissipated as it reached further out of the Gulf, but not before it demolished the small islands just off the coast.

No window within eight miles of Vesuvius remained intact. Entire forests were flattened, the trunks burned and stripped bare of bark. Every knocked over tree all pointed away from the shattered mountain.

From the deck of the fishing boat, it looked as if the sky had cracked open and the Earth was pouring into the heavens. In the boat's cabin, Axis Sally's report crackled back to life. She was repeating her report again, this time in French. Without pause, she switched back to English.

“The Führer has already issued an order for German, Rumanian, Yugoslavian, and Hungarian divisions to move into the affected region to manage rescue operations for the victims of this horrific Allied attack. Be strong, Italy! The Reich is on your side! This is Axis Sally, signing off!”

The propagandist's voice was replaced by the Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy. The Colonel spun on his leather heel and fired a single incendiary round from his ruby-handled revolver through the cabin window and into the blaring radio, blasting the back of the machine out in a shower of sparks. The old soldier holstered his Webley and slid to the deck of the boat, sitting against the rail with his back to the unthinkable destruction ravaging Naples.

“You see now, Lucky,” he said, “You see why we must fight them on all fronts.”

“Yes, sir,” Lucky mumbled, watching the sky blacken.

“The reason we've fought and died in the shadows is so the world would never have to know there are men alive who are capable of this,” he said. He removed his monocle and breathed on it to polish it against his shirt, but once he saw how deep the sweat, spiderwebs, blood, and volcanic dust had been ground into the formerly-beige fabric, he thought better of it.

“This is a new war,” he sighed.

The rickety fishing boat bounced against the Saint George's hull as the tail-end of the tidal wave passed beneath it, thirty miles out. Above them, on the flight deck, Lucky could hear several of the Selvaggio men sobbing uncontrollably.

“This isn't the war I signed up to fight,” Lucky whispered.

“This is the war you have,” the Colonel said, and reached up to Lucky with a calloused hand. Lucky took it and pulled the old soldier to his feet. The morning light was becoming dimmer and dimmer as the blood of Vesuvius stained the sky and choked back the sun. In the shadow of so much death, the Colonel had never looked older.

“This new war decides the future of our world, and it will be defined by the actions of men. They can be men like you,” he said, then gestured to the rising cloud of rock ash and cremated human beings, “Or men like them.”

Lucky nodded. He knew what the Colonel was asking of him. He was asking him to never go home again. Lucky knew what he had to do.

The Colonel turned to face him and snapped to attention. Lucky followed suit.

“Private Lloyd Edward Ford, Eighty-Second Airborne Division, United States Army, repeat after me,” he ordered.

“Yes, sir!” Lucky barked.

“I swear to strive for the safety of all free peoples of the world in the face of all adversity.”

Lucky repeated the words.

“No matter the nature of those I face, I swear to fight until I can lift a hand in defiance no longer.”

Seeing what he had in the last thirty-six hours, Lucky knew he would.

“I swear to be vigilant and unwavering in my quest for truth in the chaos of the world.”

The original goal of the Office was to seek out and neutralize those things which could not be fought by anyone else. In this new war, the unthinkable would happen every day.

“I swear to hold my loyalty to the ideal of democracy above all else.”

The words came naturally to Lucky.

“To these ends, I swear all I can give, in mind, in heart, in body, to the Office.”

Lucky repeated those final words, thinking of all the men he'd seen give everything to the Office already: Dutton, Rossling, Lee, Moore, Nickolas; and those who'd almost had to: Cão, Ajax. The Colonel grimly smiled, then held out his hand. Lucky took it.

“Welcome to the Office for the Cataloging of Unusual Occurrences,” the Colonel said. They stood on the rocking deck for a long while, watching Vesuvius burn on the horizon. As soon as they climbed that ladder, things would move very quickly. They let these last few minutes of silence hang on as long as they could.

“I can give you ninety-six hours, official.” the Colonel said after a while.

“For what, sir?” Lucky asked.

“Ninety-six hours to reach your friend in Spain.” he answered. “After that, either be back on this ship, or be dead, for we will be gone.”

“What happens in ninety-six hours?”

The Colonel sighed and put the rising inferno to his back. There were hundreds of thousands of civilians dead at the foot of that mountain, murderous Nazis that knew all of their names, and a war raging in every direction. He spoke slowly, profoundly aware of the implications of his next words:

“In four days, Lucky,” the Colonel said quietly, “We take this war to the Fatherland.”

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Copyright © 2022 Daniel Baldwin. All rights reserved.

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

Note: Part 12 of Vigilance, Season 1: The Secret Files of Lucky Ford: The Dragon, the Wolf, and the Maiden was originally published on December 9, 2022. Through the magic of fat fingers, the original post was deleted.