The Secret Files of Lucky Ford: The Dragon, the Wolf, and the Maiden, Part 6 of 12
Lucky Ford must make the ultimate decision: with everyone he knows gone, does he have anything left to fight for? With the strange revelations imparted to him, does he have what it takes to survive what is coming?
The Dragon, the Wolf, and the Maiden is now available as a Kindle ebook, in paperback, or as a DRM-free ePub!
This Part 6 of our epic adventure with Lucky and the Office. If you aren’t caught up yet, check out Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, and Part 5 before reading any further.
Content Warnings: Mild Swearing, Tobacco Use, Alcohol Use
SATURDAY EVENING, JULY 10, 1942
ABOARD THE H.M.S. SAINT GEORGE
BENEATH THE TYRRHENIAN SEA
The HMS Saint George's board room was filled to brim with officials ready to do the hard work. They gave each other deferential nods as they piled in, staying silent and reverent. They knew the gravity of the situation Commodore Dixon was about to lay out and nothing more needed to be said. The early birds took seats at a long hardwood table, while the rest stood against the wall. Lucky followed their lead, finding a place along the bulkhead as far from the commodore and his entourage as he could find.
The ship's bell, pre-recorded on the intercom, rang out eight times. That made it almost twenty-four hours since Lucky had left Tunisia.
The commodore stood silently at the head of the table, flanked as always by a pair of the British soldiers. His weaselly assistant was busy hanging maps of Italy, some wide enough to show the whole boot, with others zoomed in so far that they showed individual streets.
Dixon's eyes were alert, free of the bitter, glazed-over sheen that had dulled them hours before. He looked over each of the gathered soldiers before finally settling his eyes on Lucky, standing next to MacLeod in the back of the room. A look of anger flashed across his face for a split-second, his earlier distrust boiling through his forced composure. His outward tell passed as quickly as it arrived, but he was still seething inside. He cleared his throat and began:
“I figure most of y’all have guessed by now, our agent did make contact. The krauts jammed his transmission a few seconds in, but he front-loaded the important stuff: we know the general destination of the Maiden, and that Department Three’s moved up their timeline. Now, they intend to have it up and running again in the next twelve hours. That's half-a-day 'til the whole of Husky goes back off the rails. Hopefully the peace and quiet our boys get 'til then is enough to set up the beach head, because they can say goodbye to air support once the Maiden is operational again. And that's the good news.”
Dixon's glare never left Lucky, and he stared him down as he continued:
“I have it on good authority that Department Three was tipped off about Operation Damsel before The Express was off of my deck. With that in mind, Colonel, I want all of your unnecessary people out of this room.”
Colonel Halistone twisted around in his seat near the head of the table, following Dixon's witch-hunting glare to Lucky. The rest of the room rubber-necked around, too. Lucky felt dozens of eyes on him. The Colonel coughed, then stood, focusing back on Dixon.
“Commodore,” he started, “With respect, each and every one of my officials has spent everything they have on this conflict. All of us have lost friends, some of us many friends. In that regard, I would never ask anyone here to abandon this mission in its final hour. I trust every official with my life, and to attempt this mission without even one of them would put our team at a disadvantage that could prove fatal.”
“You're a goddamn fool, Halistone,” Dixon muttered.
“Excuse me, but - !” the Colonel tried to interject, but the commodore cut him off.
“You're going to put your life and the success of this mission, this invasion, this entire blasted war in the hands of unproven and untrained children?” Dixon snapped, almost shouting. “You're naïve. This war is bigger than you seem to understand. New recruits don't just show up, there's always another hand behind everything that happens. You know as well as I do that the krauts have Americans and Brits and everyone else on their roster!”
Sweat beading between Dixon's reddening chins. Lucky could see the airborne spit cascading out of his mouth from the back of the room.
“Things have been coming apart, Al,” Dixon said. “Our boys get ambushed in Othonoi. Some of our best, eaten alive. You were there, MacLeod, you saw it. You saw how easy those Vargulf tanked Operation Gumtree. You almost lost your arm for it. Then we lose two more just this morning while Operation Damsel falls apart around our ears. So we’re down a dozen officials and two failed missions, then some apple-cheeked kid with a magic right hook shows up on our doorstep when we need help the most. This ain’t a new trick in the Nazi playbook.”
“Commodore, you've about reached the end of my patience,” the Colonel. The twirled tips of his mustache quivered as he spoke. He chose his next words carefully to maintain his calculated demeanor while still relaying his sincerity:
“It is one thing to disagree with my strategy and methodology, but it is something else altogether to accuse anyone here of treason. I may trust others very easily, but I am in no way naïve. If any of the men or women in this room were to threaten the outcome of this conflict, you may rest assured I would shoot them myself. They all know what the Nazis are capable of. They understand our commitment to end it.”
He stood and looked around the room, making eye contact with each one of the two dozen officials. Lucky’s heart was pounding. He’d just watched his friends get crushed, shot, burned alive, and torn to shreds. To accuse him of sympathizing with those monsters, those god damn Nazis… He didn’t know whether to slug the commodore across the face or leave these nuts to their own devices.
“Not one person here, after all we in the Office have seen and been through, would dare condone or facilitate the actions of Department Three,” the Colonel said. “You ask me if I'd risk my life in the hands of these officials? I say that there is no risk.”
The Colonel removed his monocle and polished it for a moment with a monogrammed handkerchief. He took a deep breath, then turned his back to Dixon to study the map, saying:
“Commodore, unless you have any specific evidence that there is an enemy in our midst, I feel our greatest threat today is the squandering of precious time. We are ready to move on what Boots has reported, and Sergeant Hall has accumulated enough data to pinpoint the Maiden's new operating center once you give us the general vicinity.” Lucky stared down the commodore, matching him glare for glare.
“We don't have time for pointless posturing, commodore,” the Colonel said. “What information was Agent Boots able to pass on?”
Dixon shifted for a moment, irritated, letting the red subside from his face before speaking.
“Like I said, Boots was cut off after telling us that the krauts intend to have the thing up and running by morning. He had contacts among the forced laborers Department Three uses all over the country, so I assume they mobilized that crew to help prepare it for operation. They cut him off after that.”
“That sets our timeline,” the Colonel said.
“I put our HYDRA boys on the signal itself. It was transmitted from close to Naples, Italy, about two hundred eighty miles from our current position. By my math, that's about the biggest port left standing that could handle something the size of the Maiden or the Vulcan. Thing is, from there they could take it anywhere up and down the whole damn boot. Your boy have any theories that jive with that bit of geographical info?” Dixon demanded.
Bucket froze at the word ‘boy.’ The stack of papers rustled as his hands started to shake. His tattooed assistant saw his jaw working and took a step back.
“You know, sir, I got a few ideas where they could put that thing,” Bucket grunted it.
“Sergeant Hall,” the Colonel interjected, “Does Naples mean anything to you?”
Bucket stayed silent for a minute. He looked to his assistant, who took a long breath. Bucket pressed his lips shut tight and nodded, and took a deep breath himself. The heat drained out of him, and he flipped through his pages to find what he needed. He scanned it quickly through his thick glasses, then answered to the Colonel directly, ignoring the red-faced commodore:
“There’s one possibility in that area. The Vulcan is most effective in an active stratovolcano. According to seismometer readings from back before the war, Mount Vesuvius would be the best possible location. If the Nazis are enslaving people, not worried about wearing them out or killing ‘em to get it installed, they could already have it hooked up.”
“They wouldn't...” whispered the Colonel, actually shocked to silence.
“What in the hell is the issue, Halistone?” Dixon fumbled through his pockets, finally removing a tiny pair of glasses to perch on the end of his bloated red nose. He peered at the map, sounding out the odd name of the mountain. “What's got you so worked up over this Vesuvius? Sounds like another secret Nazi mountain fortress. I say we do it the old-fashioned way and get the Navy to pound to pebbles.”
Dixon tucked his glasses away and began issuing orders to his omnipresent aide:
“Lieutenant Benjamin, get me Admiral Cunningham on the horn. We'll have some ordinance on site within the hour.”
The weaselly little shadow immediately headed for the door, nearly running to convey the orders. The Colonel placed his hand on Dixon's shoulder and called out to Benjamin:
“Belay that order, Lieutenant.”
The young lieutenant stopped in his tracks and Dixon began to protest, but his mouth snapped shut as soon as he saw the dour look on the Colonel's face.
“Vesuvius severely limits our options, Clay. This requires a delicate touch. A personal visit. Commando work,” the Colonel told him.
“What's there that got you so spooked?” Dixon asked.
“Metzger's device requires the energy drawn from an active volcano. The last time this particular volcano was awake, it launched a cubic mile of burning rock into the sky, killing twenty-five thousand people and melting them into ash statues. We cannot risk unleashing that kind of destruction on anyone, even fascists. We're not them.”
Dixon nodded and the Colonel continued:
“We'll have to be subtle. One small squad, in and out. Disable the device, eliminate as many key Department Three personnel as possible, liberate any intelligence items they have lying around, and leave on our merry way.”
“Agreed, but only if your angel thinks she can get you all into Naples,” Dixon said. The pair looked at Seacombe for confirmation.
“I can thread that plane through a thunderstorm of needles,” Seacombe snapped. The gentlemen of the room chuckled, at least until they saw that she wan't kidding. Lucky remembered her boot on his chest and didn't let out a peep.
“In that case, we will need a small team to see the mission through. Would Agent Boots' local contacts be able to accommodate our exfiltration?”
The Colonel was already studying the battle map.
“I'll tell ya, Boots has been aching for some action ever since he moved in under these kraut bastards. His people would be damn glad to set off this operation by themselves if you ask me,” the commodore told him. “I've known Boots for better than twenty years, Halistone. He's our man, no question about it.”
“Good, excellent,” the Colonel muttered.
“Sir, we are on an exceptionally tight timeline,” Miller interjected. “If the Crying Maiden is to be operational within twelve hours of Agent Boots' last transmission, that leaves us only eleven hours, three minutes to disable it. The distance between our current position and Naples puts The Express' flight time at approximately ninety-six minutes, not accounting for weather. It would be a tight schedule on the ground even if we lift off this very minute.”
“Then we shan't dawdle,” the Colonel replied. He asked the commodore: “Do you have an alternate means to get in contact with Agent Boots in the event his transmission is jammed?”
“There is a dead-drop location he uses to send and receive materiel, an abandoned factory his network purchased. His men keep an eye on it twenty-four-seven,” Dixon said. “I suppose we could make it a live drop.”
“As Miller pointed out, we have an uncompromising itinerary,” the Colonel said, addressing every official in the room. “The Express needs to be flight-prepped and airborne within forty minutes.”
“Let’s underway, we can cut down on your flight time as well,” Dixon said. The upcoming action was imbuing him with a vibrant energy that washed the rest of the glaze out of his eyes. “You boys get suited up. In the meantime, we'll keep hailing Boots. I’ll also put some orders through Cunningham. He’ll set us up a diversion.”
The commodore practically ran out of the room, his red-coated guards trailing behind. The corner of the Colonel's mustache momentarily twitched upward, revealing a discrete smirk. It wasn't time for smiling or standing around, and the small grin disappeared. He turned back to address his assembled team:
“The commodore is preparing on his end, our work is to get off this ship and into the air. Flight Lieutenant, please take your crew and prep The Express for liftoff. Quartermasters, open the armory. A full commando team will be going on this mission. I want the rest of the field teams prepped to provide reinforcements and post-mission cataloging and possible purge as soon as we're done on the ground.”
The old soldier looked over his officials, hazel eyes conveying both fatherly pride and infallible confidence in his team.
“You know what you need to do. Final mission brief begins back in this room in thirty-nine minutes. Dismissed.”
The officials burst into action around Lucky, all of them heading for the doors, each knowing where to go and what to do. He squeezed himself as flat against the wall as he could, desperate to not cause any jams in this well-oiled machine.
Within seconds the board room was empty and Lucky found himself standing alone with the Colonel and Miller. The old soldier packed his pipe and pulled a match out of one of his many pockets. He smiled at Lucky over the pipe as he struck the match on his boot-sole. He carefully puffed the dark tobacco to orange life and ambled his way around the long table before speaking.
“Ah, Lucky, this is all quite new for you, is it not?” he asked as he took a seat on the tabletop.
Lucky fumbled for words. He had been listening, reading, and learning for every waking instant he'd been aboard, but he hadn't had a second to form a thought of his own. All this talk of monsters and Nazis, wolf-men, gremlins, and volcanoes, he had rolled with it; it didn't even occur to him to question any of it, just to analyze and strategize. He remembered the last thing Miller had told him during their makeshift class:
'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.'
Lucky realized that he really was one of them in that moment. He didn't hesitate to accept the possibility of the position he found himself in. Instead, he analyzed the situation through the filter of everything he had learned in the past day.
“Not new, sir, just different,” Lucky replied.
“What do you think about all this?” the old soldier asked.
“Sounds near impossible, sir,” Lucky answered. “I was up against some long odds last night, but this is a whole other league beyond that.”
The Colonel nodded and puffed on his pipe, the first time Lucky'd seen him wait for someone else to speak. Lucky continued, trying to review the situation strategically, as if he was up against just men and tanks:
“I see our biggest trip-up here is Boots. The commodore places a lot of faith in a man we can't talk to right now. For all we know, he's been captured. And we don't even really know how this Crying Maiden thing works, do we? Doesn't seem like we have enough to win, sir.”
The Colonel nodded again, took a thoughtful drag on his pipe, then patted Lucky on the shoulder as he stood.
“You make excellent points. Our lack of information is quite dangerous, but out there, we have insurance,” the Colonel answered cryptically.
“What's that, sir?” Lucky wondered.
“The officials, of course. An assembly of the most capable and dangerous men and women in the world, each trained to think on their feet and act decisively. With enough officials, and plastic explosive, one can move the world,” the Colonel answered.
He took a beat, then continued, solemn:
“Trust me when I say that everyone who was in this room intimately knows and understands your concerns. What you'll come to see is that they are over-ridden by the necessity to disrupt any and all efforts of Department Three. These men… No, not men. These Nazis cannot be allowed to make the world in their image. They must be fought, no matter the circumstances.”
The Colonel squeezed Lucky's shoulder then wandered back over to the map where the red sticker on Mount Vesuvius stuck out like a infected sore.
“I am sure Miller mentioned to you, but you shall be joining us in Naples. I want you on my strike team,” he answered. Before Lucky could speak, the Colonel snapped back into his habit of speaking right before any objections had a chance to be voiced. “I have the utmost confidence in your combat training and experience, as well as the fact that it is clear you have a knack for escaping compromising situations unharmed. This shall be one of those situations.”
The Colonel patted Miller on the shoulder. The masked man was straightening the piles of maps and documents.
“Old friend, I'd like you to stick close to Lucky once we're on the ground. His safety is in your hands,” the Colonel said. Miller nodded. The old soldier turned back to Lucky:
“Go with Miller, he'll take you to the armory, please be ready in the hangar in...” he checked his gold pocket watch, “...Thirty-four minutes.”
The Colonel rapped the tabletop with his knuckles and strolled away, leaving Lucky alone with Miller.
“He trusts you, Private Ford. He wouldn't have assigned you to this mission if he was not certain that you would be essential in accomplishing what we shall set out to do,” Miller assured him.
“Will the Vargulf be there?” Lucky asked.
“Most certainly,” Miller replied.
Lucky may have been briefed about the demons the Colonel was asking him to face, he may have understood how they work and what they were on paper, but knowingly placing himself in front of the Vargulf was something else entirely.
Understanding their nature proved to Lucky that he wasn't crazy, but sprinting headlong back at death set that on its head. Lucky was just a man, he couldn't fight things like that himself. He'd seen what the monsters behind Department Three had done to better men than him.
“I can't, I can't fight those things...” Lucky stammered. He honestly didn't know if he was speaking out loud again, but it was evident what was running through his head even if a single word hadn't snuck out.
“Of course you cannot fight them, Private Ford...” Miller said. Lucky looked up into Miller's eyes in shock. They were still sealed away by that gas mask, but they looked like he was smiling. “Not like this, anyway.”
He brushed off Lucky's shoulders and straightened his shirt.
“Come with me, the Office can’t have its agents running about unprepared. Besides, having the will and mindset is not everything that makes an official. We also deal in overwhelming and precise firepower.”
He was right, Lucky didn't have anything to worry about. It was everyone around him who was in trouble. They'd all end up ghosts in Lucky's dreams, and Lucky would be left alone, with Department Three's monsters bearing down on him, always hungry.
SATURDAY NIGHT, JULY 10, 1942
ABOARD THE H.M.S. SAINT GEORGE
BENEATH THE TYRRHENIAN SEA
Miller led Lucky back through the labyrinthine guts of the Saint George. They passed sonar and radar stations, a radio room he called the HYDRA, a cryptography lab, cold food storage, off-shift sailors sleeping in their bunks, torpedo bays, a packed infirmary staffed by a dozen matronly nurses and one grumbling Pollack, and more. Eventually they made their way down into the bow of the ship, to its prow, deep underwater even when the Saint George was surfaced. The constricting hallway opened up into a wide, long compartment with high ceilings and bright lighting.
A rip of full-auto gunfire careened off the bulkheads and nearly dropped Lucky to the deck.
“What the hell?” he yelped before collecting himself.
“Welcome to the armory, Private Ford,” Miller said. “Featuring the only submerged firing range in the Allied fleets.”
Jeff Lee was standing at a firing line, aiming down the sights of an M3 grease gun, fresh out of the box.
“Official Lee!” Miller called out. The other man pulled a wad of cotton out of his ear and waved to Miller.
“How are you doing, Miller?” he asked.
“Perfectly fine,” Miller replied. “Simply getting Private Ford outfitted for tonight's endeavor.”
“Hey, happy to have you,” Lee told Lucky. “That gremlin situation was a mess, but you handled yourself well.”
“Thank you,” Ford said quietly.
More gunfire echoed through the long room. Lucky spotted the Greek twins from the briefing at the far firing lane. One was standing, firing a rifle into an SS-shaped target, while the other, his foot encased in a plaster cast, offered a constant flow of critiques. They shouted back and forth at each other while the un-hobbled soldier tried to shoot. An off shot pinged off the bulkhead, making Lucky wince and ready himself for the wall to spring a leak.
“This is one of the most well-armored areas of the ship,” Miller explained. He knew exactly what was making Lucky nervous. The sandbag wall at the far end of the firing range caught all of the ordinance, but particularly bad shots could careen off bulkheads on their way there. “The only small arm not cleared for use down here in Lieutenant Neff's Boys anti-tank rifle.”
“That frog prefers sniping sharks and naval mines from the deck anyway,” Lee added.
“It is quite a sight,” Miller said.
“We used to bet on him, but that got boring quick,” Lee said. “He never misses.”
“Speaking of accuracy, what are you thoughts on the M3?” Miller wondered. Lee turned the gleaming new sub-machine gun over his hands, testing its feel and weight. Lucky'd never fired one before; the regular Army was just now getting issued them.
“It feels odd not to have any hardwood to hold onto, but I can get used to that. Lightweight, easy to control, quick reload. I just have to get her dialed in and I think we'll get along fine,” Lee said after a thorough examination.
“Indeed, well, we shan't keep you from it,” Miller said.
“Good talking to you,” Lee said. “I'll see you boys on the runway.”
Lucky shook his hand again and they left him to his work.
“Some officials enjoy using the firing range to let off stress after a particularly harrowing assignment,” Miller explained as they past the firing lanes. The Greek twins were still bickering and Lee was working his way through a fresh magazine, so Miller had to almost yell to be audible through his mask. “And, of course, we all strive to improve our individual and collective skillset, so practice is mandatory amongst all officials. Our armaments are well-maintained and ready for the strain we place upon them due to the tireless staff of armorers and quartermasters aboard.”
Past the rows of firing lanes, they happened upon a huge bearded man with a black eye-patch kicked back behind a wooden desk. He watched the lanes between perusing pages of a special edition of the fifteen-cent thriller magazine, Popular Detective dedicated to the exploits of the Billy Club Bastard. His single eye danced left to right across each page, up to watch the shooters on the range, then back down to the stories. His massive boots were up on his desk, each looking like they weighed ten pounds in leather alone. His thick beard was shaved clean above mid-cheek, as was the rest of his head, leaving him with a gleaming bare scalp with a tiny black beret perched precariously on the peak of his skull.
Before Miller could greet him, A flash of gold caught Lucky's eye. Seacombe stalked her way into the firing range. She scowled and walked directly between Miller and Lucky, displacing them out of her way with attitude alone.
The one-eyed range master looked up from his magazine to see her glowering over him. He smiled, his big grin showing teeth through his thick beard. He reminded Lucky of a brown bear. He swung his boots off the table and carefully dog-eared his page before reaching under his desk and pulling a box of ammunition that he had tucked away. He stood to his full height, at least six-six, stretching his massive bulk as he did so. The .38-caliber box looked tiny in his paw, and he only seemed to grow bigger when the slender flight lieutenant approached to snatch it out of his palm.
Lucky couldn't fathom how the man fit through the Saint George’s hatches.
“Your usual, Lieutenant?” he asked, his voice rumbling in the huge room.
“Every day, Woody,” Seacombe replied.
“Lane three,” he told him. She set the box on a shelf in the center lane's firing station and pulled her banged-revolver from its low-slung hip holster to load it. She cracked it open and inserted six live rounds.
“I hope you don't mind, Lieutenant Seacombe, but I took the liberty to juice up your routine. It’s a bit faster than before. I don't think you'll have any problem with that,” Woody, the giant man, said. He had a console next to his desk covered in levers, buttons, and knobs. He began making adjustments, a twist here and a turn there.
Seacombe holstered her revolver and smiled, a sight Lucky was happy to see.
“I was getting too used to the pattern,” she said. She stepped up to line and stood with her feet shoulder-width apart, like a cowboy on Main Street at high noon.
“You ready there, ma'am?” Woody asked. She nodded. “Here it goes then.”
Woody pulled down hard on a lever on the console, like he was going for the jackpot on a slot machine. Within a couple seconds, faster than Lucky was prepared to watch, six wooden targets popped up in six different spots in front of Seacombe. They fell just as fast, six shots fired so quickly they sounded like one.
Seacombe slid her revolver back into its holster as smoothly as she had plucked it out. The blonde pilot turned around, gunsmoke catching the glow of the lightbulb above her, radiating around her.
The Greeks had gone silent, and Lee had taken a moment to admire her gunwork.
“My goodness, lieutenant, I figured I'd've had you that time,” Woody said. He pulled the slot machine lever again, and the six targets raised up on hinges from where they had fallen. Two were pinholed through the face, another had suffered a catastrophic shot to the neck, removing the head entirely, while the last three had been drilled straight through the upper torso. Seacombe was still smiling, and bathed in cordite-filtered light she really did look like an angel.
“You threw me off a bit there mate, but I adjusted,” Seacombe told him. She tossed her long hair over her shoulder, sighing and saying: “Thanks, that was just what I needed.”
Lucky watched walk past, gold and gunsmoke flowing in her wake. Miller put his hand on Lucky's shoulder and walked him to the range master who was busy fiddling with his instruments.
“Chief Woodruff,” Miller began. At the sound of his voice, the huge man spun on his heel with surprising agility and wrapped Miller up in a massive bear hug, lifting him off the deck. Lucky heard Miller wheeze as the air was squeezed from his lungs. Woody beamed so broadly that Lucky was afraid the tiny beret would slip off his smooth head. He dropped Miller to the deck and clapped him on the back, almost knocking him to his knees as he fought to regain his composure.
“Mister Miller, a pleasure to see you again! I hope this isn't just a business visit, you know I always enjoy spending time with a fellow Canuck,” Woody boomed.
Miller shrugged the man's huge arm from his shoulders and went about rearranging his uniform, straightening out all of its new, hug-induced wrinkles.
“Okay, okay my friend, sorry about the suit, you know I'm just happy to see you,” Woody said. “How comfortable are those thirty-thousand-dollar jammies? Any problems with the valves? Do you need me to replace any seals? If the temperature consistent?”
The huge Canadian leaned in and peered close, running over every seam in Miller's uniform with his one eye. Lucky hadn't noticed until the range master brought it to his attention, but there was not a single break in the fabric of Miller’s uniform. It was like a leather, rubber, and canvas one-piece jumpsuit.
Miller huffed, saying:
“Chief Woodruff, please, the suit is fine. I am not here about the suit.”
Woodruff sighed and stood down, obviously disappointed that he hadn't gotten to fiddle with what was apparently a ludicrously expensive outfit.
“I am here at the request of Colonel Halistone. We are just moments away from departing into the field, and the presence of Private Ford has been requested. Private Ford, this is Chief Warrant Officer Woodruff, Quartermaster First Class.”
Lucky nodded and extended his right hand, only to have it enveloped in Woody's massive paw. He smiled wildly and started chattering like an old chainsaw:
“Gosh dang it, Miller, I know who this Yank is. Let me apologize for Miller, he's on some kind of title kick. Everyone on this tub, everyone but the iceman here that is, calls me Woody. You've got to be the new kid, Lucky Ford. Is it true you put a shiner on Gerhardt's ugly mug? I wish I were a younger man, I'd be right out there with you, friend, popping those dad-gum Nazis right in their ugly snouts.”
Woody shook Lucky's hand like he was mixing paint. His grin was infectious and Lucky was glad for a reprieve from the deadly seriousness of the briefing.
Woody, still beaming, released Lucky to let some blood sneak back into his hand. The big man spread his arms wide as he turned, as if presenting Lucky to some noble lady at a fairy tale ball. He introduced the room:
“This is my Armory, an exclusive and extensive arsenal of all armaments intrinsic in the apprehension or elimination of any Axis adversaries unfortunate enough to engender the unwavering attention of the Office.”
He stood still with a maniac grin, as if waiting for applause for his monologue.
“I’m locked in down here a lot, okay?” he chuckled.
Lucky wanted to hear more, but Miller was growing increasingly impatient so he got down to business:
“I'm leaving for Naples in a few minutes, I guess I need a whole new load-out, my last kit burned up in Sicily. This is all I have left.”
He unholstered Sergeant Burke's beat-up 1911 and handed it to Woody. The armorer inspected it, then directed Lucky to follow him to the next compartment down from the firing range. He grunted as he unsealed a vault-thick door. Inside, Lucky found dozens of shelves containing hundreds of weapon and ammo crates lining a well-lit store room. As he entered, Woody grabbed a massive inventory book from a hook next to the door and cracked it open.
“Might I interest you in any of my wares? I have near every small arm issued by our Allied nations, many Axis weapons, as well as several tools you may have not had the pleasure of hearing about. This Colt looks fairly well-seasoned, and I have a few extra copies, new in box. Let me just pull one of those for you...” Before Woody could go searching for the crate of pistols, Lucky spoke up:
“Thanks, but, well, that pistol there, I'd just rather keep that one. It belonged to my sergeant. I should have it with me.”
Woody understood and handed the beat-up forty-five back. Instead of reaching for a new weapon, he handed Lucky five loaded magazines of .45's.
“Remembering who you fight for is as important as the fight itself,” Woody said. “Besides, some think those 1911's work better with a little milage on them. If you don't mind, just in case you run into your old buddy Gerhardt and decide to plant another one on his cheek, I'm going to throw in some silver rounds for you.”
He stacked two boxes of gleaming, silver-tipped pistol rounds on top of the other five magazines. He winked loaded the special rounds into the pistol.
“Those beauts'll give that rutter Gerhardt some extra sugar next time you meet. So we've got your sidearm situation covered, are you looking for standard gear or do you have something special in mind?”
“The typical field load-out, Chief,” Miller said, “We're on a tight deadline.”
Miller looked on as Woody stacked equipment into a weighty pile in Lucky's arms. He left the armory with all new gear including a new Garand with thirty-ought-six ammo, a silver-edged combat knife, a gas mask, a set of willy pete grenades, and a quaking clap on the back from Woody that nearly sent all of the gear clattering across the deck. Miller tried to make his departure more dignified than his entrance, but Woody once again scooped him up in a bear hug. Lucky thought Miller might have been smiling beneath his mask as he patted the giant quartermaster on the back and said:
“Don't worry, we'll be back soon, old friend.”
Miller led Lucky and his teetering armful of equipment to the door. As they stepped out, Woody called to Miller:
“I almost forgot, but I got something for you, chum.”
Miller turned in time to catch what looked like a roll of olive drab masking tape.
“It's not standard issue, but the flyboys upstairs swear by this stuff,” Woody explained. “They call it hurricane tape. Figured it could help you out if you get caught up in a bally-hoo. Slap it on any tears or nicks on your fancy pants and you won't have to sit the rest of the ride out.”
Miller looked to the thick roll of fabric-backed tape in his hand and back to the beaming quarter master.
“Thank you, Chief,” he said, almost a whisper.
They left Woody and the armory behind them, making a quick detour back by the food storage area and its massive humming walk-in fridges. Miller walked past them and turned a key in the lock of a heavy duty hatch nearby. He cranked it open to unseal it, then turned back to stop Lucky from following him.
“Sorry, Private Ford, but you'll have to wait here. I won't take but a minute.”
The heavy-gauge bolts on the door released with a final turn of the crank, and the door groaned open. White fog hissed out of the open doorway, and a sudden chill ran up Lucky's spine, raising goosebumps on his arms and legs.
“What's in there?” Lucky asked, his breath coming out in clouds of icy fog.
“My quarters,” Miller answered. He stepped into the frigid room, slamming the thick door shut behind him.
Lucky waited in the hallway, studying the frosted door. Miller's quarters had something to do with why he never took off his gas mask, like Loud MacLeod had said, and why he wore a sealed suit that cost just as much as a Sherman tank. Miller never said he had a rank, or his nationality. Lucky wasn't sure he even had a first name. Woody had said something about Miller being a fellow Canadian, but Miller hadn't responded in any kind of way that would corroborate that statement.
All Lucky knew for sure was that the Colonel trusted Miller to the ends of the Earth, probably literally, and that he had been tapped into the inner workings of the Office for a long time.
As Lucky considered all this, he donned his new gear. He clipped the WP grenades to his bandolier, slung the rifle over his shoulder, snapped the silvered bayonet with its razor-edge into his boot sheath, and strapped Sergeant Burke's pistol to his hip. Every pocket on his new coat and trousers was jammed with ammo, along with the occasional respirator filter and candy bar.
Lucky had just fastened the gas mask around his neck to let it hang across his chest when the hatch groaned open again. Miller emerged from his bunk in another rush of freezing vapor. Frost on his steelpot helmet quickly melted into cold droplets as soon as he resealed his icebox-like quarters. He carried an armful of rolled-up maps as well as a brand new grease gun that hang from his shoulder by its strap.
“Sorry for the wait, Private Ford,” he said. He set off on a quick pace toward the hanger, calling over his shoulder: “We mustn't dally, the field team should be assembled and its newest member cannot be late for his first briefing.”
In the hangar, they found the Colonel and his team calm and prepared for anything the krauts could throw at them.
Miller quickly introduced Lucky to the soldiers he’d yet to meet. There was one of the Greek twins, Ajax Adrastos, a genial sergeant from New Zealand, Brett Rossling, and the tattooed British official who’d been helping Bucket, Willie Dutton. They all seemed pleased to meet him. Only the Portuguese sailor with the deep scars in his bald head, Cão, had nothing to say.
“Don’t be offended, Mister Cão doesn’t speak,” Miller whispered. Cão flashed him a rude gesture then went back to sharpening his hatchet while he listened on.
The team was circled around a big table cluttered with marked-up maps, rather than sitting classroom-style. The Colonel and Dixon solicited ideas from every official there, fielding their questions and implementing their suggestions. Neff, MacLeod, Miller, Bucket, Seacombe, Lee, and the rest, all had logistical and tactical input that came together to create a sound plan for a night insertion into Nazi-held Italy.
They’d be the first uniformed Allied boots in continental Europe since Dieppe.
Dixon’s contact, Agent Boots, maintained a network of informants and spies within the city of Naples. Though they'd lost radio contact with him, they knew that Boots' people monitored a dead drop location in the Fabbrica di Pescatori di Mano Nera, a fish cannery in the commune of San Giorgio a Cremano. The cannery had been abandoned and reduced to rubble by years of Allied bombing runs, leaving it totally abandoned. So long as the officials could stick to dark alleys and unpatrolled back streets, it would make the perfect rendezvous point to meet up with the local resistance.
Lucky listened close to Dixon's explanation of who these contacts were. He'd heard enough verbal hopscotch in his short time as a deputy to realize that they were dealing with criminals, not revolutionaries.
In order to make sure those back streets were unpatrolled, Dixon had used whatever authority the Office granted him to countermand the Allied forces' usual command structure and order a massive bombing run against the city. Though Naples had been under siege from the air for years, the attack he was planning would be an order of magnitude larger than any the city had faced before. The attack was to be concentrated on the northern and western portions of the city: the big industrial port and Nazi headquarters. Any kraut with a lick of sense would have his head buried so far in the sand that he wouldn't get the chance to spot a few parachutes dropping between bombs.
The main thing that worried Lucky in the whole plan was the same issue MacLeod brought up. Through his near-incomprehensible brogue, Lucky deciphered that the Scotsman was concerned about the dangers of a night jump into a city. He seemed especially concerned about landing on a fencepost, or in the case of a destroyed stadium, a goalpost of some sort.
Seacombe was quick to respond with her usual intensity, explaining through red face and salty language that she'd drop the 'scared baby birds right onto momma's nest' and not worry their 'pretty little britches about it.' The Colonel quickly smoothed them out, explaining that they had chosen a sizable public park near the cannery for their landing zone.
“Saddle up, officials,” Dixon told them. “The bombing run's already started.”
Red lights illuminated the hanger and the Saint George shifted and groaned under their feet. When she broke the surface, Lucky listened to the thousands of gallons pouring off the deck. The seals on the hanger doors cracked and creaked as they opened wide, letting in fresh, salty air. A cool breeze whipped up off of the Mediterranean, refreshing the officials. The hangar quickly grew steamy. Hot pipes ran through the flight deck above them and served to dry its surface quicker.
The squad rode up the plane elevator with The Express, then boarded the plane while Seacombe made the final adjustments and the deck crew hooked them up to the launch mechanism. The sea breeze whipped the last gusts of steam off the dried deck when they got their green light.
It was Lucky's first time in a catapult-launched plane, but he managed to hang onto his lunch throughout the entire takeoff. Once airborne, the full moon leaked pale sky into The Express' cabin as the near-silent plane sliced through the air. Seacombe adjusted the altitude, slipping into a cloud and momentarily cutting off the thick lunar beams.
As Lucky's eyes adjusted to the translucent blue glow soaking through the cloud, the massive arsenal brought to bear by the commandos of the Office for the Cataloging of Unusual Occurrences' Bureau for African and Mediterranean Affairs emerged into view. Each of the twelve men in the cabin carried an array of the most powerful and technically advanced firearms Lucky had ever seen.
The Colonel sat up at the front of the plane, eagerly studying maps and plans with Bucket. Each of his three customized Webley Mark VI revolvers in his triple holster caught moonlight on their various inlaid precious metals. Every spare pocket and pouch he carried was chock full of Prideaux speedloaders filled with silver, incendiary, and dum-dum .455-caliber rounds. His silver-edged cavalry sword hung from his right hip.
Bucket's arsenal was no less impressive, but significantly less eccentric. He had brought along a Tommy gun; not military-issue but an M1928A1, one of the gangster models used to mow down wiseguys onscreen. He'd hung a massive drum magazine on it, packed full of a hundred rattling .45's. He kept a full-auto Colt 1911 strapped to his right thigh, done up in chrome.
As before, Loud MacLeod carried his claymore sword strapped to his chest right above his Browning Automatic Rifle. MacLeod had added a custom shoulder strap to the BAR so he could hold and aim it from the hip with one arm while having his other hand free to swing his sword. He'd tucked his red mane beneath a helmet that looked like it had been stolen from a museum. He would've looked like madman in battle, blasting down men with one hand and cleaving them in half with the other. Even monsters like the Vargulf might stop to reconsider facing him down.
The red OCUO insignia on the shoulder of Lucky’s still-pressed fatigues practically glowed. The eye and the eagle glared outward, always vigilant. Each of the officials wore the same patch above small, olive-drab patches showing the flags of their homelands. The United States, the United Kingdom, Free France, Scotland, New Zealand, Portugal, and Greece all had sons aboard The Express. Each man was silent, reviewing the plan internally.
The operation was rushed, it had to be, but every person aboard was a professional soldier, a warrior. Thinking while at top speed was just as important as hitting a bullseye, and Lucky knew that an official could do both with unerring dependability under the worst conditions imaginable.
The flight to Naples took just over seventy minutes.
The red jump light, which had been burning steady and bright to fight back the blue moonlight infiltrating the plane, clicked off. When it turned back on, it was glowing amber. The Colonel checked his watch, peered out of the window, then whistled. The men in the cabin tensed and took measured, calming breaths.
Lee was their jumpmaster. He hooked his parachute up to the line, then directed the rest of the officials to do the same. Lucky stood with them. His carabiner snapped onto the taut cable, same as he'd done it a half-dozen times before. The Express purred.
“Just remember Lucky,” the Colonel whispered, smiling, “Keep your wits about you and watch the ground as it comes. One can't be too careful when jumping onto rubble and cobblestone.”
The jump light turned green and the flight cabin door slammed open, propelled by Seacombe's oil-stained boot. Behind her, Lucky could see her rusty wrench jammed against the seat to hold plane's the control yoke in place.
“Now's the time, mud-stompers. Get the hell out of my plane!” she shouted.
“You heard her! Go, go, go!” Lee yelled. He patted the Colonel on the shoulder and led him out the door.
The old soldier was gone before Seacombe had finished shouting, followed close by Bucket and his assistant, Dutton, and their satchels full of precision demolitions gear. Neff stepped to the edge and spit into the howling wind.
Lucky watched the man in front of him. Miller stood stoic as always, but somehow Lucky knew he was uneasy.
Miller turned around to look at Lucky. His eyes expressed only unwavering determination. He silently nodded, then went next out of the open door.
Lucky stepped up to the precipice, wind whistling past his toes, gripping the door frame with both hands. He thought about the men following him out of The Express: MacLeod, Ajax, Rossling, Cão, and finally the jumpmaster, Lee. He had barely met these men but he they were trusting him with their lives.
Wind whirled Angel's blond hair around the cabin while she watched Lucky stand in the door. Her fierce glare softened for just a second. That baby blue second would last forever in Lucky's memory.
MacLeod coughed behind him. Lucky looked at him and found him grinning, his shining white teeth a startling contrast to his war-painted face.
“It'll be your shot now, laddie.”
Lee slapped him on the shoulder, and Lucky nodded, then, with all his strength, heaved himself into the open air.
He told himself he wasn't brave. He just did not give himself the option to be a coward. That door was the point of no return.
Falling, he no longer had the luxury of wondering whether this mission was something he could do. He could not get back on the plane, he could not go back to yesterday, he could not be the man he'd been in Jonesville, Indiana.
What awaited him on the ground was work. It was hard work to be sure, but once his shift was over, he'd be done, that's all there was to it. He'd sleep for three days straight and never worry about monsters, volcanos, or the Office ever again.
Four miles to his west, fires, tracers, spotlights, and explosions lit the city and the underside of the low-hanging blanket of clouds. Below him, there was only darkness. It was going to be a tricky landing, but the wind was on their side and every Axis eye was looking west.
The Italian air whipped past his face, and he fell.
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Copyright © 2022 Daniel Baldwin. All rights reserved.
Written and edited by Daniel Baldwin. Art by Dudu Torres.