The Secret Files of Lucky Ford: The Dragon, the Wolf, and the Maiden, Part 5 of 12

Lucky Ford finally learns exactly why the Office was in Sicily, and how their mission could change the course of the war. Secrets are revealed and the shadow war comes to light in this week’s Lucky Ford Friday.

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

Welcome to Part 5 of our epic adventure with Lucky and the Office. If you aren’t caught up yet, check out Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, and Part 4 before reading any further.

Content Warnings: Mild Swearing, Tobacco Use, Alcohol Use

SATURDAY AFTERNOON, JULY 10, 1942
ABOARD THE H.M.S. SAINT GEORGE
BENEATH THE MEDITERRANEAN SEA

“As you know, the target of Operation Damsel has always been the Crying Maiden, a weapon with the capacity to disrupt the operations of any aircraft, mid-flight,” the Colonel began, “A fact our guest, Private Ford, found out late last night to tragic results.”

The entire room turned as one to look at Lucky, seated at the furthest back table. He did his best to remain stoic as two dozen commandos, pilots, sailors, and soldiers studied him with the most critical of eyes, those of war-weary veterans who had just lost friends.

“In a chain of events initiated by an attack from the Crying Maiden, Private Ford’s transport veered off-course into a gremlin swarm. Unprepared for such an attack, the creatures took the plane down in short order,” the Colonel said. Miller changed the slide, showing an enlarged photo of Lucky’s crash site. The C-47's twisted right wing had claw-marks ripped right into the sheet-metal.

Lucky’s jaw dropped. Jonesy had seen something on the wing and it had blown his mind right out of his head.

The Colonel continued:

“Despite grievous damage to his aircraft, the pilot executed a brilliant crash landing, saving more than half of the passengers aboard. According to Private Ford, with all officers deceased, his sergeant took command of the remnants of their unit. Even with heavy casualties and radio contact impossible, they engaged in a expertly-executed assault on an Italian anti-aircraft battery which appeared to be taking advantage of the Maiden-induced disorientation to shoot down defenseless transport aircraft.”

The slide flipped to an aerial photo of the emplacement, then to a close-up of the crumbled command post and burned earth around it.

“Unfortunately, neither Private Ford nor his sergeant could have foreseen the true nature of this emplacement. Led by a Brüderlichkeit Programm SS officer, we believe a first generation Brother no less, this emplacement was in contact with the Vargulf Korps, detachment stationed at Etna, whom the officer was able to call for reinforcement.”

The officials around the room grumbled and shook their heads at the mention of the strange German terms.

“It was at this point that the Saint George’s electronic warfare team intercepted that transmission and our assault on the Crying Maiden was delayed in order to ambush the Vargulf in the field,” the Colonel said. With an intentionally loud cough, Commodore Dixon entered the mess flanked by two of the red-clad soldiers and his notepad-laden assistant trailing close behind. The two British guards each had to duck at the low hatch to make enough head room for their furry hats.

“Ah, Commodore, I am glad you could join us. Can you think of anything I’ve missed thus far?” the Colonel asked.

“Just sounds like y’all’ve got a lot of coincidences on your hands, ones I ain’t inclined to take at face value, Colonel,” Dixon replied.

“There were many fortuitous coincidences last night, and they weren’t without their toll in blood,” the Colonel noted while Dixon stared Lucky down. The Colonel cleared his throat and continued his presentation:

“Where was I? Ah, yes. Unfortunately, Gerhardt and his Vargulf commandos had already begun their assault by the time we had arrived. Private Ford was the sole survivor, the entirety of his unit having been dispatched by the Vargulf. He found himself cornered, though he had wounded Gerhardt himself...” everyone turned to examine Lucky again in light of this new revelation, “...while Lieutenant Neff dispatched another, possibly Konrad Schovajsa.”

Miller’s slide changed to a blurry aerial photo showing six dark masses on a roof, one of which was engulfed in intense white flame. They'd taken a telescopic photo of Lucky's showdown with those monstrous Nazis.

Neff grunted and exhaled a cloud of gray smoke while a few officials clapped politely at the sight of the burning Vargulf, as if he’d scored a hole-in-one. Each official snuck another peek at Lucky.

“The remaining Vargulf soldiers withdrew, along with at least one prisoner. They appeared to be using a troop-transport variant of the rammpanzer design that you’ve all been briefed on previously.”

Miller’s slide changed to a detailed blueprint of the vehicle that had crashed through the emplacement, the black-painted metal monster with the silver wolf's skull painted on its prow. The rammpanzer.

“The idea that the Vargulf would use it as a shock-troop transport is no surprise. We've long surmised that conventional troops would not have a fraction of the effectiveness disembarking from this vehicle that the enhanced capabilities of the Vargulf Korps allow them. The only thing we had not anticipated is that Department Three would field these vehicles so soon.”

The Colonel's briefing was cut short as Dixon noisily cleared his throat again. They twisted around to look at him in his place at the back of the room, leaning on the bulkhead just behind where Lucky was seated. Lucky could feel the Navy man's eyes drilling through the back of his head.

“Did you mention how, just as soon as you let them Vargulf escape, the Nazis moved the Maiden?” the commodore demanded, his bloodshot eyes looking as wild as a razorback's.

“I was just getting to that point,” the Colonel answered. “As the commodore noted, the Vargulf Korps, who had been tasked with protecting the Maiden device, left their sanctuary to defend this emplacement even as we were en route to attack the Maiden herself. I made the decision...”

Dixon grunted again. The Colonel paused, then continued:

“...A decision which has roused some debate, to investigate what could possibly bring the Vargulf Korps out in the open, away from their charge in defending the Maiden installation. Some evidence has been found, with a bit of controversy as to its veracity, that this anti-air emplacement was a more important a location than we had previously suspected.”

“Bullshit,” Dixon muttered under his breath. Neff slowly rose to his feet, and the red-uniformed guards by Dixon tensed, ready to pounce. A subtle gesture from Dixon's assistant calmed them.

“There is much on the line, as it were, and everyone’s tempers are fraying,” the Colonel said. “After Operation Gumtree, it is understandable. But we must pool our talents and retain cool heads. All of us.”

Neff shot a hard look at Dixon, and then sat down. The Colonel asked:

“Do you have something to add, Commodore?”

“I think you’re trying hard to justify this as anything more than a waste of time, resources, and intelligence, not to mention two more Office lives, one an American. Your boys got anything real to show for that?”

“The loss of Officials Moore and Nikolas are a tragedy, and they will be mourned. The Express nearly befell the same fate as Private Ford's unit, with only vigilance making the key difference. I am thankful that the quick action of the men and women aboard prevented further loss, though any is heart-rending,” the Colonel replied, his voice dry and controlled. He maintained a moment of silence in the mess hall before continuing:

“Our findings at the emplacement should yield enough evidence that, in context, we can piece together actionable information regarding the Maiden. During the paratroopers' initial assault, the aforementioned Brüderlichkeit officer used an Ionen-Aktivierung device, their ion agitation grenade, in an attempt to destroy intelligence materials. Both the Brüderlichkeit officers and the I-A devices are considered notoriously important, and jealously hoarded, not just by Department Three, but by Hitler himself. Their presence alone alludes to the deference the German high command has placed upon the Maiden. Ah, here’s what I’ve been waiting for, Commodore.”

A Belgian official hurried into the room, loose papers fluttering in her wake, and handed the Colonel several sheets, as well as a handful of new slides for Miller.

“Our Cataloging teams have managed to acquire and piece together some of the evidence the I-A was intended to destroy. Miller, please show this first slide.”

The projector whirred and clicked as Miller fed the new slides into its maw. The new image showed a faded and barely readable map of the island. A large circle covered all of southern and eastern Sicily, some of the waters along the coast, as well as the toe of mainland Italy. The small swastika in the center looked to be somewhere in the eastern mountains of the island. The Colonel indicated that central point.

“This, as you all well know, is Mount Etna, which, until today, was the base of operations for the Crying Maiden device. I propose that the large circle shows the effective radius of the device’s disruptive effects against avionics, navigation, and flight-control systems. The anti-aircraft battery Lucky’s squad disabled was near the outermost edge of this radius and doubled as a monitoring station for the effects of the Maiden. As this was her first field action, the Maiden was still being calibrated. Monitoring stations would be essential to determine effectiveness. Information regarding its function and capabilities was stored there, which is why the Vargulf would come to eliminate the security breach at a moment’s notice. I expect the invasion forces will find several other sites identical to this one razed and abandoned in the coming days.”

The Colonel nodded to Miller, who flipped the next slide. It showed some kind of engine, a massive block of metal coated in pipes and valves. Lucky couldn’t tell what he was looking at.

“Is that…” the Colonel wondered to himself.

“A Vulcan Zero-Four geothermal generator, sir,” Miller answered.

“And just what in the hell does that mean?” Dixon huffed.

“Sergeant Hall seems to have some insight, Commodore,” The Colonel stepped down, motioning for Bucket to step up front. “Sergeant.”

Bucket declined the invitation to stand in front of the crowd and instead spoke from his seat.

“These Vulcan things are ridiculously rare and impossibly expensive. There’s only a few in the world, and just a couple in Nazi hands. They're powerful, converting volcanic heat to piles of voltage, enough to power a city, and the Office tracks 'em all. I had no clue the krauts had a spare one to put to work. Last time anyone had seen one of theirs was in Berlin,” Bucket explained.

“So how does that help us? Before Agent Boots was cut off, he reported that everything had been evacuated, but that it would all be working again within thirty-six hours, in time to keep screwing up Husky. We don’t have squat and lost two men to show for it,” Dixon said, spitting as he spoke.

“Commodore, this region is filthy with volcanos,” Bucket explained. “There's a dozen other mountains actively spitting lava within a hundred miles. I’m telling you, the Vulcan is too expensive to abandon, too effective to not use, and too damn heavy to move far fast. In addition, if they want the Maiden to continue making a difference against Husky, they need its juice. They don't have a back-up laying around. The thing is two hundred tons. To have it up and running in a day-and-a-half means it’s getting plugged in somewhere close and ready.”

“So what good is all this? You’re saying there’s a dozen places to stick it. We don’t have time for a dozen recon missions, they’ll be bringing down our birds again in no time. Now that we showed our whole hand with the invasion, we got to stop these Nazi bastards now, and I need real information to do that,” Dixon said. He was getting frustrated. A sip from his mug calmed him somewhat, or at least eased the tremor in his hands.

“Give me some time; I can figure out where they went,” Bucket declared. Every official in the mess stared at him, including the glowering old commodore.

“You better, sergeant. You're taking thousands of lives in your hands right now, maybe even this whole theater of operations,” Dixon said. He scoffed and marched to the door, his two red-coated soldiers and weaselly assistant on his heels.

“Where are you going, Commodore?” the Colonel called to his back. Dixon turned his head as he walked out, coffee cup already to his lips. He finished his drink before he spoke:

“I’m going to the bridge. Boots' orders say that if his report gets jammed or cut off, he'll report again in twelve hours. Any longer than that, we'll have to consider him toast. So what I'm gonna do is wait by that radio 'til my guy reports in again and we get some real intel. Conjecture and guesswork may work for you, Halistone, but I don't have time to fiddle around in the dark and hope the job gets done.”

With that, Dixon stalked out of sight.

“Sergeant Hall, are you certain you can find the Maiden?” the Colonel asked as soon as the commodore was around the corner.

“Damn right, Colonel. Just give me a little time in the library,” Bucket said.

“You will have all our resources available to you, take any officials you need for cataloging or analysis. Just remember, the Maiden will be back in operation soon…” the Colonel was saying, but Neff cut him off:

“And she is will be furious.”

Everyone nodded at the Frenchman’s assessment.

“Indeed,” the Colonel agreed, before turning back to Bucket. “Sergeant, again, do whatever you must and take whomever you need. Miller, Lucky, stay and speak with me for a moment. The rest of you are dismissed, however don’t get too comfortable, Lieutenant Neff and myself will be around to collect you shortly. We won’t have much time to prepare for the assault once Sergeant Hall has determined our target. Rest and reload, stay vigilant.”

The room cleared, save for the Colonel, Miller, and Lucky. Bucket was tapping people as he left, assigning them roles in his search. A tall lanky British man with Chinese calligraphy tattoos peeking from beneath his collar and cuffs followed close behind Bucket, carrying the stacks of intel they'd have to pore over.

The Colonel sat wearily on one of the tabletops, fishing a ceramic pipe from the folds of his suit. He pinched a wad of robust tobacco out of a silver box and began tamping it into the old pipe.

“Lucky, as you can tell you have landed in a midst of a crisis within our bureau of the Office,” he said. “Recent events have left us undermanned and raw, even before the loss of Nikolas and Moore.”

“Landing in the middle of a crisis is what the army trained me for, sir,” Lucky said, trying to add a bit of levity to the situation. The Colonel gave him a quick, forced smile, which was nearly worse than no reaction at all.

“Commodore Dixon and myself do not always agree on procedure and strategy,” the Colonel continued, “But you mustn’t believe that either of us wants to end this war any less.”

He paused to light up. He took a couple long draws on it before he spoke again, looking Lucky in the eyes as he spoke:

“In less than two days you’ll be in the field with us to hunt down the Maiden. A trained paratrooper with experience in the utterly weird is exactly the type of man we need for this mission. I shan't take 'no' for an answer.”

Lucky didn't say anything, but the Colonel was not waiting for his assent anyway.

“In the little time we have before we depart, there is much for you to learn. We can give you bullets and blades, but an official's greatest weapon is held between his ears. I would mentor you, but I must direct all my efforts to assisting Sergeant Hall. Miller, one of the finest officials I've known, shall work with you in my stead,” the Colonel said. “Anything you would add, old friend?”

“Simply to enjoy a good meal and some rack time, Private Ford,” Miller answered. “You've a long day of work ahead of you, and there is as much for you to forget as you have to learn.”

SATURDAY EVENING, JULY 10, 1942
ABOARD THE H.M.S. SAINT GEORGE
BENEATH THE MEDITERRANEAN SEA

“I feel compelled to remind you, Private Ford, though we have but a short time to introduce you to our organization, we cannot let that be an excuse for you to become overwhelmed,” Miller began, his voice muffled behind the leather and rubber of his heavy gas mask. “Every bit of information I am imparting to you could very well save your life or others', so you mustn’t let a thing slip by.”

“Can’t wait, next time I see a Vargulf I’ll have an encyclopedia to throw at it,” Lucky mumbled. His smart-ass remark was stifled behind the stacks of books and files threatening to collapse the table they were parked at.

Lucky felt like he was a kid in school again, stuck in study hall after flunking a math test. Not so long ago he had been that kid, but he now felt like that memory could’ve been from someone else’s life altogether. This classroom was insulated steel, two hundred feet below the surface of the Mediterranean, and taught by a gas-masked Briton, not the sweltering schoolhouse a couple miles across the river that rained dust out of the rafters every time a train rolled past.

Lucky hadn't been successful at napping. The food he’d snagged from the mess had started a battle of its own in his stomach, and the ship’s air smelled like old newspaper, it was too cold, and the walls groaned. He could hear the crew shifts change outside the door and folded a pillow over his head to try to block out the noise. In the end, he only managed a couple hours of solid shut-eye.

At eighteen-hundred Miller came knocking on the door and led him to their improvised classroom, usually pilots’ briefing room, already outfitted with the slew of files and books that Miller thought essential. He directed Lucky's attention to the top file on the stack, tapping it with a gloved finger.

“I’d like you to examine this first dossier, private. It concerns the formation of the Office. Our operations began during the middle stages of the Great War, when Entente troops began encountering increasingly alarming and frequent examples of alternative martial sciences.”

The folder contained photos, after action reports, and excerpts from debriefings conducted in field hospitals, brigs, and insane asylums. A few blurry battlefield photographs showed unfocused shots of spindly armored soldiers, while a couple autopsy photos marked 'Black Smoke, 4/16' showed men with limbs that looked melted, flesh dripping from pitted bone.

“Through covert actions perpetrated by Brigadier Alistair Hailstone, Jr., the Colonel's late father, it was found that a most influential secret society was manipulating the German military command. They were known as the Seven Vampire Counts of the Schwarzwald, a cabal of seven maniacs with delusions of grandeur.”

Miller indicated the second folder, this one red. Lucky found dossiers on a group of seven delusional aristocrats, scientists, artists, and hermits with no claim to authority beyond stolen fortunes and cultist fervor. As the Colonel had explained before, mythology and superstition were nothing but tools to some men, men like the Seven Counts. ‘Vampire’ was just an ancient word they used to inspire fear in their allies and enemies.

Lucky couldn't stop turning pages. He read as fast as Miller talked. The masked man never missed a detail, despite having no notes of his own.

The Counts' downfall began when they began to believe that the mythology they'd shrouded themselves in was something more than a manipulative tool. By 1915 the seven counts were known to engage in bizarre ritualistic activities in secluded castles throughout the German countryside. Their body count grew to such an extent that not even their flunkies in the German government could hide the corpses anymore, be they mutilated by experiments or drained of blood by the cabal themselves.

Even in their madness, under these lunatics the fields of robotics and biochemistry flourished. What started out as a political power grab to turn the tide of the stalled conflict took on a life of its own as the Counts began to believe the stories they'd made up about themselves. Manuscripts credited to them showed that towards the end they had eschewed their previous goals and morality. They'd built themselves into a self-serving deities, with a strange cult, self-titled ‘Zentaists,’ surrounding them. They believed that the human body was ‘transient, fragile, and weak,’ and that their ultimate desire was to create the next step in evolution, either through metal or chemicals. Their goals were no longer to change Germany, but to change humanity.

In 1916, a combined raid of allied commandos and specialists stormed the hidden bunkers below Falkenstein Castle in an attempt to overthrow the counts. These forces, organized by Brigadier Alistair Halistone, Jr. and son, with support from American, French, and Belgian soldiers, managed to capture or kill all seven counts and destroy the manufacturing base for their mechanical and alchemical armies, as well as the formula and entire German supply of the chemical weapons known as black smoke and blood gas.

In the wake of the surviving Counts’ secret trials and hangings, the Halistones had been tasked with trying undo all the damage done by their 'alternative sciences.' That effort eventually coalesced into the Office for the Cataloging of Unusual Occurrences and would be headed by the elder Halistone until his death in 1929.

Halistone, Jr.'s blueprints created the OCUO with an intentionally limited central leadership, allowing the various regional bureaus of the OCUO to more ably monitor and respond to unusual occurrences in their appointed jurisdictions. After the Treaty of Versailles, the four original regional bureaus condensed into a single, central hub, focused on cataloging and analyzing the massive amount of data collected throughout the Great War.

When the League of Nations faltered after the Italians invaded Ethiopia, the Office started to expand. By the time the Japanese attacked Manchuria, the Office had split into about a dozen bureaus to take focus individually on the widespread and varied theaters of potential battle. They formed though a central network to facilitate communication between the regional bureaus and allow for standardized research, information flow, and training.

The files showed intense cooperation between all of the bureaus despite their independence. Against enemies like the Nazis, it could be no other way. It wasn’t just information and material they shared, but personnel as well. Loud MacLeod, for example, was with the Colonel’s Bureau for African and Mediterranean Affairs temporarily, having joined up after a recent operation.

Only the Bureau for Eastern European Affairs, manned solely by the Russians, kept themselves in the consistent bad graces of the rest of the Office due to secrecy and isolation.

This stack of logistical and organizational tables boggled Lucky’s mind, but that's not what he was thinking about. Even with all this new information coursing wildly through him, one image was burned onto the back of his eyelids: the snarling, twisted Nazi with the boiling blood. He shoved the mountain of papers to the side and interrupted Miller's monologue on the OCUO’s bureaucracy.

“Miller, what are the Vargulf?” he asked.

“Private, it is important to keep in mind that 'vargulf’ is just another word that Hitler and Goebbels have weaponized. They use the same strategies that the Seven Counts did. Nothing has changed in that regard.”

“So what’s the word mean?”

“Austrian shepherds used to encounter wild wolves that would maul their flocks, leaving far more livestock dead than the beast could eat. These wolves were feared, and hunts of hundreds of people would be organized to track them down. They called these voracious creatures the vargulf.”

“What about those creatures that attacked me, what on God's green earth were they? Those weren't rogue animals, they were men. You named a couple of them. Gerhardt, Konrad,” Lucky said.

“I'm afraid God has nothing to do with the Vargulf Korps,” Miler said. Lucky could hear him sigh behind the heavy leather mask. “Things were much easier when men accepted the world as it was, instead of trying to control it, understand it, and make it their own.”

“What do you mean by...” Lucky whispered. Miller was silent for a moment, then seemed to wake back up.

“The Vargulf Korps are a shock combat force developed by the Waffen-SS’s Department Three, a secret division dedicated to the alternative martial sciences. That is the short answer.”

As Lucky had become accustomed to, Miller’s short answer spun up more mysteries than it solved. Miller continued:

“The long answer is that the Vargulf are the result of unbound science, a wronged man's obsession, and zealots' fanaticism. The same man who conceived of them is the creator of our mission's primary target, the Crying Maiden. Doktor Johann Metzger is a monster in his own right, a sociopath whose only loyalties now lie with the thrill of discovery with the goal of harming those he feels wronged him.”

“These damn Nazis,” Lucky said. Every time he’d heard someone spouting off in favor of the krauts, it had come down to the same thing: blaming others for their problems, be they Jews or communists or whoever else they picked out of a hat.

“Metzger’s grudges go a bit deeper than that, I’m afraid,” Miller said. His sigh rattled the filters in his mask. “He was not always a fanatic. His tenure with Department Three began with him as something of a prisoner. We knew about his areas of study and organized a rescue mission to free him and his family before the Nazis could wring anything dangerous from him. That was Operation White Stork, head by Colonel Halistone in autumn of 1940. They were nearly successful, but ran across an enemy patrol. The krauts re-secured Metzger in the chaos, and executed his entire family for good measure. They made it look like it was us, of course.”

“Jesus,” Lucky said.

“He blames us, and reports indicate those feelings have gotten more extreme in years since,” Miller said. Lucky felt for the man, but not with how he was coping.

Miller dug another thick folder from the stack and handed it over. On top was a personnel file with a photo stapled to its cover; a stern-looking German officer in the black SS uniform decked out with more hardware than a Christmas tree. The man's thin face was locked in a emotionless glare, his steel gray eyes seeming to follow Lucky's own.

Lucky picked up the photo to examine it closer. It was not a man he'd ever seen before, but he somehow looked familiar. His hair was jet black, slicked to his scalp with just a hint of gray edging in on his temples with an immaculately-trimmed goatee framing a thin-lipped mouth. The wolf's skull and cross-bones emblem, the same that was painted on the rammpanzer, was pinned proudly to his lapel. His face was thin, almost skeletal. Something in the way his eyes stared back from the photo made him familiar, like a predator sizing up prey.

Miller continued:

“This is Sturmbannführer Isaak Gerhardt, Metzger's first surviving subject and the field leader for the premier Vargulf strike team. We have reason to believe several additional Vargulf teams are in development presently, but have been unable to confirm this information. We lost track of Gerhardt in Greece during Operation Gumtree some weeks back, but I believe he is the Vargulf you wounded yesterday.”

Lucky shook his head, but it made sense. He’d known the Vargulf was a man, even back on that roof. Seeing the true face of the man who’d devoured two of his friends almost turned Lucky’s stomach.

“Doktor Metzger's injections first increase human metabolic rates ten-fold. Blood clots instantly, tissue regenerates at near-visible rates, digestion and respiration become far more efficient, vision becomes clearer, as does the senses of hearing and smell. The second injection results in symptoms that resemble temporary manifestations of acrohemeostasis, dens evaginitus, and myostatin-deficient muscular hypertrophy. As a result, reaction time is halved, and muscular output is increased far beyond traditional human standards, making a Vargulf faster and stronger than any soldier they could encounter.”

Miller began spreading out a series of blurry recon photographs, each showing Vargulf in the field. The file also contained dozens of autopsy photos. Victims of the Vargulf. Lucky flipped those over. He’d seen enough of that the night before.

“We don't yet understand the combination of steroids, mutative compounds, radioactive isomers, and metamorphic and psychoactive chemicals the doktor injects into these men, but the outward physical effects are startling. The third injection causes thick black fur to sprout from their pores. This hair is most similar in composition to a rhinoceros horn. It grows strong and thick enough to break apart or to spread out the impact of gunfire and shrapnel.”

“I shot Gerhardt in the face with a 1911, and he just grinned” Lucky said.

“That was luck on his part, then,” Miller replied. “A shot to eye or into the mouth might’ve slowed him.”

“Slowed him?" Lucky whispered.

“Exactly, they are not invulnerable. The transformation is painful, though it only takes moments. Returning to their original state, we're told, is not unlike morphine withdrawal: long, sweaty, with yet more pain, requiring detoxification chemicals and a constant intravenous drip. But even unchanged, these men are trained killers, veterans who believe in Nazism to their core. They volunteered for this, and they are dangerous in whatever form you encounter them.”

“I bet,” Lucky said, imagining what kind of maniac would choose to become a Vargulf.

“Fortunately for us, these advantages are known to have three major drawbacks. Foremost, as you inadvertently discovered, is their aversion to silver,” Miller said. He laid out several photos of twisted, incinerated, near-human skeletons. “One of the Vargulf compounds, as one defector described, reacts in a spectacularly combustible fashion when exposed to any amount of elemental silver. We know the Nazis are aware of this Achilles' heel, though they have not acted upon this for the simple reason that few Allied soldiers are issued silver munitions. As you have seen, however, we in the Office try to be prepared for any circumstance.”

Miller quickdrew his Enfield No. 2 revolver and hinged open the cylinder, revealing his six chambered rounds as having gleaming silver tips.

“Is this how Marion Morrison does it?” Miller asked. He clapped the revolver shut and twirled it on his index finger before sliding it into his hip holster in one smooth motion.

“Who?” Lucky asked, distracted by Miller's flashy moves and change of subject.

“I believe his acting name is John Wayne,” Miller said. He scooped the gun up, twirled it all the way around his head in less than a second, and plopped it right back into its holster, lickety-split.

“Oh yeah, just like John Wayne,” Lucky muttered, on edge and wanting to learn more about his new enemy.

“Indeed. I have been practicing Wild West tricks for months now,” Miller told him. “There is not much else to do when one is locked in a...”

“Miller, how else can we stop them?” Lucky demanded.

“Oh, of course,” Miller said. He collected himself and continued: “The second drawback for these Vargulf soldiers is that, while in their bestial forms, they have severely decreased higher reasoning abilities, reduced to operating on a fight-or-flight basis. They become killing machines, but their cognitive functions shut down save for the basest of instincts.”

“How does that help me?” Lucky asked.

“An excellent question, Private Ford,” Miller replied. “Only intensive conditioning allows them to maintain order in battle. We believe Gerhardt is the key to their field operations, having taken a role among the Vargulf like the lead wolf of a hunting pack. Without him, the Korps would be more of a force of nature, creating slaughter without regard for flags.”

Miller had more photos at the ready. Some were taken in a hospital, showing blood-drenched walls and mauled corpses wearing torn, swastika-emblazoned lab coats, while others looked like the slaughter had been of civilians in a tavern-turned-slaughterhouse.

“Vargulf soldiers also have a very short time to accomplish their objectives. The transformation takes a tremendous toll on their bodies, and their sped-up metabolism gives the soldiers only a matter of hours before they are completely drained of energy. Our biologists have estimated that these men require, on average, a two thousand calorie intake per hour to maintain their transformed state. If you can elude them long enough, they may be forced into retreat. But, by no means should you allow them to capture you alive.”

“What happens if they take you?” Lucky asked on Grease's behalf.

Lucky could've sworn he heard Miller take a nervous gulp behind his mask before he answered.

“This caloric loss imbues a constant, aching hunger, which, when combined with their monstrous disposition, has led to documented cases of Vargulf-initiated… cannibalism.”

“Cannibalism?” Lucky gasped.

“As far as I can tell, they don’t understand what is happening until after. Their volunteers are indoctrinated Nazi zealots, but even for them, cannibalism is too much. Our reports indicate that every one of these men is dangerously unstable, and all of them, save Gerhardt himself, have been placed under protective watch at least once since joining the Korps. These men are so warped by what they have done that they have attacked and injured others or themselves. These are the most dangerous men in the Reich at this moment.”

“So you're telling me we're going to go knocking on the door of an an army of crazy, super-strong, bullet-proof, suicidal Nazi wolfmen cannibals?” Lucky asked.

“Only a small army of them, Private Ford,” Miller replied.

“Well in that case, what are we waiting for? Let's go find these guys,” Lucky said, hoping sarcasm would cover his nervousness.

“We're just waiting on word from Agents Boots.” Miller answered without pause.

As if in reply, the intercom above Lucky's head crackled. He recognized the commodore's Southern drawl instantly:

“The field commander and his ground team are to be in the board room in ten. Bring whatever intel materials you got. Ten minutes, officials.”

The intercom crackled again, then switched off. Miller began organizing all the loose files they’d splayed across the table.

“It sounds as if the call has been made. Are you ready for this, Private Ford?” he asked.

“Don't I have more training to do?”

“You've already done the hardest part: you've learned to accept what you see for what it is. Many soldiers would have retreated the things you have encountered. Instead, you adapted to your new situation with grace and speed. The most dangerous thing a new official can do when confronted with the utterly weird, unsettling, and naturally unacceptable is to pause and attempt to contemplate it. You have seen first hand what we are fighting, and you chose to act against it. You are ready to combat that which is twisted even further, as well as those who would choose to create these abominations.”

Miller was standing up now, looking down at Lucky.

“The Colonel has taking a liking to you, Private Ford. He wants you in the field with us. Let us not forget that you are a paratrooper of the Eighty-Second Airborne, one of the more elite fighting forces in the American military. And if you do not know what to do, watch me. I shall be by your side the entire time.”

Lucky remembered the others who had been by his side: Parker, Burke, Smith, Squints, Wilson, Nicholas, Moore. He could handle monsters; he could handle Nazis, he could handle panzers, and gunfire, and plane crashes. What he could not handle was losing another friend.

“I can't go, Miller. I'd drag you down,” Lucky warned. Miller clapped him on the shoulder, startling him. Lucky looked up to see those blue eyes smiling again behind the thick lenses.

“Allow me to worry about that, Private Ford. When I fall down, I am known for getting back up.”

Miller gathered his files up in a thick pile and walked to the door, saying over his shoulder:

“Come now, our briefing is this way.”

One photo peeked out of its folder to stare back at Lucky. He locked eyes with Isaak Gerhardt, that piercing stare drilling into his core. Lucky stared right back at him. He took a deep breath then followed Miller out the door, never letting the Vargulf commander out of his sight.

---

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Copyright © 2022 Daniel Baldwin. All rights reserved.

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