A Matter of Trust
Sentinel X Garrison’s
Gorillas Story.
In the 1990’s I saw a documentary
about war time crime in
My thanks to Izzie and Luv’es Fiction, without you this story
would never have been written. Any mistakes are mine.
Garrison’s Gorillas was created by Morte Green for
ABC.
August 1947
General Richard Edwards looked
across the room at G13, his specialist unit. What was the old saying? “War is hell, but the peace will kill
you.” Very apt.
He studied his team of
twelve, thirteen if you counted the Professor.
There was something special about them.
Three of them were sentinels and three of them guides. To begin with he
hadn’t believed the sentinel voodoo, men with enhanced senses that made them
the ultimate soldiers, guides a steadying influence that helped the sentinels
apply their senses without tumbling into a black void that could kill them. A
pairing joined by something called a bond, a living force, the Professor had
told him again and again. It was what
propelled the sentinel into what one of his men, Dr Blair Sandburg, called the
blessed protector condition, where the sentinel was beyond logical or civilized
conduct. They would tear a man apart
with their bare hands to save their guide, and in that condition only their
guide could control them.
The General studied the
men. Major James Ellison, ex-cop and one
of the best investigators in the old G2 unit, was standing over a map, deep in
tactical argument with Lieutenant Colonel Craig Garrison, a
The man watching the
Colonel’s every move was his sentinel, British Sergeant Major Richard
Lewis. At 6 foot 8 and powerfully built,
he towered over his 5 foot 11 guide.
Lewis was the most dangerous of the Sentinels. According to Professor
Faulkner and Dr Sandburg, he was a primal sentinel, and his type was possibly
the forerunner of the Werewolf legend. With him, all bets were off where his
guide was concerned. He had already
walked through hell to get him. General Edwards shuddered. He had seen what was left of the black
marketer who had attacked the Colonel; there hadn’t been enough of him to put
in a bag.
Handing his own sentinel a
cup of coffee was Dr Blair Sandburg, one of the smallest men in the room at 5
foot 9; he wore no uniform, still remaining a civilian, a highly respected
academic, and Professor Faulkner was his mentor. He was, Edwards smiled fondly,
one of the most hyperactive people he had ever met and for a man who didn’t
like violence he never hung back, in a fight he was a good man. Finally the last
remaining Sentinel. Dark-haired, he
moved with the grace of one of the big cats.
His eyes were on Garrison, the officer glanced across, nodded to the
sentinel as if to confirm that everything was alright and then turned back to
the tactical argument with the other senior officers.
One day, Edwards mused,
when all this was over and he had retired back to his family home in
The City was in the middle of all the excitement of the Olympic Games
which had just started. Wise heads had agreed that Hitler was attempting to
hijack the Games, turn them into the largest propaganda exercise ever seen. The
Winter Games, also held in
The events called the Night of the Long Knives in 1934 had been
forgotten, or so it seemed, by the foreign powers, and now the Olympics were
giving a seal of respectability to the Government in
The streets were crowded with people of all nations hurrying. Everyone seemed to have somewhere to go,
something to do. At a pavement café, Jean Faulkner sipped her coffee and took
the time to watch the world go by. At eighteen, the Englishwoman had the whole
world in front of her. Her friends were talking about coming out into society,
being presented at court, then finding a husband. All she thought about was
being in the position to further her education and help her parents in their
field of research. But that seemed a
long way off. At the moment, her parents
were meeting with their German colleagues at the Institute before dining
together at the Hotel, after which the more important private meeting would
take place.
Her job was to locate Blair Sandburg, an American academic, and get him
to the meeting on time. But that was later; now she could take the time to
watch the world go by and take in the hustle and bustle that was the Olympic
Games.
It seemed that every house and shop was flying either the swastika or
the Olympic flag, and it also seemed that every tenth person was in uniform,
although it was hard to keep track of what they were. Jean was flipping through
the official guide book until she found what she wanted, the location of the
swimming events. It was going to be
exciting, especially with the American record holder being excluded from the
team at the last minute. It would throw the race open. She was to meet her
contact, Dr Sandburg, at the swimming event, a chance meeting or so it would
seem. Looking down at her watch she
checked the time, made allowances for the people and the lack of transport, and
draining her coffee decided to make a move.
Leaving a tip on the table she entered the flow of people, reminding
her of salmon swimming downstream.
Letting her mind wander was not a good thing to do, the man heading
towards her zigged when she thought he was going to zag and they collided. He
made a grab to catch her before she fell, but only got a grip on the front of
her blouse, and there was the horrible sound of tearing material as she landed
on her backside on the pavement. In a
last ditch attempt to save herself, she had grabbed hold of him, but instead
hauled him off his feet and forward onto her.
He tried to avoid landing on her, but all he managed to do was straddle
her as he landed face first into her cleavage.
For a moment there was stunned silence, then a clamour of people asking
if they were alright. The man pushed himself
up with muttered apologies, and for the first time Jean got a look at the cause
of her embarrassment, a young man in his early twenties with dark blond hair,
good looking, with a smile that was devastating. His apology would have worked
better if his gaze hadn’t slipped from her face to admire two of her other
assets and he couldn’t keep the grin from his face.
Quickly he reached down to pull her to her feet, but she halted him,
“You’re on my skirt.” Jean used German which she spoke fluently, having spent
winter holidays in the German region of
It was only then she caught sight of her image in the shop window and
just stopped short of swearing, a very unladylike habit she had at times. The
black jacket had the SS runes on one collar, on the other his rank. He was a junior officer. Of all the people
she had to have banged into it was an SS officer. She looked down at the cuff band: Adolf
Hitler. He belonged to the Leibstandarte
SS, the Bodyguard Regiment.
The officer was bending to pick up his cap; he gave her a smile, his
hand going out to stop her as she tried to shrug off his jacket. Only he caught her hand, taking a step closer
to her, she quickly took a small step back, giving her a little breathing space
from him.
Richard Alfred Lewis at 23 was a big man, powerfully built with a quick
and keen mind, who was representing
“Miss Faulkner, are you alright?”
An unbonded Sentinel, he took his protection of his clan very
seriously, and Jean Rose Faulkner was, by her father’s adoption into the Clan,
his responsibility.
The young officer spun round, “We
are alright,” The German
officer’s English was stuttering.
Richard looked him up and down, towering over the lean German’s 5 foot
11, and fixed him with a cold look, meeting the icy grey blue eyes levelly.
“With due respect, mate, I wasn’t talking to you,” he deliberately broadened
his working class accent. Turning his attention to Jean, he slipped off his own
jacket, and handed it to her, and she gladly took the black uniformed jacket
off to return to the officer.
“Thank you, but I am alright now.” She pulled the British blazer more
tightly round her even though it swamped her.
Richard reflected that if looks could kill he would have dropped dead
that instant. He opened his senses and scanned the officer’s vital signs
carefully, detecting the scent of sexual interest on the younger man. This was an accidental meeting, nothing
more.
The German officer bowed slightly to Jean. “Obersturmfuhrer,” then he added “Lieutenant
de la Maziere,” putting his hand out as he introduced himself,
“Jean Faulkner.” She shook
hands.
Richard saw the delay before the officer extended his hand to him.
“Richard Lewis.” As their hands met he felt a jolt like static
electricity running through him and he saw the officer’s eyes widen slightly as
they broke the handshake. Then he was
ushering Jean along the road, away from the German officer left watching them
go.
“You alright, Jean?”
“Fine, a few bruises, but that’s all. That pavement is damn hard,” she
added as she saw the look on his face.
It was almost vacant, no hint of the smile her comment would normally
have produced
“Yeah, right,” he finally said as he realized she was waiting for a
reply.
“Richard, you’re miles away, what is it?”
“Nothing.” He lapsed into
silence as they carried on walking.
Richard had felt it, the sudden rush like adrenaline through his body,
only at the last moment had he been able to call it back, even so he could see
that the German had felt it. The man was a guide, a strong one, and now he knew
that was what had been calling him. He
had congratulated himself on finding Jean among all those people, but the
little voice in his head was calling him a liar. He had found Jean because the
Officer was near her. It was a
combination of the two of them. Her scent was known to him, but... He felt
himself falling into a black void.
“Richard!” Her voice was urgent
as she tugged at his sleeve, struggling to keep him upright.
“Let me help,” the German accented voice came through to Richard, and
he felt another pair of hands grabbing hold and the scent flooded through
him. He came out of the darkness like a
train coming out of a tunnel into the light of day. At the last moment he pushed the man away
from him violently; needing to break the connection that he could feel forming
between them and the German officer went flying backwards, colliding with the
wall with a sickening thud.
Then Jean was between them, and Richard was back, “Oh shit.” He reached past her and caught the German
just as his legs began to buckle. “Sorry,” he added as he realized what he had
said.
Jean was looking round her, thankful that she had managed to pull
Richard off the main street and into an alleyway. Assaulting an SS officer must
be high on the things not to do list, but it looked as though no one had seen
what had happened.
Richard kept a firm grip on the younger man, even as he turned all his
senses down, clamping them tightly. “I
had to break the connection.”
“What connection?” Jean asked. Then the penny dropped, “Richard, you
can’t, not with him, please.”
“It’s alright, I broke away, had to get him away from me, I didn’t want
to hurt him.”
There was real anguish in his voice.
“One of them can’t be a
guide, Richard, he can’t.” She broke off as she saw his face. Taking a deep breath, she wondered what the
hell they were going to do.
Jean kept a firm grip on him as Richard found a taxi, the driver
looking none too sure as they manhandled the SS Officer into the back.
“Do you know the General Hospital?”
“Yes.”
“Good, can you drop him off, the Obersturmfuhrer had an accident. I think he hit his head, he’s probably got
concussion.” She pressed money into his
hand.
Then she was gone.
0-0-0-0
Blair Sandburg took his seat at the Swimming. He could feel the nerves running through him
and glanced at his watch, then his programme. Where the hell was she?
“Excuse me.” The voice was English and he looked up as a pretty girl
took a seat next to him. It was a few years since they had last met, and Jean
was still as pretty as before, but there was an added vitality to her. She was
here to escort him to the meeting with her father and Professor Schiller.
To anyone watching it was a typical example of a young man chatting up
a pretty girl. It was going on all over
the Olympics, and no one would have been surprised to see him escort her away
from the venue.
The meeting took place just over an hour later, and at the end of it
Professor Schiller handed over a copy of his work to Professor Faulkner and
Blair Sandburg. He explained that he had
destroyed his own copies, and that it was something he never wanted his own
government to get their hands on. “Lindsay, they would pervert it, instead of
helping humanity. They will use it to create the elite soldier, this must be
stopped.”
When they parted it was the last time that the four of them would meet.
Professor Schiller went home, kissed his wife and children and went into his
study. Two hours later the police were called when Frau Schiller found the door
to the study locked and was unable to get a response. When the police broke in
they found him dead, poisoned by his own hand.
His papers burned, Schiller had known at the end that he had passed his
research to people who would use the knowledge wisely, and that it would not
fall into the hands of those who would pervert it for their own evil ends.
1938
Blair Sandburg was a
pacifist. He had spent his early life with a mother who followed the free love
ideals of the Bohemian set of the 1920’s, and had had a number of different men
filling the role of father. None of them
had stayed long. Some had been damaged by the Great War, both in body and soul,
and so he had pledged never to take up arms in any conflict. Nothing could be
worth the damage he had seen inflicted on those men made old before their
time. Blair had joined Rainer University
at 14, and had soon gained a BA, and MA, then his PhD; he had followed the work
of Richard Burton, the Victorian explorer and politician. He had recently
returned from Peru, where he had tried to find a living example of his thesis
topic. Reluctantly, Blair had parted company with one of his mentors, Dr Kurt
Warner, and they had separated with bitter words, no longer able to ignore what
was going on back in Germany, and the need for Dr Warner’s work to fit within
the Nazi party lines. When he had
returned to the US he had pursued his efforts to find the embodiment of his
thesis. Now on his desk lay his file on
sentinels, an age-old form of tribal guardians, men with enhanced senses they
used to protect the tribe from their enemies. Trying to find a sentinel was
like finding a needle in a haystack. Depressed, he reached into the drawer of
his desk and took out a bottle of whisky, briefly contemplating the level in
the bottle before fishing out a glass and filling it almost to the top. Dean
Collins was talking of cutting off his grant if he didn’t get a result soon,
the clock was ticking, and he had been told that he had to find a sentinel if
he wanted to stay at Rainier University. Taking a deep drink of the whisky,
Blair looked at the file broodingly, and then finished off the whisky in two
big gulps. A sentinel was supposed to be a tribal guardian, but the man
detailed in the file was a thief and a killer. How the hell could he be a
sentinel? But he was all he had to work
with if he wanted to save his research.
0-0-0-0
Nuremberg, Germany
Professor Lindsay Faulkner was among the party of academics that Dr
Warner had taken to the Nuremberg Rally Stadium. The doctor was full of the
great things that the Nazi Party would do and how it was making a difference to
the people as he showed them round the empty stadium, likening it to the
impressive buildings of antiquity. Shaking his head slowly, Lindsay turned
round to see how his wife and daughter were getting on, ready to apologise for
dragging them off on such a boring afternoon. It was then he realised that Jean
was missing. He saw her some distance away, partly hidden from view, and
started towards her, quickening his steps as he saw that she was not alone. The
man had his back to him, the black of the uniform merging into the shadows of
the giant columns supporting the upper galleries. He called out to his daughter, his voice
echoing off the columns, and she started to move away from the man, only for
him to catch her hand and pull her back. The momentum brought her into his
arms, one arm going round her waist, the palm of his hand resting on her bottom
as he held her close, the other supporting the back of her head as they kissed,
long and hard, before he released his hold and disappeared among the columns
before her father reached her. With a sigh and a smile, Jean turned to face her
father, pushing a lock of hair out of her eyes as she walked towards him.
“Sorry, dad. I got caught up.”
“Who was that?”
“A friend,” was the cryptic reply and then she was gone. heading back
towards her mother.
September 1942
Cascade
Blair sipped his coffee and
pulled a face. It was cold and bitter, and he put the cup down in disgust,
reaching for a research file of possible sentinels. He had been gathering the information for the
last five years in the hope of finding his own test subject. In all that time
he had found only one man that had come close to being a sentinel, he had
scored well on sight, smell and touch. But the man had had the basest nature,
he had liked to inflict pain, dominate the men round him, using his strength to
crush and degrade weaker men. His very name, Maggot, seemed fitting; he was
currently serving life in San Quentin man might have had enhanced senses, but
he didn’t share the heart of the sentinel that the old books had talked about.
Blair was just reaching for the whisky bottle in his desk drawer when he
realized that the papers were out of order and a cold feeling of dread ran
though him. Someone had broken into his office. Concerned now, he went round
the room checking, his dismay increasing as he confirmed that someone had gone
over his office with a fine toothcomb, but only the sentinel files had been
touched.
Just then there was a knock
on the office door. Blair called for
whoever was there to come in. A glance at the clock told him it was too early
for one of his students, but he was surprised to see two Army Officers standing
there. His gaze slid over the smaller of the two to rest on an older man, tall,
his face showing nothing, his eyes ice cold, and Blair all but shivered from the
force of the stare directed at him. He felt the man could see right through him
to his very soul and he was being weighed and found wanting.
“Dr Sandburg,” the smaller
man said.
“Yes.”
The man smiled. It wasn’t
very reassuring. “We want to speak to you about your research.”
“Er, the thin blue line?”
Blair tried to move the sentinel file; the thin blue line, about police
interaction, was his cover for his sentinel work.
“No, Doctor,” the smaller
man put in smoothly, “your real research, the one about sentinels.” He saw the
look on Blair’s face, and his smile became chilling as in one stride his hand
pinned the younger man’s hand to the desk as he extracted the file. Taking a
seat without asking he opened the file and began to page through it. Blair was
on his feet and half way round the desk when he was caught and slammed up
against the wall, his feet only just scraping the floor. He found himself looking into the older,
larger man’s face; the anger he saw there was only barely suppressed.
“Who… are… you… guys?”
Blair demanded, his words coming out in a breathless whisper. It was the
smaller man that answered “Your tax dollar at work, Dr Sandburg.”
“I am Colonel Coleman, and
this is Captain Ellison. Doctor, meet
your sentinel.” Coleman’s smile was
smug, he had Sandburg just where he wanted him, and if Sandburg didn’t go for
the deal, he was sure he could make him. Over time, the younger man had bent
the rules, and one of them was about to bite him in the ass if he refused. Then
the Colonel added “So what do you say Dr Sandburg?”
Blair looked towards the
Colonel and then back at the grim faced Sentinel. “Okay, okay, but we do it my
way, right?”
Colonel Coleman’s smile
widened “of course, Doctor. Then he added “Within reason.”
The big mans grip slackened
on his shirt, and Blair was lowered back down, then surprisingly there was a
smile that tugged at the Sentinels lips. “Welcome to the Army, Darwin” Captain
Ellison said. Then for the first time since the two Army officers had come into
his office, Blair began to believe that this might just work.
0-0-0-0
London
Evening 4th December 1942
Lucy Morgan was walking
down the street; in her hand she held a flash light, its face taped leaving
only a small beam, just enough so that she could pick her way home. She gave a
gasp as a man stepped out in front of her, but relaxed and smiled as she
discovered that he was polite and was lost, totally turned around in the smog
and the blackout. He seemed lonely and she accepted his invitation to go out
for a drink. After all, he was a long way from home, he looked like he needed
some company and he was an officer.
Besides, she smiled to herself; she had always liked them tall and
blond. He had taken her arm to escort her. The pub was the Carpenters Arms, and
its wood-panelled walls made it dark and somehow more private. She still felt guilty for dumping her
boyfriend when he was called up and she knew that some of her neighbours would
give her grief for being seen out with a Yank. But what the hell, tonight she
didn’t care and soon one thing lead to another and she had boldly slid her hand
down his body under the table, making her intention very plain as she leaned
into him, draining her drink. She had felt his body respond to her touch, and
looking up into his green-flecked amber eyes, she had seen the flair of lust
and need and had laughed softly. It had
been a long time, and she knew she needed this release as much as he did. When she whispered her suggestion in his ear
he nodded his agreement.
As they left the pub, he
slipped an arm round her, accepting the invitation to go home with her. After all, what harm could it do? No one would be using anyone, and theirs was
a mutual need.
0-0-0-0
Morning of the 5th December 1942.
First Lieutenant Craig Garrison
stepped out into the early morning light.
It was at times like this, when London was quiet, that it was hard to
think that there was a war going on. The City was slowly coming to life, and he
thrust his hands into his coat and headed down the street. The girl last night had been something
special and if for a few hours they had forgotten the horrors of the war as
they took a tumble between the sheets, then maybe it hadn’t done any harm; no
one had used anyone, and it had been mutually satisfying. In his pocket was her
name and number, maybe he would look her up next time he was in Town. He paused
to light a cigarette and caught his reflection in the window of the shop front.
At 29 he was a career soldier, having graduated from West Point in 1937 when he
was 23 years old, and had gone into the US Army Air force[1];
before a crash had finished his military flying career two years later and he
had transferred into the infantry in 1939, later seeing action in North Africa[2]. For a moment the anger swept through him, a
senior officer fouls up and it gets passed down the line. He had been lucky not
to be court martialled; instead he had been busted down from Captain to 1st
Lieutenant. He took a deep pull on the cigarette. He had accepted the punishment and waited it
out. Garrison started walking, lost in his memories. Since then he had worked as a commando with
allied units, until a burst of machine gun fire had ripped through his body,
but now, fully fit again, rumour from HQ was that he was being considered for a
Special Forces unit. Fluent in German, it wasn’t hard to guess where that unit
was going, he just hoped he had some good men under him; one rotten apple would
send him to an early grave. The tall blond officer dropped his cigarette,
ground it out with his foot and headed down to HQ.
0-0-0-0
6th December 1942
Air Raid Warden Howard saw
the light spilling from the upstairs window and banged on the door, when were
people going to take the blackout seriously?
He hammered on the back door and to his surprise it opened. Calling out,
he carefully stepped in, slowly making his way from room to room, before
tentatively knocking on the bedroom door. When there was no answer, Howard
pushed it open and walked in. Instantly, his hand flew to his mouth and he spun
round, only just making it out of the room before he was violently ill. He had
seen a lot of horrors since the war started but the sight in the room turned
his stomach. He staggered out of the house to the nearest phone box and called
999, his voice shaking as he said, “I’ve found a woman…she’s dead.” In his hand he held a badge showing two
crossed rifles; the badge of the American Infantry.
0-0-0-0
7th December 1942
London
G2 Headquarters.
Three
senior officers sat round the table, three files in front them. Colonel Edwards reached out and pulled one
towards him before looking at his colleagues. “General Miller has authorised
the creation of this group, code name G11.
The team will be made up of five convicts gathered from the State
Penitentiaries across America, selected for their abilities; it will be up to
the officer in charge to handpick his own team. In return for volunteering,
each of the men will, if they survive the war, be given parole[3],
and their records will be wiped clean.”
Major
Wyatt shook his head. “With respect, sir, we can train ordinary soldiers to do
the things that these convicts can do, and they would be less of a flight
risk.”
“General
Miller wants G11 up and running in as short a time as possible, recruiting men
who already have the skills we need is the quickest way to do that. If this idea fails all we lose are five
convicts and unfortunately one officer,
but if it works then I see no reason why G11 should not be the only
group activated.”
Colonel
Kerr tapped the files in front of him, representing three men’s careers.
“Captain Joseph Reynolds, infantry officer.
Speaks fluent German, married - I suggest that he is dropped for the
moment.” He saw that they were in
agreement and moved onto the next candidate.
“Second
Lieutenant Robert Cole, speaks fluent German, single, and was third in his year
at West Point, a good steady officer, I would think.”
Colonel
Edwards shook his head. “I think that we
need someone with more experience. First Lieutenant Garrison has been in North
Africa, and has worked as a commando parachuting twice into occupied Europe
with an allied group.”
“Garrison,”
Kerr put in, “was busted down from Captain to First Lieutenant for his conduct
in North Africa.”
“We
have all read his record and I think we are in agreement that if he lives long
enough, Garrison will be a Captain again by the end of the year. Discipline has
to be seen to be done gentlemen, we all know that.” He paused, “and we know that the person who
takes on these convicts has to be someone that thinks outside of his orders,
thinks on his feet, and I believe that Garrison has the best chance of the
three men to stay alive.”
“He’s
fluent in German, so in occupied Europe...”
“No,
Brad.” Colonel Edwards corrected Colonel Kerr, “I mean that he might survive
his own men, we all know that he is more than likely going to get his throat
cut the moment he sets foot on Occupied Soil. Garrison might just manage to
keep alive.”
Once
briefed, Garrison had two weeks to pick his team of five, get them trained so
that they would not break their necks on the first parachute jump, and try and
get a feel for how his men were going to react when they landed in Europe.
Because if he got it wrong, then all bets were off and he would be lucky to walk
away with his life.
Garrison
flew back to America and called the State Penitentiaries and within 72 hours he
had the names of 15 convicts. His mission would take him across the country,
but in the end he had the five men he wanted. Their names would be hidden
behind the nicknames they worked under as criminals; only he would know their
real names.
The
first selected was his safe cracker. Casino from Brooklyn was abrasive and
would be likely to challenge Garrison’s authority, he had been found in Leavenworth. Next was Goniff, cat burglar and
pickpocket. He was English, having moved
to America six years before, and was now doing time in Sing Sing. He was never
known to have carried a weapon on any of his jobs. Chief, an Native American Indian, a hot car
specialist, mechanic and knife man, had been found in Attica. Fourth was Actor,
an Italian professional conman, and the only one of the group that spoke
German, he was also fluent in English and French and seemed to get by in
several other languages as well. Finally
Wheeler. Like Actor, he was from San
Quentin, but he was in for armed robbery and murder. Of the five, Garrison was
almost sure that he didn’t have to worry about a physical challenge from Goniff
and Actor. But Actor could be dangerous in a different way, he was the one that
once in Europe could blend in and disappear, also he had the ability to talk
the others into making a break for it if he wanted. He would have to be watched, but Garrison
thought he might be able to turn his back on those two. Casino was mercurial,
would give a verbal challenge, but there was a question mark over whether he
would attack. That left Wheeler and Chief, neither of whom he would turn his
back on, not unless he wanted to feel a knife in his back. Garrison knew he was going to have to keep on
his toes with that group; any loss of concentration and it could be his last.
The
first mission had also brought about their first and so far only fatality, when
Wheeler had been stabbed to death and left in a burning rail wagon containing a
million dollars worth of forged currency. Garrison had resisted selecting a
replacement, instead content to continue with his original four. Introducing a
new member to the team would be introducing an unknown element. The team seemed
to be settling down, and he couldn’t afford to jeopardise that. The missions had taken them across occupied
Europe, and against the odds they had been successful even though some of the
recent missions had been blown. Things
had seemed to be improving - that was until the last mission.
0-0-0-0
February 1943
Italy
Jean Faulkner was woken by the heavy throbbing engines and the rumbling
of vehicles from the courtyard. She pushed open the bedroom curtains and looked
out across the large courtyard which was filling with tanks, as they fanned out
into a protective shield for the rest of the trucks to arrive.
She swore. Just what she needed: the krauts to arrive, and by the look
of it they were here to stay. She closed
the curtains, careful not to attract attention to herself , Working for the War
Refugee Committee, she was using a neutral Irish passport but it was only a
cover to allow her to help get people out of occupied Europe into neutral
Switzerland.
Later that morning she met Mrs Martha Reilly, and the older woman
looked as if she had just smelt something unpleasant. “Did you hear all that
noise last night?”
“Yes, it seems we have some company,” Jean tried to make light of it.
“You might smile but they are SS, the Donar Regiment.”
“Oh boy.”
“Exactly,” Mrs Reilly put in levelly, “and we have our flock to get to
safety.”
“Well we can’t move them until we find out just how we stand. If they
are here for a reason we are screwed.”
“Jean,” Mrs Reilly put in quickly, “Your mother would be shocked by
that language,” she paused “even if it does sum up our situation.”
“If they’re just travelling through, our flock sits tight and we move
them as soon as they are a dot on the horizon.”
Jean nodded towards the harassed hotel owner. “Let’s find out which one
it is.”
Jean headed towards him only to pull up short when someone said her
name.
“Well, Fraulein Faulkner.”
She turned fast, her face blank for a moment before she
remembered. It was the handsome young
officer from Berlin.
“Obersturmfuhrer de la Maziere.”
“You remember me.”
“It’s hard to forget someone that ripped my blouse off.”
“An accident,” but his smile showed that he didn’t exactly feel sorry
about it. He took a step closer to her, and she waved him back.
“Given our history, I think we need to keep a good distance between
us.” Even as they spoke Jean was
studying him. His uniform was dirty, the leather jacket well worn and there was
no rank insignia visible. The sole of his left boot was flapping even though it
had been tied, his left hand was wrapped in a dirty bandage, and there was no
mistaking the exhaustion etched on his face.
By the look of him, she guessed he had just been pulled back from the
Russian Front.
“You’re stationed here?”
“Rest and refit, so we’re going to be neighbours,” and he waved a hand
at the hotel.
“So it seems. Well, I’d best be off.”
“I’ll see you later, Fraulein.”
She smiled and was just turning when he said, “One question, why are
you here?”
Jean kept the smile in place as she turned back. He had taken a packet
of cigarettes out and tapped out one before offering it to her.
“No thanks.”
He lit the cigarette and then inhaled the smoke.
“I have an Irish passport and we are neutral.”
Whatever he said was lost as one of his troops came up, saluting, which
De la Maziere returned casually.
“Sturmbannfuhrer de la Maziere, Obersturmbannfuhrer Kruger’s
compliments, sir, he is in the Mayor’s office.”
De la Maziere gave Jean a slight smile, “We will talk later, Fraulein.”
His hand came up to touch the peak of his cap in a casual salute. He waited for
her to walk away, admiring the view.
0-0-0-0
Cascade Washington USA
Blair Sandburg looked up
from his report, and reached for his coffee. It was already stone cold. He and
his sentinel, he still felt that burst of pride when he said the word, had so
far been sent on several missions, from one end of the country to the next.
They had broken two Fifth Columnist Groups, one in a ship building firm and the
other in a small sleepy town that had nearly cost them their lives. Jim was in
the officers’ mess enjoying a drink and shooting the breeze with his fellow
officers and gentlemen, men that already had made it clear they had no time for
pacifist civilians. It didn’t matter that he had helped crack the ring, he was
looked at with mistrust. Jim had wanted him to come to the Officers’ Mess with
him, but he had pleaded that he had a report to write. Let Jim unwind the only way he could with his
own kind.
He felt rather than heard
the footfall behind him, and spun round. “Jim, you scared a year’s growth out
of me.” He ducked as his sentinel reached out and ruffled his hair. “Why aren’t
you with the others?” Blair tried not to sound bitter.
“I am with the one person
that matters, my guide.” It was the first time that Jim had ever acknowledged
him as anything more than an academic that couldn’t find his dick with both
hands. Looking up, Blair was surprised to see a smile breaking the older man’s
usually stoic expression. “Cat got your tongue, Darwin?”
It was at this moment that
Blair knew this partnership was going to work.
0-0-0-0
Italy
The flock had been gathered together. “The bad news is that the Donar
Regiment is here for at least six weeks, on a rest and refit, and there is no
way that we can wait that long to get you out. On the plus side, they’re only
posting a light guard, as they don’t any expect trouble.” She paused, “but they could attract the
partisans and then all bets are off.”
Rabbi Leibman shook his head and looked round at his flock. They had
risked everything in making this escape attempt, they were now tantalisingly
close to the Swiss border. During their run for freedom they had been aided by
brave men and women and because of them they had made it this far. He had to
trust that the two women could get them out.
“What do you suggest, Jean?”
“We try and get you out in the next couple of days, let them get
settled first and then make our move.” She looked round, “Where are the twins?”
Just then Lydia came hurrying up, white with fear “I told them not to
go out but they, they must have slipped out.”
“Don’t worry. I’ll go and look for them.” Under her breath she was
cursing. The twins were nine years old and brats, there was no other word for
it, they seemed not to be able to understand the danger, and now they were on
the loose.
Once outside Jean started looking round the square, wondering where the
two of them would go. Answer: the panzers, naturally.
She ignored the wolf whistle with a toss of her head and started
walking round the square, then swore and hurried over. The children came
running round the side of one of the panzers, accompanied by some good natured
yelling; with luck they would be considered just one of a score of children
that were looking at the panzers with unconcealed interest. Jean had nearly reached them when their
headlong flight brought them into a collision with Sturmbannfuhrer de la
Maziere, and Obersturmbannfuhrer Kruger.
Major de la Maziere caught Rachel before she fell but Joseph landed on
his backside on the pavement. Rachel looked up and froze, all she could see was
the death’s head badge. The Major put
her back on her feet and smiled, “Are you alright?” He bent so that he was
looking her straight in her face, “It’s alright, little one, no one is going to
hurt you.”
Joseph was getting to his feet and from the look on his face for the
first time he could see the danger.
“Hello Major,” Jean smiled, “local children, sorry let me get them out
of your hair.”
De la Maziere straightened, his hand on Rachel’s shoulder. “Jean,” and
then he turned to his commander, “Obersturmbannfuhrer Kruger, allow me to
introduce Fraulein Jean Faulkner from the War Refugee Council.”
The Colonel put his hand out, and she accepted it, smiling at him,
“Pleasure to meet you, Colonel Kruger.” She quickly took in the commanding
officer, a tall plump man in his forties, who, she noticed, unlike de la
Maziere, still hadn’t been awarded the Knight Cross, Germany’s highest award
for bravery. She could almost feel sorry for him; he must feel de la Maziere, a
Major at 27, was snapping at his heels.
“The children are alright?” Kruger seemed genuinely concerned.
“Fine, sir.”
Jean reached out and pulled Joseph against her, keeping a firm grasp on
him. “I’ll see they get back to their mother and don’t bother you again.” All the time she could feel De la Maziere’s
eyes burning into her. “Colonel, Major.” She hurried her little charges away.
“Oh and Fraulein,”
Under her breath Jean muttered before she turned. “De la Maziere?” She
faced the two men with a smile.
“Yes, Major.”
“The hotel owner was saying that you have been singing. I hope we get
to hear you tonight, or do you just sing for the Italians? I am sure you’ll
find a German audience is more appreciative of your talents, of which I am sure
you have many.” His gaze moved over her in a way that was blatantly sexual.
“Singing, yes, Major; my other talents, no. Colonel.” she nodded and ushered her charges
away.
The Colonel smiled as he watched
Jean’s retreating figure. Catching the younger man’s look, he said, “I know I
am married, Sturmbann, but I am not dead. You would have to be three days cold
in your coffin not to look at that one.” He paused “Only you could meet such a
delightful creature in this god forsaken place, so how do you know her?”
“I made rather an impression on her, sir.”
“A good one, I hope.”
“I ripped her blouse off, in the middle of the street in Berlin.”
“Memorable.”
“The making up afterwards was.”
The smile that accompanied the words was one Kruger recognised. “You
lucky dog, Detlev.” The Colonel laughed and clapped his young second in command
on the back. Kruger’s gaze followed the young woman just as she turned and gave
a backward look towards them, or rather towards De La Maziere, before turning
back with a toss of her dark hair. Colonel Kruger added “I wish you luck with
that one, Detlev, she is certainly worth the chase.”
Once out of the reach of prying eyes, Jean turned on the children,
“What on earth do you think you’re doing, didn’t your mother tell you about the
soldiers?”
“We just wanted to look.” Now
they were safely away from them, Joseph was all arrogance.
But Jean was fuming, “They are SS, and if they found out, you and your
family would be dead, do you understand me? Do you understand anything that is
going on, because if you don’t then your mother is going to have to tell you!
Because your rank stupidity could not only kill your family, your entire
group, but all the people that have put
their lives on the line to help you. If anyone found out, they would be put
against the wall and shot, killed because you and your sister think this is a
game.” The venom was biting in Jean’s words. It was all very well their mother
trying to hide the horror, but it was time they faced reality, or at least a
healthy chunk of it. Keeping a firm grip
she manhandled the children along.
0-0-0-0
Jean leaned on the counter in reception, “Thanks a lot for telling the
Germans about the singing.”
“They asked what entertainment we had and I told them about your
singing, and that you were a professional singer.” He trailed off, his
expression appealing to her.
"Alright, I’ll sing,” shaking her head she went up the stairs to
her room.
0-0-0-0
It was early evening when she came down, but the room was already
crowded.
Jean was surprised when Obersturmbannfuhrer Kruger came up to her,
“Will you join me, Fraulein?” Jean nodded and accepted the chair he had pulled
out for her.
Once seated he poured her a glass of wine from the bottle already on
the table. The Colonel had been thoughtful since he had spoken to De La
Maziere, wishing him well in his pursuit of this young woman. It didn’t matter
that she might have already bedded the Major in Berlin, that was then, this was
now. He had a daughter her age and looking at her picture had made him realise
that Jean Faulkner needed to be warned off De La Maziere. The Major’s words had
made him think she was too good a woman to be bedded for no reason other than
to give the Major a bit of sport. His
mind made up, he decided to try and make things right.
“You know, Fraulein, the only reason I joined the SS was for my wife.”
The Colonel looked bemused, “I was on half pay in the regular army with no
possibility of promotion, and the one thing you can say for the Black Corp is
that they promote quickly on merit. We will do anything for the people we love,
even sell our souls to the devil.”
Kruger eased back in his seat, “What I am trying to tell you, my dear,
is that you need to be careful about Sturmbannfuhrer De La Maziere. He’s a good
soldier but an arrogant bastard, but then all the young officers in the Black
Corp are.” He noticed that she didn’t
take offence, and continued, “He can be very charming, but in Berlin, pictures
of our Knight Cross winners are sold at tobacconists, the young ladies will do
anything to get an autograph,” he leaned forward, “anything. Young men like Detlev would not be human if
they didn’t take advantage of the situation.”
He took a sip of his wine, and looked over to a group of his new junior
officers fresh from cadet school replacing those lost in Russia, his face for a
moment becoming grim. The piano began to
thump out one of the Black Corp songs. “Half of my job is keeping a firm hand
on those young firebrands, and Detlev is no different, he went through SS
Junkerschule at Bad Toelz..” With a sigh he conceded, “But he is different, he
cares for his men and doesn’t just use them to win these,” Kruger tapped his
rank badge with his finger. “The Knight’s Cross he got in Russia, the black wound
badge in Poland in the invasion, he transferred from the Body Guard regiment to
the SS Donar to see action, that must tell you something of his commitment to
the Cause.”
“What are you trying to tell me Obersturmbannfuhrer”?
“I have a daughter your age, my dear. No one is ever what they seem. He
is not the same young man you met in Berlin, he’s a hardened professional
solider and a cynic, don’t let him into your heart or your bed, my dear,” he
patted her hand “I am sorry if I shock you, but you’ll be better for knowing
it.” Looking up he saw his second in
command coming towards them. “I look forward to hearing you sing.” Kruger got up, his heels coming together as
he bowed to her and then waylaid the younger officer, turning him with a firm
touch to one of the other tables.
0-0-0-0
Jean was wearing a green dress that was cut just right and her hair was
down around her shoulders. She took a seat near the piano and looking round at
her audience noticed De la Maziere sitting nearby.
Her first song was a sentimental ballad, of love.
At
last, my love has come along
My lonely days are over
And life is like a song.
Ohhh at last
The stars above are blue
My heart was wrapped up
in clover
The night I looked at
you
I found a dream that I
could speak to,
A dream that I, can call
my own,
I found a thrill, to
press my cheek to,
A thrill that I, have
never known,
Ohhh you smile, you
smile
And then the spell was
cast
And here we are in
heaven
For you are mine, at
last [4]
As she sang her eyes lingered and swept over De la Maziere, the sexual
pulse of the song nearly a physical force surging between them. The next song was more up beat and the sexual
tension seemed to ease . She caught a
called request for Lili Marlene, a favourite with troops on both
sides. As she sang, she looked straight
at the Major, a smile touching her lips.
Sometime after midnight, in a land not mine
Somewhere near our
mud-strewed battle line
Sleep would not lull my
soul tonight.
And so awake, I long to
write.
To you Lili Marlen, to
you Lili Marlen.
In this battered
shelter, lashed by icy rain
Thoughts of you are
sunshine, that banish grief and pain.
Soft burns my candle,
soft yet bright
My love for you is like
that light.
So true Lili Marlen, so
trust Lili Marlen.
My beloved darling, I can’t forget that day.
The last we were together before I went away.
Rain fell like tears, from sorrowing skies
But tears, not rain, were in your eyes.
I knew Lili Marlen, I knew Lili Marlen
Is your hair still golden, are your eyes still
blue
Would your
voice enchant me, as it used to do?
I’d trade
the world to see your smile
And hold
you close, just for a while.
Just you
Lili Marlen, just you Lili Marlen.
Lower flames the candle, grey the Eastern Sky.
One more day of battle,
another day to die.
God, how I hate this
warring hell
But I endure each
screaming shell.
For you Lili Marlen, for
you Lili Marlen
Wait for me my darling, till I return to thee.
When the guns are silent,
in hush of Victory
Even the flaming gates
of hell
Against we two cannot
prevail.
Adieu Lili Marlen, Adieu Lili
Marlen
Martha caught the look being exchanged between the two young people,
and she felt herself go cold. Whatever game Jean was playing could go terribly
wrong. The emotion in her voice as she sang the next chorus was one of
bitterness coupled with sorrow.
The applause was deafening. The version she had sung was the one a
trooper had written for the Eastern Front, and that she would sing it for them
was well appreciated. Martha had to admit that when it came to interpreting a
song few could do it better than Jean Faulkner. She frowned as the SS Major got
up and invited Jean to join him. For a moment Jean hesitated and then took a
seat, accepting a drink, but keeping a distance all the same, avoiding his hand
when he reached out to touch her. It was done with a smile and a shake of the
head, no offence given, none taken. Half
an hour later, Jean made her excuses and left him, joining Martha for a late
meal, but refusing to discuss what she and the Major had talked about. Martha
laid a maternal hand on the younger woman’s, “Jean, if the Major has tried to
force you into his bed you have to tell me, just because he’s SS he can’t make
you .”
“He didn’t, just leave it at that alright,” Jean snapped, before taking
a deep breath and saying “Sorry,” as she reached for her drink. But Martha
couldn’t help but notice that there was something on the younger woman’s mind.
0-0-0-0
March
London
Carol Smyth was on leave
from her air base, she was a WAAF [5] and had come down to London to meet up with a school
friend who was working at the local telephone exchange. It was while she was
waiting in vain for her friend that she met the American officer, a Lieutenant.
He was friendly and before she knew it she was agreeing to drinks and a meal.
He was the first man she had ever been to bed with, and he turned out to be a
considerate lover. She blushed in recollection of what they had done, but it
had been nice and he had been gentle. Even when the bombs had rained down on
them, they stayed in bed, their bodies lit up by the flashing of flames.
Somehow, making love during the bombing had reaffirmed the fact that they were
alive. When she kissed him good-bye Carol had been almost shy. It was stupid
considering what they had been doing through the night, but somehow the light
of morning had changed everything. She closed the door behind him, then a few
minutes later there was a knock on the door, she opened it and her face split
into a smile as she invited him back in.
Judy Markham came home from
her night shift and smiled as she saw the scarf on the door handle, their
universal signal for having a boyfriend in the place. She grinned. Carol had
certainly changed from that painfully shy wallflower Judy had first met; the
WAAF had done a lot to bring her out of herself. Judy entered, calling out to her friend and
then stumbled back in horror, a hand going to her mouth, before she began to
scream, unable to stop as she sank to her knees. Mr Jennings from the room
across the way threw his door open, he was on nightshift but when he saw Judy
crumpled on the floor he rushed down the stairs and out onto the street still
dressed in his pyjamas.
Inspector Roy Evans arrived
at the murder scene to find his sergeant already there, who on seeing his boss
straightened up and crossed over to him. Keeping his voice low he said, “We
have another one, sir” There was a brief pause before he added, “This was found
on the body,” handing over the American Infantry badge.
Roy swore softly under his
breath, this made the third in as many months, and each woman had been brutally
murdered, the violence increasing with every attack, and each time the evidence
pointed to the killer being an American.
This was beginning to get ugly.
0-0-0-0
Italy
Jean frowned as she realized that her bedroom door was unlocked.
Pushing it open, she went in, but as her hand reached for the light, arms
closed around her waist from behind, trapping her arms against her side. Jean
tried to stamp back.
“Now don’t do that. You’ll spoil the fun.” The light Berlin accent was
close to her ear.
“Major,” Jean recognised the voice, and her own was tense as she
continued, “What are you playing at, what do you want?”
“I thought we could get to know each other better.” He buried his face in her long hair, and
inhaled her perfume even as one hand moved on her body, drawing her close to
him, “Struggle if you want.”
This close, her body pressed against him, she could feel that the
handsome Major was already aroused. He slackened his grip allowing her to turn
in his arms, his hands resting only on her hips, and her hand came up fast
before he had a chance to pull back. But instead of hitting him, her hand
cupped the back of his neck and pulled his head down so she could kiss him,
saying softly, “What took you so long?”
She broke the contact after a first, tentative kiss, and looked up into
his face before his hands on her tightened and pulled her close as they kissed
again. It was as if he needed to feel her to know that she was real and not
just a dream that he used to keep himself sane during the carnage on the
Russian Front.
Jean started to undo his jacket, all she knew was that the fates had
allowed them a short time together and she wasn’t going to waste it.
De la Maziere need was more
urgent, he caught her in his arms lifting her up and backwards, onto the bed,
making the old bed creak as their weight hit it. His lips locked to hers in a bruising kiss,
his hands pulling, tearing at her clothes throwing them on the floor. Knowing only that her love was his redemption
from the hell of war. He was aware of her voice her hands moving on his body,
pushing and pulling at his clothes, her need just as great as his own. Afterwards, when they lay entwined in each
other’s arms, he started to apologise, he had wanted to take it slow, but it
had been so long. She put a finger to his lips silencing him. “Detlev, I know,
I wanted it that way, needed you, darling.”
She cuddled up close to him, savouring the feel of his strong arms
round her. Her hand ran over his chest,
and stopped as she felt the raised ridge of a newly healed scar. He caught her
hand, pulling it up to kiss the palm.
“What happened?”
He guided her down so that her head was tucked under his chin, her
breath soft and warm against his skin, her hands moving gently on him, as if
reassuring herself that he was there in her bed with her.
“A T34 got through, it took out our anti-tank gun, so I had to knock it
out with a satchel charge. It worked, end of story.”
Jean sighed. She was good at reading de la Maziere-speak, “Translation,
Major, the tank got through, and you decided to take it out single-handed, with
a satchel charge. I take it you ran up the side plates of the tank?” She
shuddered, thinking of the risk. If he had fallen he would have been crushed
under the tracks or if... She broke off that line of thought, “The hatch was
open.” She paused.
“Closed.”
She had waited for the correction, “So you must have opened it, dropped
the grenades in and then got the hell away from it, only you caught one,
correct?”
“Correct.”
She pulled back from him and pushed herself up so she was hanging over
him, allowing him a most delightful view her body in the moonlight. “So what was so hard about telling me that?”
A mischievous look crossed her face as she lowered herself down on top of him,
her hand trailing down his body. “Talking about hard…” He gave a soft groan at
her touch, and then everything else was forgotten as he rolled her over,
pinning her under his lean body.
Early the next morning, she sat in bed, the sheets pulled round her she
watched him dress ready to go back to his room. Once finished, he lit one of
his habitual cigarettes and perched on the edge of the bed, reaching with his
free hand to touch her lightly, following the curve of her face. Shaking his
head slowly, he asked, “Your herd, when are you going to try and move them?”
“Flock, darling,” she corrected with a smile and saw it answered on his
lips.
“Flock then.”
“In the next couple of days. Your arrival rather upset our plans.” To
Jean there was nothing strange in telling an SS officer about her plans: he was
her lover and had helped her before.
“We are just setting up a protective perimeter on the main road out of
the town, no patrols, purely defensive, you should be able to get out. I would
suggest taking the upper pass, it’s slower, but you should avoid any contacts.”
“Thanks.”
She caught his jacket and pulled him down for a quick kiss.
Three days later
Jean was worried; they had been pulled over by a group of SS soldiers
who were manning a road block, she knew this was going to get nasty. The
partisans had struck at an Army base yesterday, and for that reason she had
moved forward her plan to leave. If the Partisans struck again the Germans
would tighten their hold on the area.
She jumped at the rattle of machine guns, as three men were gunned down
and their bodies rolled into a ditch at the side of the road. One of the men
tried to drag himself upright, only for the officer in charge to step down into
the shallow ditch where, drawing his automatic, he shot him behind the ear.
With one step and no backward glance he was out of the ditch and
walking towards their truck. Already the soldiers were beginning to drag her
flock from the back, and looking at them she knew that they would be lucky to
get out of here alive.
Jean got out of the front cab with Martha, and the officer started
towards her, only to stop as another vehicle came up. His hand reached
instinctively for his automatic before it fell away as he recognised, not the
occupant, but the uniform.
Sturmbannfuhrer de la Maziere got out of the VW jeep, paused to light
his cigarette and walked across, a sergeant following him, a machine gun
hanging at the ready and his finger resting near the trigger. With the current
Partisan action it would be suicide for a German officer, much less an SS
officer, to travel anywhere without a bodyguard.
His eyes swept over her, showing no recognition, before registering the
dead bodies in the ditch. As he came level with it he could see that among them
were women and children. The Lieutenant was filling him in on what had
happened, and then motioned to the truck. De la Maziere nodded. When he struck,
the Lieutenant was caught completely unawares. One moment he was on his feet,
the next he was looking up from the ground into the barrel of De la Maziere’s
automatic.
There was the rattle of a machine gun, and the other SS soldiers were
knocked down like skittles, Sergeant Brandt checking each of them in turn.
“Why?” the Lieutenant spluttered.
“Because we’re not all murderers like you.” The Major pulled the
trigger.
He turned and walked over to Jean, “I would get on your way now, the
border is two miles that way and the roads are clear.”
“Thank you, Major,”
De la Maziere took her arm and led her away from the others, leaning in
close as he spoke. Martha could not make out what they were saying, so turned
her attention to helping the flock get back up on the truck. But all the time
she kept her eye on Jean, she saw the way the Major raised his hand and lightly
touched her face, and then leant forward to kiss her. As suddenly as it had
happened, they parted and the pair of them were walking back to the truck.
Martha looked the Major up and down, unsure what to make of him.
“Why?” She felt she had to ask him.
“That doesn’t concern you.”
“Please.”
He looked her straight in the eye, “Because I like Jean in my bed.” Martha’s
mouth dropped open. “I would suggest you get on board,” he prompted the shocked
woman.
“What about them?” Jean motioned to the dead SS soldiers. “You can’t
allow the innocent civilians to suffer for this.”
For a moment he met her gaze, before shaking his head. “As far as the
brass are concerned, they were robbing refugees, and panicked when I arrived.”
Jean lowered her voice into a whisper, “Detlev.”
“I’ll be alright, you forget this.” He touched two fingers to his rank
badge and then the double SS runes and the Knights Cross, “I’ll be alright,
Jean, but you had best get going before we have more company.”
As Jean drove away she kept her eyes on the mirror, watching her lover
until the very last minute.
Once safely into Switzerland, Jean stopped to allow everyone to stretch
their legs. The Rabbi came over and taking her arm gently he led her to one
side,
“I thought we were dead there.”
“It was touch and go,” Jean admitted, then added “Most of the runs are
a cake walk compared to that one.”
“That officer, that one that let us go, the SS officer, who was he?”
“Sturmbannfuhrer Detlev de la Maziere, why?”
“This war, God willing, will end one day, and the allies will be the
victors. Revenge will be swift and the Sturmbannfuhrer will need our help
then.” He put his hand in his pocket and took out a piece of paper, “I have
spoken to the others on the truck, these are our names and the addresses of our
relatives we will be staying with, you can contact us there.” Taking her hand
he closed it round the paper. “It is the least we can do, call and we will
come.” He paused, a smile in his face and in his eyes. “He must love you a
lot.”
“The Major is a good man in the wrong place, Rabbi, I just pray he
makes it.” Tears beaded her eyes and she brushed them away impatiently. “Thank
you.” She crumpled the paper into her pocket.
When Martha tried to question her as to why the SS officer had helped
her, her explanation sounded hollow, she certainly wasn’t going to discuss it
with the older woman.
Turning, she marched back to the truck, yelling at the twins to climb
on board. Martha’s face clouded. Early that morning just had just started to
open her door to nip down to the toilet when she had seen the Major leaving
Jean’s room. Combined with what he had
said about Jean being in his bed… So
that had been his price. The bastard, he would pay for that one day, there was
no way Jean would willingly have gone with such a monster, therefore it must
have been blackmail, he had learned about the Flock, and demanded sex, it was
only one step short of rape. If he knew about the Flock, then he had to be
silenced, she would say nothing to Jean, but make sure the partisans took care
of him before he left Italy.
0-0-0-0
Outside London: the Manor
The manor had been given
over to the American Forces late in 1942 on, and while within reach of London
it was beyond the main bombing raids, and with the addition of extra security
and the high walls now topped with broken glass and wire, it had been decided
it was the ideal place for Garrison’s men to be based. Two miles from the nearest village, where a
railway station had a direct link to London, it was isolated enough not to get
the locals too interested.
In his downstairs office,
in what had once been the Master’s Study, Garrison poured himself a coffee and
settled back in his chair to look at the file in front of him. He had collected
it two hours ago from G2’s London Headquarters. As he had left for the trip, he
had seen his men watching him from one of the upstairs windows. They knew what
his sudden departure meant; a mission.
All they needed to know was where and when.
This mission was going to
be a hard one. They had to snatch a consignment of industrial diamonds before
the Germans got to them. He could tell by reading the file that they could do
the job, but only if they had more people to help them; resistance in the area
was virtually zero. He took another sip
of his coffee. He had told Colonel Edwards that, and it was then that Edwards
had dropped the bombshell.
Garrison had always been
under the illusion that his ‘gorillas’, as his Unit was known, was a one-off
experiment. He had no way of knowing until then that after the first two months
the powers that be had repeated the experiment under the leadership of Lt
Robert Cole. It had, however, never been
their intention that the two units would work together. Until now.
Garrison was pleased to
hear that he had seniority on the mission, but getting the two groups to work
together was going to be hard. His own
men still bucked against his authority, but would accept it. Introducing them
to another set of cons could tip the balance; factor in half a million in
diamonds, and he was putting his head in the lion’s mouth. The only saving
grace was that he would have another officer and a sergeant going in with him.
He felt safe enough turning his back on his own men, but there could be a
problem with the others. But how this mission would affect his relationship
with his men was something he wouldn’t know until the mission was underway.
Garrison’s chain of thought
was broken as there was a loud crash from the room above. Pausing only long
enough to lock the file away, he headed out of the office to the staircase,
taking the steps two at a time to see what mayhem was in progress. It looked as
if it was turning into a “why me?” sort of day.
A smile touched his lips as he reflected that he would not have it any
other way.
London
Robert Cole was not happy.
He had heard about Garrison, and frankly had hated the man even though he had
never met him. Robert was not used to being second best, he always succeeded in
what ever he attempted and each failure of his group reflected on him; the more
successful Garrison was, the more he felt it showed him up. The only highlight
on his horizon was when Garrison had gone through a series of blown missions,
but even so the man confounded the odds by bringing his men back. This mission
was one that Robert had waited his whole life for; a chance to get rich and get
out from under his father, and then they had to get stuck with the original Boy
Scout, First Lieutenant Craig Garrison. Well, that could be put right easily
enough. Garrison just wouldn’t survive the mission.
Leaning back in his chair,
Robert took a pull at his cigarette. Dawson had done time with Casino, and they
had been close for a while in Leavenworth, and Jameson had known Chief in
Attica. These prior contacts with Garrison’s men could be useful, but what he
needed to know was how far the men would stick their necks out for their
officer. Had they buckled under because
they didn’t have choice and would they be ready to take a chance if it offered
itself? First he would get Dawson and Jameson to scout the lie of the land.
Robert stubbed out his cigarette. He had a meeting with a half a million in
industrial diamonds, and once he had them, they were only a short distance from
the Switzerland and he was sure that Garrison’s men would see the logic. Why
gamble on a parole when he would give them freedom and enough money to live the
high life and all they had to do in exchange was make sure that Garrison never
made it home. A smile touched his lips, and then widened. He would have them kill Garrison, and that
would be his guarantee, because if they were caught they would hang, and that
was a sure fire way of concentrating a man’s mind on his future.
48 Hours Later
First Lieutenant Craig
Garrison knew that this mission had all the hallmarks of being a rough one; his
main concern was his men. Their nickname for him from the very beginning had
been Warden, and it didn’t take a genius to understand where that had come
from. All of his men were convicts, and to start with he was nothing but
another prison warden, who was able to send them back if they disobeyed him, but
who more than likely would see them killed either in a fire fight or in front
of a firing squad.
In the short time since
they had dropped into occupied Europe on their first mission, he had seen a tie
begin to form between them. But in the last 48 hours since the second unit had
joined them at the Manor he had begun to see a change. At first there had been
outbursts of violence, and he had had to wade in. He touched his jaw where
Maggot had landed a haymaker on him when he was trying to part him from Casino.
The blow had been hard enough to drive him to his knees, but he had managed to
put Maggot down. Casino had pushed away from him with a snarled, “I didn’t need
your help, screw.” He knew it hadn’t
ended there, and he would have to watch his back with Maggot for the rest of
the mission.
When later he went to brief
them about their training, it didn’t take a genius to see that they had pulled
back from him. He was once again an outside, as an officer their natural enemy.
The alarm bells had begun to ring when from being the “Warden” they reverted to
calling him Lieutenant. Lighting a cigarette he inhaled thoughtfully, the
question he had to ask himself was did he still trust them with his life? That
trust was the only thing he had going for him when he jumped into occupied
Europe, with only his men to watch his back. Death then was only a bullet away,
if they decided it was too much bother to keep him alive, and ran.
Pushing that to the back of
his mind he reviewed the newcomers, reflecting that combining two such units
meant that there was a overlap of skills.
0-0-0-0
Garrison had received word
that Dawson, the new safecracker, and Casino had worked out a way of triggering
the fire bombs in the bank.
Casino passed the Warden as
he went to get some more wire. As Garrison walked in to check on their
progress, Dawson began to explain about the system. He sounded nervous and
beckoned the officer over so he could show him something.
Coming back through the
door, Casino saw that Dawson was stepping back as his hand dropped down to trip
the board. Casino took in the sight of Garrison bent over the mock up, looking
at something that Dawson had been pointing out.
He swore violently and then lunged forward, catching the officer by the
back of his shirt, pulling him backward, just as there was a bright flash and
one of the devices exploded, flame erupting from it. If he hadn’t got to him in
time, Garrison would have caught the full force of it in his face; at best
burning him, at worst blinding him. Even so Garrison’s sleeve ignited, the
flames flaring up towards his face. Casino ripped his own jacket off and used
it to smother the flames. Spinning round, the Brooklyn thief was on his feet
and in two strides had Dawson by the throat and thrown up against the wall.
“What the fuck are you playing at? You could have killed the Warden!"
“It was an accident,
Frankie, an accident,” Dawson stuttered, using Casino’s real name in the hope
of calming the man down, the Brooklyn thief had one hell of a volatile temper.
“Casino,” Garrison had
managed to get to his knees, his right hand cradling his left arm, “It was an
accident, let him go.”
“Warden?”
“Do it.”
Casino released his hold -
he knew that command tone. But before Dawson could move away he prodded him hard
in the chest, his anger barely being held in check. “We will talk about this.”
Turning, he helped Garrison to his feet. From what he could see of the burns
through the charred shirt sleeve, the Warden was going to be in pain but had
escaped serious injuries.
The Warden might buy it as
an accident, but Casino knew better. The board had been tripped. All the bad
feelings he had about the mission were already coming back to haunt him. He
made a mental note to talk to the rest of the gang. He knew he was the worst one of the group for
butting heads with the Warden. There was just something about soldier boy that
put him on edge, maybe it was his willingness to put their heads in the lion’s
mouth, nothing put him off completing a mission. But he could not fault the
man’s courage; he was willing to put himself on the line to get them out. The
brass might say they were expendable, and Garrison had paid lip service to it,
but the Warden would never leave them behind. Garrison was one of them, and
that meant that they would watch his back for him, against enemy or allies.
But Casino was getting a
very bad feeling about the mission, the Warden had bushed away their concerns
for him following the accident, but Casino’s unease remained as the Warden
started his briefing.
Two Weeks Later
The plane was coming into
land. Blair Sandburg yawned and pushed his glasses back on the bridge of his
nose, looking across the body of the plane to James Ellison who was staring off
into space. For a moment, fear flooded through Blair. “Don’t worry, Chief, I’m
alright.” Ellison favoured the younger man with a smile. “I’m not drifting,
just thinking.”
Blair took a deep breath,
and moved uncomfortably. It was bad enough having to travel in the stripped
aircraft, but to have to wear a Mae West and a parachute harness in case the
plane came down wasn’t his idea of travelling in style. Give him first class
any day of the week.
The plane landed and Blair
set foot on British soil for the first time since 1939. At that moment, the
wail of an air raid siren cut through the air, and he found himself running for
his life as the air field was attacked. To his left a plane exploded, and he
was suddenly tackled to the ground as part of an engine came flying towards
them.
He was dragged up by his
collar and hurled into a slit trench, flattened by the body of the older man.
Around them their world rocked under the barrage of explosions. After what seemed an eternity, the attack
finished as high in the sky the Spitfires and Hurricanes came out of the sun,
forcing the German aircraft towards the coast.
Blair looked up into the
face of his friend and Jim shook his head to clear the ringing in his ears as a
voice drawled from the top of the trench, “Welcome to Britain, gentlemen.”
Both of them looked up to
see Major Martin Worth standing above them. The situation could only get worse.
The only time that G2 contacted them was when it was about to hit the fan.
0-0-0-0
An Airfield in England.
Three hours earlier at dawn
The aircraft landed at the
small field which used to belong to the local flying club and didn’t appear on
any official map as a designated airfield. The nocturnal flights were witnessed
only by a few local farmers. The Lysander taxied to where a truck stood waiting
next to the old club house. Sergeant
Major Hudson, a slender built Englishman, stood waiting for it to come to a
standstill.
His orders had been to get
the Lieutenant on the first transport to London, and to make sure that he
arrived in uniform, not looking like some tramp. The door to the Lysander
opened and the first one out was his fellow Englishman, Goniff. The most
easy-going of the group, his face showed concern and that started the Sergeant
Major forward. Chief was out next, turning as Actor and then Casino came out.
The two larger men reached back to help their officer out. Garrison tried to
push them away, but instead swayed and was caught and held by the taller, older
Italian. Actor spoke quietly, and the Lieutenant seemed to be listening as he
didn’t fight their grip on his arms. Before Hudson could reach the injured
officer, the Indian was in front of him and Hudson stopped. He had watched the dynamics of the group
change over the last three months since the cons had first landed up at the
Manor. When they started, the group had been fragmented, but they had quickly
banded together. Initially united against the world and their Warden, slowly
they had admitted the Lieutenant into
the close-knit group. The Lieutenant’s men were protective and it would be better
to approach carefully until he knew how badly injured the officer was.
Garrison’s skin was ashen,
his left arm tucked into his jacket as a type of temporary sling, and the
material of the jacket was heavily bloodstained as was the white shirt he wore.
When he looked up, the sergeant could see his eyes were not focusing and that
without the support of his men he would have fallen over.
“Lieutenant Garrison, sir.”
“Sergeant Major,” there was
a slight slur to the words.
“Major Worth’s compliments,
sir; you’re to report to headquarters.” The Englishman paused, then added “I am
sorry, but immediately, sir.”
The reaction from the cons
was instant, only a sharp order from their officer silenced them, and he
started towards the truck. Casino caught the Sergeant’s arm. “What the hell’s
the Major playing at? The Warden’s in no condition for this!"
“Major Worth’s orders.” The
distaste was plain, looking towards their injured CO he said with genuine
concern, “Keep an eye on him, lad, he’s going to need you.”
0-0-0-0
Major Martin Worth had seen
Captain Ellison and Dr Sandburg in to the office of Colonel Edwards, and then
turned to the other business in hand. He took his seat and pressed the
intercom, “Send in Lieutenant Garrison.” Major Worth didn’t look up as the man
entered, keeping him at attention while he carefully and slowly sorted through
the files on his desk.
Finally he looked up and
acknowledged Garrison. “At ease, Lieutenant.” He looked the other man up and
down. Garrison and his men had just arrived back in England, he didn’t even
bother to look at them as they flanked their CO. Scum, prison scum, in no sane
world should he have to deal with them.
Martin took in the pale skin and slight sway as Garrison stood there, it
had been reported that the Lieutenant had been wounded but he had been patched
up and the rest could wait for the moment, he had more important things to deal
with. “I see you seem to have forgotten, Lieutenant, that an officer should be
presentable at all times,” he drawled slowly, “and for God’s sake, man, stand
still,” he snapped.
Garrison raised a shaking
hand to his tie, and tried to stop the involuntary sway, his fingers locking
onto the corner of the desk in a bid to anchor him. When he looked at the Major
he was having trouble focusing. The early morning light streaming in from the
window behind the Major was painful to look at; it burned into his eyes, he
felt cold and clammy, and he had to swallow down the bile as waves of nausea
kept threatening to overtake him. His
head felt as if a spike had been driven through it, he had to concentrate hard
to understand what Major Worth was saying.
The next thing he knew the
Major was in front of him, pulling at his clothing. He stumbled back a step and
but for his men catching hold of him he would have fallen. There was a roaring
like surf in his ears, and he felt his knees begin to buckle as he was pushed
into a chair.
0-0-0-0
G2 Headquarters
Colonel Edwards returned
the salute from Captain James Ellison and then told him to take a seat, his
eyes sweeping over the smaller, younger man that was with him. He had heard
about Dr Blair Sandburg. Edwards
estimated his age as being in the early twenties, and the young man almost
seemed to bounce where he stood. All he
knew about the civilian was that the doctor was engaged on classified work, and
that it had to do with Captain Ellison.
The man standing in front
of him looked every inch a soldier. Edwards had read Ellison’s file, the man
had been in the Army, and after being invalided out had joined the Cascade
Police, rapidly rising to Lead Investigator in the Major Crimes Department.
When America had joined the war, Ellison had re-enlisted and was given the rank
of Captain, with Sandburg in tow. To Edwards it was clear that the heavy hand
of US Army Intelligence was involved.
Since Ellison and Sandburg had started to work together they had been
primarily engaged on espionage cases, and their successes had gained them an
impressive reputation. Now he just had to hope they could do the same in
London. If the case became public, he
didn’t want to think what the backlash might be.
He opened up a file and
then looked at each man in turn.
“The killings started four
months ago, and since then we have had one a month, four women, all of them
have been gutted.” He passed the pictures across to the two men, his face grim.
Dr Sandburg went pale and
swallowed hard before placing the pictures back on the table with a slightly
shaking hand. It made Edwards wonder
what expertise Sandburg brought to the partnership.
Jim Ellison picked up the
report. “So the killer is an expert, he took his time and went to work on
them.” He paused to look at the photographs. “What do the police have to say
about it?”
The Colonel leaned back and
took a deep breath. “Inspector Evans is working the case, and it’s only a
matter of time before one of the killings makes this all go public. At the
moment we can control it, but the evidence is pointing to the killer being an
American Officer. If this gets out, the
animosity between the British and US forces could get out of hand, and I don’t
need to tell you that there are elements out there who will make the most of
it, using it to prove to all the Brits that we can’t be trusted. The answer,
gentlemen, is to catch the killer, fast, and legally. He will never stand trial
publicly, but justice will be done.”
“What sort of Inspector is
Evans?”
“He’s a good man, and I
trust his judgement.” Edwards tapped the file. "You have a meeting with
him at 14.00 hrs. In the meantime I want you word perfect on the files. He has
been told to expect you.”
0-0-0-0
Colonel Edwards halted his
briefing as Major Worth came in, speaking in a hushed tone, and the Colonel
excused himself and went into the office next door.
Jim tried to tune out the
commotion next door as Major Worth came through and closed the door, the file
in his hands.
Colonel Edwards could feel
the anger coming off the men in the room; he had met Garrison’s men twice, once
at the airfield and once at the Manor. Each time he had gone away feeling he
had put his head in the lion’s mouth, and had had to fight away the impulse to
check that not only did he have his head but all his gold teeth. He had been left with a sense of wonder at
how the younger officer managed to handle them.
Actor, the Italian conman and unofficial second in command, was kneeling
by Garrison, so that he was level with him as talked softly and reassuringly.
One of the other men, Casino, was standing with one hand on his officer’s
shoulder keeping him upright. The dark haired Indian’s stance was protective,
it clearly didn’t matter to him that they were in G2 headquarters; the Indian
looked ready to kill to protect the team, and he was ready to deal with any
threats. It didn’t take much to understand
that Major Worth had triggered this response, of all the commando teams by
their very nature G11 was the most unique, hell, bizarre. Ignoring the Indian
when every instinct was telling him not to turn his back on the man, Edwards
came round to face Garrison. “Captain.”
Garrison’s head came up,
and he quickly looked away as light that seemed too bright burned his eyes. He
tried to come to his feet, but Casino increased his hold on his officer’s
shoulder, keeping him in place as Edwards leant forward and firmly caught
Garrison’s face and tipped it back. Edwards shook his head as he released his
hold. The pupils of the amber coloured eyes were uneven sizes, concussion; he
could see the sweat on the too pale face. It would take an idiot not to know
that what this man needed was a doctor, not a debriefing.
Goniff, the small blond
Englishman, handed his officer a glass of water. “You’ll feel better if you
drink this, Warden.”
Colonel Edwards only just
got the wastepaper bin in place as the water came back. Once started it seem to
be an eternity before Garrison stopped retching, shudders racking his body.
Edwards shook his head and
reached for the phone.
“We’ll get the Warden to
the doctor, Colonel,” Actor said before the senior officer could issue the order.
“Move him when he’s able,
this debriefing can wait.” The last part
was aimed at Major Worth who had returned to his office.
“The diamonds, sir, G11
still have them, if the Lieutenant hasn’t lost them. You did return with the
diamonds, Garrison?” The sarcasm was dripping from Worth’s words.
“Do you have the diamonds,
Captain?” Edwards cut across him, his hand going to rest on the younger officer
whose attention appeared to have drifted for the moment, bringing him back to
the present. As if surfacing from a
dream, his movements slow and clumsy, Garrison’s shaking hand groped at his
pocket trying to find the bulky weight of the diamonds. They were gone.
“Here.” Goniff handed them
to the Colonel when his officer looked up at him, eyes still dazed. “Didn’t
want you to lose them, Warden.”
Edwards took the diamonds,
feeling the weight in his hand. Actor
had followed the conversation, noting the change in rank. He had read the
Warden’s file, and knew what had happened in North Africa. But at the moment
Garrison was too out of it to register the change, he accepted the rank,
responded to it because he had done so before.
But Worth hadn’t missed it.
“Sir, you said ‘Captain’.”
“Lieutenant Garrison has
been promoted to Captain. Congratulations, Garrison.” Edwards shook his head.
The younger officer was not taking any of this in; it seemed to require all his
energy just to keep from slumping forward.
“The paperwork will be forwarded to the Manor tomorrow. Now I would
suggest you get the Captain to a medic.”
0-0-0-0
Coming out of the Colonel’s
office, Jim’s gaze was drawn down the corridor by the strong smell of sickness,
cold sweat and blood emanating from the group of men approaching. As they drew
nearer it was as if the world slowed down. Jim pulled Blair to the other side
of him as his eyes met those of a dark haired younger man, whose skin was
slightly darker than his companions.
Whereas the others’ attention was focused on their sick companion, he
had turned his back on him, his hand dropping down. There was a snick that
sounded like a thunderclap to Jim’s enhanced hearing and he recognized the
sound instantly. Ellison kept walking,
all his senses heightened in case of attack, while the younger man paced him,
protecting his sick companion. Only when they had passed did Jim hear the snick
of the knife blade retracting, even as an English voice called for ‘Chief’ to
help them. He turned back in time to see
the dark-haired ‘Chief’ assisting with their sick companion.
0-0-0-0
The Mayberry Hotel
The hotel was quite
comfortable by wartime standards, and Blair bounced up and down on the beds
trying to find which one was the best. He felt a surge of pride run through him
at the thought, “My Sentinel.” Two words he never thought he would say. Somehow
he had never pictured his Sentinel as a US Army Captain, a protector of the
City, a police officer, or fire fighter. But then war had changed many things.
Jim pulled his tie loose
and took a deep pull on the glass of whisky as he settled down to read through
the file. This was the hardest part of any investigation, it was when the
report put flesh on the bones of the victims, and this process would be
complete tomorrow when he saw the boxes of their effects. Inside him the
sentinel stirred, bristling and wanting to take the hunt on the streets, but
the man and the cop in him made him haul back the emotions, keeping them on a
tight rein. This had to be done right, there could be no mistakes.
Blair was thoughtful as he
lay in bed looking up at the ceiling, they had been lucky there had been no air
raid to spoil their night’s sleep, but he kept thinking back to the corridor
and the way his sentinel had reacted to the men they had met. Suddenly Blair
sat up, Jim had reacted as if protecting him from a threat, and from another
sentinel, but whom?
0-0-0-0
Three days later
G2 Headquarters – London
Major Worth picked up the
paper and read through it carefully. He knew this would happen, takes a bunch
of convicts and they would always find their own level. If this information was
correct they could send them back where they belonged, the only question was
how deeply Garrison was involved. He shook his head, he might not like the man,
but Garrison was too much of a professional solider to take part in the theft of
the very diamonds his group had brought back to England. If this was right then the man was in serious
danger, there was no way they would let him live. But so far all he had was
this one piece of information, and the Colonel would do nothing unless he could
get more proof. G11 had proved to be too successful. Worth opened his drawer
and put the paper in, closing and locking it. If the Colonel wanted proof
positive then he was going to get it for him.
0-0-0-0
Scotland Yard
Morning
Inspector Evans was an
experienced police officer, his workload since the start of the war had been
heavy, but he had been told to clear his desk for this case, there was too much
at stake for him to fail.
There was a knock on his
door and Sergeant Gardiner escorted the American Captain and his civilian
colleague into the office.
Evans smiled and greeted
them both with a firm handshake before waving them to a seat. “Captain, Dr
Sandburg, I understand your position, but let me state mine. We are going to
catch this killer, regardless of who he is, gentleman. He has killed five
women,” he paused for emphasis before continuing, “butchered five women. He
will pay for this in a court of law.” He put up a hand to silence Jim Ellison.
“I understand why this will never be in an open court, but we will catch
him. All I ask is that we work on this
case without prejudice.”
Jim nodded. “Inspector, I
was a police officer and when I took that oath to protect and serve, I meant
it. If this killer is an American then he needs to be caught before he can kill
any more women, and sour the relationship between the British and American
forces.” Jim paused. “I think we both understand the wider picture.”
Evans nodded, pleased with
what Ellison had said. The gut instinct
he had acquired over the years told him that he could work with this man.
Blair spoke for the first
time. “Inspector, you said five women. I thought-"
“He struck again last
night.” Evans paused, “I suggest that we run through the evidence.” He opened
the file in front of him. “The murders are developing a pattern and we all
agree he needs to be found quickly before this gets out of hand. The newspapers
have been issued with a notice, nothing of this is to find its way on the front
page, but that doesn’t stop word of mouth.
The local people are going to want revenge and if it gets out that the
killer is an American officer then any officer in uniform is going to be a
prime target, if they’re in the wrong place at the wrong time.
"Murder number one,
Lucy Carrington on the 4th December. She was last seen with an
American officer when they left the Black Bull pub together. Her body was found
by Air Warden Howard the following night when he noticed her light shining
through the blackout.”
“Does Howard have an
alibi?” Jim asked.
“He was working with his
partner and they split up to check the last couple of streets, the coroner said
she had been dead for twenty four hours before she was found.
"Murder number two was
Rita Murray on the 8th January, she was last seen at the Two Pipers.
She was found by her room mate when she returned from shift at the local
hospital.
"Murder number three
was Linda Andrews on the 19th February, found dead by her next door
neighbour.” Evans shook his head again, there had been no sightings on that one.
"Murder number four
was Air Woman Carol Smyth on the 26th March, she was seen with an
American officer, and then later discovered by her friend when she came off
night shift. It seemed that they had arranged to meet and at the last moment
she had had to work an extra shift, and had been unable to get word to Carol.
During that time it appears that she met an American officer and her body was
found the next morning.”
“Had any of the women been
sexually assaulted?” Blair asked.
“The first and fourth victim
had both had sexual intercourse, but it was not forced so seems to have been
consensual with the killer.”
“Did they use protection?”
Jim shot a look at his
partner, but Blair was clearly going somewhere with this so he let him
continue.
“Yes.”
Blair mused, “So, here we
have a killer who is breaking women’s necks, then brutally cutting them up
afterwards, and yet he’s using protection not to get them pregnant. I would
have thought that was the least of his worries. Perhaps he doesn’t want to catch
anything,” Blair added after a pause, answering his own question.
Evans answered, “No,
according to the information we have none of these women were prostitutes, so
the odds of sexually transmitted disease are slight. The two that were sexually active were the
first and the fourth, the two that were seen with the officer.”
"Why do I think there
is something missing here?” Jim drawled.
Evans nodded slowly, his
fingers interlaced "The fifth murder last night was Elizabeth Shelby, 18
years old, Land Army girl, neck broken and body found like the rest of them,
only this time in an air raid shelter.
Nobody was seen with her, and no sexual activity.”
This was going to be hard.
Somewhere out there was a killer and he had to be caught before anything else
could happen. Because as sure as hell the news was going to break and God help
them when it did. But with the constant
flow of soldiers to and from the UK, he could already be gone.
0-0-0-0
Blair looked round the
murder room. On a pin board was a photograph of each of the girls, their names
below, the happy, smiling faces a sad reminder of lives cut tragically short.
In wartime you expected people to die, but not through cold-blooded murder.
The bare details of their
lives were etched in chalk on the board, and next to it was a map of London,
with pin markers showing the murder scenes. Blair moved from one board to the
other. Without turning round he said, “You really think we can solve their
murders?” He bit his lip, “Damn it, Jim, there has to be a pattern to them, no
one would just kill at random.”
“Why not, he could be just
picking off his victims, maybe they’re wearing the wrong colour coat, or in
uniform or-.”
“Uniform.” Blair paused.
Two of the five were in uniform, but the other three were civilians. Damn!”
Blair looked down in surprise as the chalk broke between his fingers. Evans was a good cop, he knew that, and the
man knew the area, why did the American Army think in their arrogance that he
and Jim could just fly in and solve the murder? Because, a little voice told
him, they know your secret, and expect results. He took a deep breath, and then
said. “Inspector Evans has looked at this as a police officer, so why don’t you
look at it as a sentinel?”
He caught the way Jim
rolled his eyes. His partner hated to be reminded of what he was, reluctantly
accepting his gifts. On the back table
were four boxes, soon to be five; in each was the clothing the girls had been
wearing and any material evidence.
Blair went to the first and
looked into it, the blood a reminder of a violent death. Carefully he took the
clothes out and laid them on the table. “Okay, Jim.”
“What the hell do you
expect me to do?”
"Scent the clothes, you should-”
A vice-like hand caught him
by the shoulder and spun him round to stare into the angry face of his
sentinel. He took a deep breath. “You have to lock your sense on each of the
murder victims’ clothes, it will carry the scent of their killer, we can then-”
he trailed off as the grip slackened. “Well, also the scent of the police
officer that found the body, the mortuary attendant, the doctor, the- well, we
can worry about that later,” he added quickly seeing the look on Jim’s face.
Blair stepped aside and
placed his hand on Jim’s shoulder, allowing his presence to sooth and centre
his sentinel. He took a quick breath to steady his nerves; there was always
that surge of excitement when he did this, the knowledge that he was becoming
part of a millennium-old tradition.
Sorting through the boxes
took time, each scent, each texture had to be brought forward and then stored.
At the end of the four boxes, Jim reached up and pushed Blair’s hand away.
“What did you find out?”
Jim didn’t answer and
walked over to the window, each pane of which was crossed with tape in case of
a bomb blast. Through it he looked out to watch the people hurrying past trying
to get to the shops, for the promise of butter or cheese all bought on the
ration book, assuming there was food in the shop to buy. All normal, each of
the victims would have done that, ordinary things, ordinary lives until someone
decided to take that away from them.
He turned back, closing his
eyes, and without thought let his instincts direct him.
The first murder and the
fourth, both had the scent of sex still clinging to them, along with the aroma
of musk and sandalwood, mixed in with cigarette smoke and some lesser scents.
In his head he played them back, box by box, matching and comparing. There was
musk and apple, musk and grass, musk and…? He frowned, each of the scents were
on at least two or more of the dead women. Jim swore, opening his eyes at
Blair’s voice and touch. “I’m okay, Darwin.”
“Did you manage to get
anything?”
“Too much,” he exhaled
slowly, “We’re going to have to start to eliminate the police and the medics
and then that should give me a clearer field.”
“Interesting.”
Jim spun round to see
Inspector Evans leaning against the door. The Englishman was smiling, when he
saw the frightened look on Blair’s face he took pity. “Just as long as it helps
the investigation I won’t pry, and maybe one day you’ll let me in on the
secret.”
“Thanks.” Blair muttered.
“Okay, let’s get started,
gentlemen.”
0-0-0-0
The next three days were
taken up with grass roots investigation. Evans had taken Captain Ellison out to
view the murder scenes, leaving his ‘assistant’, as Evans had described Blair
to his own Sergeant, sorting through the murder reports.
The next day was spent
sorting paper. Blair sighed. If he read one more log he was going to scream.
The Inspector and Jim had come to the conclusion that the officer was possibly
visiting the Headquarters, given the infrequency of the attacks, and therefore
the logs were looked at for four days prior to the murders.
Jim first ruled out any
female officers, because of the sexual aspect of the killings, then anyone over
the age of forty. Given the way the women had died it seemed the person had
some combat training, so he ruled out the clerical and administrative
officers. Then he discarded any officer
over the rank of Captain, as one of the witnesses had said that the officer had
bars on his uniform. They had been unable to determine if the bars had been one
or two, silver or gold, so he could be anything from a Second Lieutenant to a
Captain. Any officer that could be connected with the date of two of the
murders was then added to the mix, which left him with one hell of a long list.
It gave both him and the Inspector twenty officers each; if that failed they
would open up the profile of the possible killer.
Blair was looking through
the files of the twenty officers that they had drawn, making notes on each of
them so that Jim would have a starting point.
He paused on one of the files; there was so little information in it
that he passed it straight to Jim. It contained nothing more than a picture and
rank, indicating an increase from First Lieutenant to Captain. Jim frowned,
scooping up the file and headed straight for the door. Someone was screwing
with his investigation and he sure as hell wasn’t going to allow that to
happen. Only one person had the authority to gut a file like this and his
initials were at the bottom of the page.
The Colonel looked up as
Jim entered. “You seem to have forgotten your manners, Captain, so where’s the
fire?”
Jim dropped the file on the
desk in front of him. He didn’t have to say anything, the Colonel’s face told
the story.
“I see,” he paused. “You
won’t find the Captain’s file in Central Filing.” He looked up and took a buff
file from his own personal filing cabinet. “Captain Garrison is a member of
G11, a special forces commando team.” The senior officer kept his hand on the
file. “Only if you can justify your interest in the Captain can I allow you
access to this.”
Ellison’s reply was
immediate. “I understand, sir. Captain
Garrison was present at headquarters around the time of two of the murders; he
is a commando, and the women’s necks were broken. He matches our profile, and I
will need to speak to him.”
The colonel took a pen and
scribbled down an address before handing the paper to Ellison. “You can find
him here. The Captain was injured on his last mission, and although the doctors
have released him from hospital he is on light duties. Ask your questions,
Captain Ellison, but I expect that anything you learn from Captain Garrison
will be treated on a need to know basis concerning our English allies, and I
will expect answers very soon.”
0-0-0-0
That evening at the Manor
The pain had exploded through his shoulder and head
and he had found himself on the ground then nothing but flashing light, pain
and darkness, then he was being dragged to his knees looking up in the barrel
of the gun, the voice he knew and trusted sneering, “We don’t have to kill him,
the Gestapo will do that for us. By the time they’re finished with him, he’ll
either be dead or wishing he was.” The laugh was hollow and bitter.” He’s dead,
just let’s make it profitable.” At that
point, the man had fired and his head spiked agonising pain through him and he
had spiralled down into darkness.
Craig Garrison came awake
with a start, his good hand instantly going for the automatic he kept under his
pillow. It was then that reality crashed down round him, as pain knifed through
his skull and shoulder, his breath coming in harsh gasps as he tried to beat
the pain, forcing himself to take deep breaths as he concentrated on pushing
the agony back. He ran a hand over his face, wiping away the sweat, and then
got unsteadily to his feet and pulled a bottle of scotch from his foot
locker. There was not much left, but
even so he poured a large drink, then shook out a couple of the pain killers he
had been given and knocked them back.
Anything to make the pain in his head go away.
The nightmares were getting
worse, but this time he had nearly seen the man’s face, all he knew was once he
could see it the nightmares would make sense.
The drink hit his stomach and the nausea returned full force. Folding to
his knees he threw up, and then slowly slumped to one side, his world spinning
him down into nothing.
0-0-0-0
Along the corridor, Chief
sat cross-legged, chanting softly in the tongue of his ancestors, calling on
the gods to allow him entrance to the spirit world. Since the first mission he
had felt a connection with his CO, it had grown steadily stronger each day. He
knew where Garrison was without having to look. Chief only had to send out his
senses and they locked onto his would-be guide, wrapping around him as gently
as any caress. It embarrassed the stoic Indian that he had sought out the other
man’s heartbeat, the steady regular thump, but it reassured him, and he found
himself chanting in time to the heart beat.
Slowly the world around him
changed, as easily as if he had stepped from one room to the next. Colours
shifted to blue on blue, and looking down at his hands he saw the Bonding knife
of his tribe.
He now sought out his
guide, entering into a clearing where he roared his challenge. The creature that was holding his guide in
the spirit world was a black shadow but with substance. He had the guide’s body
arched over, the guide’s back almost at breaking point. In his hand the shadow
held a knife, and with one vicious slash he cut the guide’s throat, letting the
body fall to the ground. Looking up, he met Chief’s eyes, and his laughter
vibrated through the clearing. His very presence seemed to leech the colour
from around him.
The world tilted and
re-set, his dead guide and the creature were gone, and it was then he sensed
another presence on the plane. Spinning,
he saw a young man wearing the robes of a shaman. For one brief moment their eyes met before he
was pulled back.
0-0-0-0
London
Simultaneously.
Blair Sandburg came awake,
his eyes snapping open. On his spirit walks he had connected before with his
Sentinel, but never until tonight had he seen another person. An Indian, more
than that, a sentinel, with the ability to spirit walk. This sentinel was
associated with their current assignment, somehow he knew this, but Blair had
been unable to see his face. Reaching out, he grabbed his glasses, pulled them
on and began to write down what had happened.
This could be a whole new chapter of his book on sentinels
When he finished he leaned
back against the headboard, brooding on the experience. When he had first been approached by the
military he had refused. He was a pacifist and the thought of taking another
life had been sickening to him. But the chance to find a sentinel had been too
much of a lure for him to keep refusing, that and the promise of a very
lucrative research grant had tipped the balance. But then, Blair felt a smile tugging at his
lips, he hadn’t counted on meeting a sentinel candidate like Captain James
Joseph Ellison. He had been the hardest headed of three men he had tested, all
‘my way or the highway’, and he had had absolutely no tolerance of long-haired
academics. But then no one had counted on the bone-deep sentinel instinct that
had kicked in. Absently, Blair rubbed his arm. He could still remember the way
Ellison’s fingers had dug into his arm as he dragged him from the room,
throwing him against the wall. Ellison had been all over him before he could
even think to protect himself. It was then, with Ellison’s face only inches
from his, the sentinel’s lips pulled back baring his teeth, that he knew he had
lost control, and the only remaining option was to hang on for the ride.
0-0-0-0
The Manor
Simultaneously.
Chief had been pulled back
to the present, but the staccato, quick pulse he recognised as the elevated
heartbeat of his guide had him on his feet and down the corridor. Only the
greatest self control stopped him from kicking down the door to his Commanding
Officer’s quarters, and in one hand he held his switchblade at the ready. His
senses told him that his guide was alone, that there was no threat. But the
emotions that were running through him pushed aside all reason. Chief tried to
force down the almost overwhelming need to protect. Finding the door locked was
enough in itself to send him into guardian protection. The Warden had never
locked the door since he had returned from their first mission.
Taking one step back he
kicked the door open, and moved quickly in through the twilight of the room.
There was enough light to see that the bed was empty, and he had to catch hold
of the door as he was assaulted by the overwhelming stench of vomit and scotch.
Quickly he knelt down, checking the pulse of the unconscious man, his hand
lightly sweeping over the unresponsive head and back, feeling the life force of
his officer.
The stench of the vomit
nearly spun his senses out of control, but the reassuring beat of the heart
under his hand steadied him. In his heart he longed for the time that his guide
would be there for him, and he would no longer have to exist on these fleeting
contacts. He spun round as he heard another man enter, the knife in his hand as
he used his body to block the fallen man. “Actor,” he acknowledged, and only
then did he lower the weapon.
The Italian quickly knelt
down, repeating the check at Garrison’s throat for his pulse. “The doctors said
this would happen, that because of the serious nature of his concussion he
would suffer headaches and nausea, nothing to be worried about.” The concern on his face didn’t mirror his
words. “Idiot.” Actor spat the word as he noticed the whisky bottle, and the
open packet of pills. “Help me get him onto the bed, and get him cleaned up,
but be careful of his shoulder.” Between them they eased the limp body onto the
rumpled bed, Chief stepping back to allow the other man to take control,
trusting him to do his best.
A few minutes later he
heard coughing and muttered words. Actor
was leaning over Garrison, his voice soft and reassuring. There was no way the injured man should have
been out of hospital, but for the influx of wounded, and the misguided
impression that he could rest at the Manor. It was clear the medical staff
didn’t understand the first thing about the workaholic officer. Well, this was
a clear wake up call. Unless he rested he wasn’t going to get better, and they
sure as hell weren’t going to parachute into occupied Europe with anyone but
him. It was time Garrison stopped worrying about them and took care of
himself. The ghost of a smile touched
Chief’s lips. The Warden, their personal nickname for Garrison, hated them
fussing over him, but if he dropped the right hint Goniff would be all over
him. The smaller Englishman was one of those people that cared a bit too much;
he killed because he had to, to keep alive and to keep the team alive, but he
had paid a high price for it. The act of killing still tore him apart. And given a chance he would fuss over any
injured member of the group to the point of the injured party threatening
bloody murder, the English phrase was one that appealed to him.
By nature Goniff was one of
the most inoffensive people Chief had ever met, given ten minutes with him most
people treated him like an old friend. And Chief could pinpoint when the change
had taken place with Goniff and the Warden. It was when Warden had been
captured after they had kidnapped the kraut colonel’s son. Goniff and Casino
had all been ready to run and leave him, until Actor had pointed out what would
happen if they returned without the Warden. They would be straight back to
stir, their paroles a distant memory. That hadn’t been what changed Goniff’s
mind, it had been when the Krauts had brought the Warden in. He had been badly
beaten, his face bloody and burn dollars on his torso. The man had looked as if
he had been to hell and back[6].
Chief had been sure that
the Warden had no idea who they were, hell the man hadn’t expected to be
rescued, and at that point all he could see was a German uniform, not their
faces. The officer had locked himself down, trying to shut out the pain,
refusing to break, giving them the only thing he could: time to get away.
The look on the small
Englishman’s face at the officer’s condition had shown more than words could
have said, and that look had been mirrored in Casino’s face.
As if summoned, Goniff
arrived in the room, moving quickly to the bed and exchanging a few whispered
words with Actor before going to the cupboard to pull out a couple of blankets.
Bringing them back, he helped wrap Garrison up, and then between them they got
him to his feet. The officer tried to
push them away, but their hold was too tight, and he was coaxed and partly
carried, partly dragged down to their dormitory. They would sort his room out
later, now he needed to rest. At the door, Actor hesitated and then took the
none too steady officer over to Chief’s bed and helped him to lie down,
watching as sleep quickly claimed him, his energy gone.
Chief dragged a chair
across to the side of the bed, his look daring any of the others to question
his actions. Finally, with an order to call him if Garrison became worse, they
went back to sleep.
Only when he was sure that
the others were asleep did he allow himself the luxury of lowering his hand
down to rest lightly against his guide. The injured man was lying on his side,
facing him, dark blond hair plastered by sweat to his brow. With his fingertips
Chief brushed the strands of hair back. For the first time he was able to touch
his guide, and without realising it he heightened his sense of touch, savouring
the feel, categorising it. Then his sense of hearing expanded, the beat of
Garrison’s heart became loud yet soothing at the same time, a reminder that his
guide was alive.
Then his features hardened,
when had he first trusted this man, when had he known the unthinkable? It had
been on that mission, when Garrison had come back to save his ass when the
enemy soldier had discovered him and had him cold[7].
There was no reason why he had done it; the Warden had made it plain that they
were all expendable. It was the first time that any white man had ever done
anything for him. Then later, when he had offered his reluctant thanks, hiding
it behind offering a light to his cigarette, his hand had brushed the Warden’s
and it was as if a surge of power had swept through him. The light had suddenly
got brighter and the noise around him louder, the scents sharper. He had moved
away from Garrison as quickly as he could, and had cursed it, he knew what it
was, and it wasn’t supposed to happen. He had to return to the reservation for
the Black Moon ritual. It couldn’t just happen. Only it was and as if on cue he
could hear his grandfather’s voice. “When the time is right you will know who
calls to you. That person will be a warrior, a man of honour and strength.” But
a white man? That was unheard of. But even as he thought this, he turned back
and looked at Garrison, his habitual cigarette burning in his hand, which
suddenly was filtered out allowing him to scent the man, a mix of musk and
sandalwood. Chief had shaken his head to clear it but the scent was fixed. He
knew that even with his eyes closed he could find the Warden. With a sigh he
turned back to the window to keep watch.
Chief was jolted back to the present and pulled his hand away as if it
had been burned. He shook his head ruefully. Why buy into trouble? The amount
of missions they had been on in the last four months it might not be a problem;
they would more than likely all be dead before Christmas.
But even so he couldn’t
stop the surge of contentment running through him, which pushed away his
doubts; the spirits had given this man to him as a guide. At the moment his
guide was sick, and they had two weeks for him to heal. He would make sure that
he did.
0-0-0-0
12.00 Midnight.
The Manor.
Private George Reilly
fingered the money in his pocket, it was too good to give up and he never liked
officers. The bastards always thought they were better than everyone else, the
nine day wonders were bad enough, but the regulars, shit, they thought they
were God Almighty. He looked back towards the Manor as he dropped down onto the
driveway from the wall, and with a grin caught up with his friend who was
already walking towards their barracks in the old stable block, clapping him on
his back. Hell, the money was a bonus; this was going to be fun, and a chance
to get back at the Captain.
0-0-0-0
Blair hung white-knuckled
onto the side of the Jeep. From the way Jim was driving, his Sentinel seemed to
have no affiliation with machinery, and he seemed not to understand that:
(a) the British drove on the
wrong side of the road,
(b) the roads outside
London were minor roads,
(c) and that all the sign
posts had been removed during the threat of invasion,
so it meant having to
navigate and driving was making it nearly impossible and finally (d) his own guide
wanted off this roller coaster of a ride from hell. When Jim finally pulled up
outside the house in the grounds of an old estate, Blair was so relieved he
could have jumped out of the Jeep and kissed the ground and the guard.
The guard stopped them and
demanded their IDs, his hand resting on his gun. Looking from the ID back at
Jim he returned it with a salute and opened the gate. As they drove up the
drive, Blair gave a soft whistle. “Nice place. Looks to be late 17th
Century, although that wing’s probably a later addition, possibly 18th
Century.”
He ignored the look that
his Sentinel shot him as they pulled up into the central courtyard. For a moment they sat there in silence, as
Jim looked up and round him, before saying, “Notice the extra guards patrolling
grounds, the broken glass on the top of the wall, the bars on that window, they
have been beefing up the defences, and they either want to keep something out
or someone in.” To the expert eye of the
ex-cop, it seemed like the latter. There was something about G11 that they were
not being told.
Whatever else he was going
to say was lost when a British Sergeant Major came down the steps to meet them.
“This way, sir, the Captain is in his office.”
The entrance to the Manor
was impressive, carved wooden stairs rising from the centre of a large hall
decorated with crossed swords, shields and flint-lock pistols mounted on the
walls. The stairwell was lit by a large stained glass window, defusing the
natural light into the colours of a rainbow.
Blair’s attention was caught when Jim suddenly seemed to freeze, and
quickly he reached a hand out, touching his Sentinel to bring him back. Looking
around, Blair was relieved to see that the Sergeant Major seemed to have missed
the incident, so he gave his Sentinel’s arm a quick squeeze of reassurance.
The Sergeant Major knocked
on the door of what had once been a study and now passed as the Captain’s
office. “You have visitors, sir.” His
mouth tightened into the nearest he could come to censure when he saw that the
officer had again discarded his sling.
“Show them in.” Garrison got to his feet, one hand gripping
the table as his world tipped and then steadied.
Blair tuned out the
military pleasantries, he had noticed the concerned look the Sergeant Major had
given the officer before he left as well as the faint look of disapproval when
he had seen Garrison catch hold of the table. Blair turned his attention to
their surroundings, and glanced around the room, noting that the blinds were
almost closed, putting the room into semi-darkness which in itself was unusual.
He studied the new officer more closely; the pallor of his skin and the tremor
of his hand showed him to be far from well.
If he was on light duties then the army must be slipping, hell, he should
be on sick leave.
Blair took the seat offered
to him, as Jim started his interrogation.
“Can you tell me if you
have seen any of these girls?” Jim
placed the five pictures face down in front of Captain Garrison.
Garrison’s hand rested on
top of them, ready to turn them over.
“What’s this in connection with?”
“The pictures first,
Captain.” Jim opened his senses up, fixing them on the other man, just as his
guide had taught him. He was surprised when Garrison shuddered as if he was
freezing; it seemed to run the whole length of his body, the breath catching in
his throat. Jim started back a step, his usually stoic face showing his
alarm. He had scanned people before and
no one had reacted like this Captain had.
“You all right?” Blair’s
concern brought him to his feet.
“I am fine.” It was
Garrison that answered, taking the question as being aimed at him.
Jim was shaken to his very
core, then he swung round as he heard the snick of a switch blade, and saw the
sentinel from the headquarters building standing there. Abruptly, it made
sense. He had felt a presence from the moment he had entered the Manor.
“Put it away, Chief,”
Garrison ordered.
“Warden.”
“Do it.” Two words, but the
command tone was there. There was
another snick and the knife retracted back into its handle.
“This is private, Captain,”
Jim warned, seeing the other sentinel had threatened to throw him into Blessed
Protector mode as Blair called it and it could get out of control if the new
sentinel came anywhere near his own guide.
The look on the younger
sentinel’s face showed a stubborn streak. His dark eyes flashing with barely
contained anger, he said, “I’ll be over here, Warden,” and deliberately he
leaned against the wall, his eyes now fixed on Jim Ellison, also recognising
him from the corridor, Guardian to Guardian.
The fire in him ignited, burning through him, his need for his guide
nearly overwhelming. Then his gaze drifted to the smaller of the new men. The presence of the spirit walk shaman could
only mean one thing: the horror of his nightmare was on its way. The only way he could prevent it was to bond
with his guide, only then would he have the power to protect his guide from
danger.
“Go back to the others,
Chief, now”; Garrison’s tone indicated that this was final.
Blair suddenly realised
that Garrison hadn’t raised his voice although the tone was commanding and
forceful. But there was something more, a connection between the two men. Then Blair’s mouth dropped open. The Captain
didn’t register, on his horizon, as a guide, but Blair was almost sure that was
what he was, the younger man was pure sentinel, he could feel him like an itch
he couldn’t scratch, but the signature was nothing like that of his own
sentinel. Blair swore under his breath. That was all he needed now, to be in
the middle of a sentinel-pissing contest.
With total reluctance the
young sentinel pushed away from the door, “I’ll be upstairs, Warden,” simple
words but said with feeling that covered more levels than a normal person could
understand. The warning to Jim was clear, he might be upstairs but he would be
monitoring what was going on with his guide.
0-0-0-0
Jim tried to take a couple
of breaths to calm himself, pushing back the sentinel urges that told him to
grab Blair and scream to the roof tops that he was his guide, claimed and
marked. But he had an investigation to conduct.
“So, Captain, do you
recognise any of these girls?” Jim tried to lighten his scan, he heard the
heartbeat jump, and then steady again.
Garrison was ice cold, whatever he was feeling was well hidden.
Carefully, Jim scented the other man, musk and sandalwood, the scent he had
found on the clothes of two of the dead women. He could place Garrison with two
of them, but with evidence that would never stand up in court.
“This girl and this one,”
Garrison selected two of the pictures, pushing them towards Jim. There was a one and four written on the back
of them.
“How did you meet them?”
Blair put in before Jim could ask.
“This one,” Garrison tapped
picture one, “was in the street, the other one was in a public house, we got
on.” He didn’t offer any more information.
“Did you have sex with
them?” Jim asked.
“Yes.”
“I thought officers and
gentlemen didn’t kiss and tell,” Blair said.
He was nailed by the coldest
pair of green grey eyes he had ever seen, and swallowed hard as Garrison
answered “If you’re talking to me, then both the girls are dead. So let’s cut
the crap. You have five girls here,” he tapped the other three pictures,
"so you’re hunting a repeat killer, and you think it’s me.”
“Can you prove it wasn’t
you?” Jim’s reply was swift before he added, “Convince me, Captain.”
“I thought that was what
you’re supposed to do, Captain, prove that I did it,” Garrison countered. Jim decided that if the other Captain was
innocent then he could get to like the guy.
"If it helps,
Captain?” Jim handed over a letter and watched while the officer read it. Blair was puzzled; he hadn’t seen anyone give
Jim the letter but whatever was on the sheet made the Captain relax slightly.
“All right. The second
murder, when was it?”
“12th January.”
“I was in occupied Norway;
it was one of a series of four missions we had in a row, that one went sour on
us.”
“26th February.”
"I was in Germany,
Hamburg. We extracted through Switzerland, and I would not have gotten back
until the 2nd of March.”
“10th of April.”
There was a shadow of a
smile “I was in hospital in London, severe concussion, and this,” he touched
his left shoulder. “I’ve only just got out, you can check the mission reports.”
There was no point in
stating the obvious; they all knew that his alibi would be checked. The Colonel
had refused to release the mission details and dates, but Jim would have access
to confirm them after speaking to the Captain.
“When you were with the
girls did you see anyone or hear anything?” If cleared of the charge, Garrison
might be a good witness; as an agent he was trained to be observant, and might
have seen something.
The officer looked off into
the middle distance. “Lucy,” he tapped the first picture, “We had a drink in a
pub, warm beer, the piano playing, locals, they didn’t seem too happy to see
me, I got the feeling they didn’t like Yanks. We decided to go back to her
place, and I left the next morning.”
“She was willing, Captain?”
Blair put in.
Anger flared in the green
eyes, cold and hard, “I didn’t rape her, if that’s what you’re saying, Doctor.
In war time people need each other, she was a nice girl, wanted some
companionship, hell, so did I. That was all.”
Jim shot Blair a look that
as plain as any words told him to back off now, before saying, “The autopsy of
the girl confirms it, Captain, now is there anything else? You mentioned that
they didn’t like Yanks, could someone have followed you back to her place?”
“No.”
“You’re sure?” Jim
prompted.
“Sure, but she said it was
her local, so they would have known where she lived,” Garrison shook his head.
“All she said about the pub was that the owner didn’t like Yanks - something
about his son.” He shrugged and then winced, his hand going to his shoulder as
he added, "and I got the feeling that the landlord was scared of the
owner.” Then he tapped the fourth girl’s picture, the WAAF. “We had a drink at
her local, different pub, she took me there, no idea where it is, with the fog
and the blackout I was already completely turned around when I met her. There
were quite a few servicemen there, Brit Army, Air Force.”
“No Americans?”
Garrison looked at Blair,
ignored him and aimed his answer at Jim, “No,” then he paused, “Yes, one
American at the bar, a Sergeant, wasn’t drinking, trying to sell the landlord
something, he looked really guilty when he saw me. So I’m guessing Black
Market.”
“Did you see his face?”
“Not really, he turned away
as soon as he saw me, and he had his back to me when he was talking to the
landlord.” Garrison paused, “Sorry
that’s the best I can do.”
Jim collected up the
pictures, placing them back in his briefcase before they were escorted out.
Just as they reached the door, Jim turned, aware of an almost physical blow,
and looking up he saw the younger sentinel sitting on the stairs, a knife
moving in a spinning silver circle through his fingers, eyes burning into him.
Jim met the gaze and then ushered Blair out in front of him.
0-0-0-0
It was only later in the
Jeep ride back to London that Blair finally blurted out, “Just when the hell
were you going to tell me that other guy was a sentinel?”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“The hell it does, I am
writing my book, remember?”
“Since when, Darwin?
Remember academia is on hold until the war is over,” he smiled. “The duration
plus six months, Sandburg, and don’t forget it.” But deep down, even as he said
it he knew his young guide would not leave well alone. Only this time he was playing outside his
league. There was something about G11 that no one was telling him. Since when does a commando unit need that
many guards and wire? It brought him back to his original comment to Blair when
they arrived, the answer could only be that the guards were there to keep G11
in.
0-0-0-0
Two days later
The Doves Public House
The Doves public house was
on the corner of the village green and Bert Smith had been the landlord for at
least twenty years. He looked up as the door opened, recognising the Lieutenant
from the Manor, before correcting himself as he saw the two bars; a Captain
now. The man came down to reclaim his men on a semi-regular basis, if not him
then usually the MPs. Once he had brought them all in for a drink, but other
than that he didn’t visit very often. “Evening, Captain.”
He saw the surprised look
on the officer’s face, as he looked round not finding who he thought would be
there.
Guessing correctly he said,
“Your men left ten minutes ago.”
The
officer swore, then turned to leave when he recognised one of his men tucked
away at a corner table. He shot a look at Bert, who shrugged, “He came back.”
0-0-0-0
Ten minutes earlier
Chief entered the Doves,
looking round he found the man he was waiting for. Collecting a beer, he headed
over to the table. Seated there was a
man he had last seen three years ago, his younger half brother, Paul Raven. In
silence he took a seat opposite him.
“Long time, David,” Paul
said levelly. His brother only nodded, acknowledging the welcome.
“You have it?”
Paul took the brown paper
parcel and placed it in front of him, “Grandpa told me to deliver it, the
elders didn’t want it to leave the reservation, let alone the country, and
you’re sure this guy is your guide? We-"
“He’s the one, Paul,”
Chief’s quiet words cut across Paul’s, silencing him.
Paul Raven looked into his
brother’s face searching and seeing the truth. “How are you going to complete
the bond, the time of isolation? There is no place you can take your guide, and
you haven’t said much apart from the fact that he’s white and in the Army.”
“Leave that to me.”
Chief put a hand out for
the package, and Paul began to push it across when another hand came down and
pinned it in place. Both men looked up.
“Is that something I should
know about?” Garrison’s tone was level.
When there was no rely, his voice sharpened, “Chief?”
Paul bristled but one look
from his brother silenced him.
“Okay,” Garrison read the
silence; he didn’t believe that Chief would bring anything into the Manor that
was dangerous to either the group or to him.
He pushed the package to
Chief, and then headed for the bar, his parting words clear. “You have fifteen
minutes to get out of here and back to the Manor.”
Paul watched the Captain
and then followed Chief’s eyes as they bore into the man’s back.
Leaning over the table he
caught his brother’s arm, “You can’t be serious, for God’s sake, he’s an
officer.”
“Don’t matter,” Chief
drawled as he picked up the package, his hand caressing it as he stood, his
eyes still riveted on Garrison.
“Dave,” Paul shook his
head. “I would ask you to think again, but Grandpa said that a Guardian knows
his own mind. You need any help with him,” his brother tore his gaze away from
the other man to glare at him, “Hey, brother, you might need help with a spot
of kidnapping, right?” he clapped his shoulder. “I am there for you, the
Greater Billinghay Airfield.” As they shook hands he pulled his brother into a
hug, clapping his back, then left, taking another look at the man his brother was
claiming. He was going to have his hands full.
0-0-0-0
Back at the Manor, Chief
found a quiet corner in the Library and a quick scan told him that the room was
empty. Carefully, he unwrapped the package and laid bare a knife. Its blade was
nine inches long, the hilt was antler and carved with sacred symbols; it was
the bonding knife of his tribe. Holding it in his right hand, he let the point
prick the pad of his forefinger, which beaded with blood. Slowly intoning the
chant, he wiped his blood down the blade of the knife. It would not be wiped
off until it was mixed with that of his guide. He slipped the blade into the
back of his trousers.
“I see you made it
back.” The quietly spoken words didn’t
surprise him, he had no need to see his guide to feel his presence with his
senses. And that made the need of the Guardian in him flare, he hadn’t yet
imprinted his guide, and that need was like a fire being fed oxygen; it was
growing stronger and hotter each day. He had to fight the instinct to jump his
guide, the knife seem to burn against his skin, a reminder that he was ready to
bond. But instead he pushed it back down, stamping on it hard and just nodded
as he went by.
“Who was your friend?”
Chief paused. There was
more than personal interest in that question.
Garrison waited for an
answer and they both knew he wouldn’t rest until he had one. As their commanding officer he personally
censored their mail and knew that no indication of where they were based had
got past him. The post was redirected before it came to them. So any old
friends turning up presented a possible security risk. Although sure that the
bond between the group was too strong now for there to be the possibility of
any of them making a run for it, old friends meant old alliances and those
could put a strain on any existing ones.
“Paul’s a sergeant with the
918 Bomber Group. He saw me at the Doves and came across.”
“Bearing a gift?” Garrison
waited, “Which I don’t see you have with you, so to repeat myself,” his tone
went hard, “Is it anything I need to worry about? Something that’s going to
rear up and bite me in the ass one day?”
Chief hesitated and then
his hand went to the small of his back and he pulled the knife, releasing the
sheath as he did so. Garrison didn’t step back from the blade even though it
was close enough to strike. His eyes held Chief’s, seeing no threat to him, and
he put his hand out.
Garrison was puzzled when
it was handed to him without protest.
Chief’s heart was thumping hard in his chest, his senses became hyper,
reaching out to wrap round his guide, the sight of him standing there with the
bonding knife in his hand was almost too much for him. He snatched the knife back before he started
something that only the bonding ritual could stop, only to hear a sharp cry of
pain as Garrison clamped his hand down over a clear cut across his palm where
the razor sharp blade had sliced into him.
“Warden!”
“It’s okay, just clipped
me.” He looked up, fixing him with a
steely glare, but there was no anger in his voice. The officer knew all too
well that if the Indian had wanted to knife him, he would be dead.
Chief dragged a shirt from
their makeshift washing line before one of the large fireplaces, and used it to
pad the wound, pressing hard to try and stem the bleeding. The smell of the
blood was sickening. He had smelt that scent too often on his guide in the last
few days. Finally the bleeding slowed,
“Keep your hand there, Warden.” Only then would the Indian risk going for the
first aid kit, he could pad the wound, with luck it wouldn’t need stitching.
It was an accident, pure
and simple, but Garrison had never seen the normally unflappable Indian in such
a state before. It was almost as if he was in shock. His hand was shaking as he tried to dress the
wound, and more than once he nearly dropped the bandage...
With a bloodstained hand,
Garrison caught his wrist and pushed Chief away. “It was an accident, now get
the hell out of here, before the Sergeant Major checks heads, and I have to
make this official.”
“But-”
“Just do it.” The last few
words were not a request but a command.
The Indian took the stairs
two at a time, he needed to get as far away as possible from his
Commander. Instead of going into the
dormitory he slid into one of the unused rooms, the door closed behind him and
he looked at the knife blade. The dried smear of his blood was now crossed with
the still wet blood of his officer, his guide. The two had mixed together. A
smile etched itself on his face. He had no wish to hurt his guide, but all the
same the mixing of their blood called to him. If Garrison hadn’t ordered him
out of the room, wounded or not he would have tried to take his guide there and
then. Chief held out his hand, the shaking was now only a fine tremble and the
only outward sign of the fact that his nerves were now stretched almost to
breaking point as he burnt for his guide.
He slammed his fist into the palm of his hand hard, then stretched it
open. This time the tremor was gone, and
he had control back, but the little voice in his head asked, “For how long?”
0-0-0-0
Blair was bouncing when
they got back. He now had another sentinel and guide to investigate, and a
puzzle to solve.
“Don’t even think of it,
Darwin.”
“What?” Blair gave him his
most innocent look.
“The Indian’s a sentinel, I
could feel him the minute I walked into his territory, and his guide, there’s
something going on there I don’t understand.” The older man broke off.
“Come on, man, you can’t
leave me like that, what do mean?”
“Captain Garrison, when I
scanned him to see if he was lying, he felt it.”
Blair sat down suddenly on
the bed, “He felt the scan? I am your guide and I can’t feel that.” The younger man took a deep breath as he
looked up at his sentinel. “So what do we have? Another sentinel and guide
pairing and a guide that is sensitive to the scan of a sentinel’s senses. You
said ‘his territory’, which means that…" Blair trailed off, then asked,
“Do you see this room as your territory?”
Jim shook his head.
"My territory is Cascade. Why?”
“So that could make sense,
that Indian could be from a more nomadic tribe, therefore his territory is not
confined to a defined area, but,” Blair grinned suddenly, “but to his guide.
Home territory is where ever the guide is based. Also, he can spirit walk,
that’s how I knew he was a sentinel from the spirit plan, not the earthly one.”
“Sure,” Jim drawled, his
tone coloured with disbelief.
Blair looked up to the
heavens as if asking for strength. “Why is it so hard to believe in a sentinel
and guide, but not the spirit walk?”
Suddenly Jim was on him, so
close that Blair pulled back too far to get out of his face and fell back onto
the bed. The next minute his Sentinel was hanging over him. “Because a guide is
something I can touch, scent, taste; substance, not myth.” Jim pulled back, and
reaching out a hand pulled Blair up.
“So, two types of guide and
two types of sentinel.” Blair couldn’t stop his face lightening, this was going
to get interesting, and all he had to do now was find a reason for getting back
to the Manor. As it turned out he got his wish quicker than he thought.
The next few days between
them they covered the rest of the suspects and drew a blank. Evans could only
agree with them, that they start from the grass roots of the investigation, in
case something had been missed. But both
Evans and Jim knew the tragic truth was that all they could do was wait for the
next killing, and hope they got lucky.
“Inspector, you know the
Whitechapel area,” Jim saw the acknowledgement and continued, “There’s a pub
called the Carpenters’ Arms, that’s the one that Captain Garrison went to with
Lucy, he mentioned that he got the strong feeling that they didn’t like Yanks
there.” He broke off as he saw the look on Evans’ face.
“The Carpenter’s Arms is
owned by Jack Anderson, he’s one of the five Governors of London. A governor is
what you might call a crime boss. Anderson is very traditional, strong family
ties, no drugs, or prostitutes, he’s into black market and about every other
crime he’s got his fingers in it. His oldest son, Rodney,” Evans shook his head, “Nice boy, lightest
fingers in London, and a natural at second storey work, went over to the States
in ‘35. Last I heard he’d been caught and was doing fifteen years. Old Jack was
spitting nails over it, claims he was set up to take the fall. So he’s very
anti-American, and I’d say your officer was lucky to get out of the Carpenters
Arms on his feet. We’ve had several Yanks roughed up in that pub, my guess is
that Lucy was the reason he made it out in one piece.”
“Would Anderson have had
the girl killed for it?”
Evans cut him off. “Jack
might not like Yanks, but he wouldn’t have had the girl killed for going out
with one. More than likely Sheila, that’s Mrs Anderson, would have had a word
with her next time she came in, and made Jack’s view clearly understood. No
Yanks in the Carpenters’ Arms.”
“Why did she take him there
in the first place?” Blair asked before his face lit up. “She was making a
point to someone, but who?”
0-0-0-0
Jim was sorting through the
files when Major Worth approached him; he got to his feet and was waved back to
his seat. “How is your investigation coming, Captain?”
“We have some leads,
sir" Jim replied neutrally. His gut feeling about Worth was not to trust
the man. There was something about the senior officer that put the sentinel on
edge.
Major Worth studied Captain
Ellison, he had heard good things about the Captain. “I need you to look into
something for me.”
“Sir, the investigation is
priority.”
Worth waved a hand
dismissing it. “Of course, but this one is also important. According to your report to Colonel Edwards,
you’ve hit a brick wall at the moment, and this investigation is current.” He
settled himself down, his eyes taking in Blair and dismissing him. "A
short time ago, half a million dollars worth of industrial diamonds were
acquired from a bank in Germany, and brought back to the UK, they are currently
in a bank safe. I have reason to believe that an American Unit,” Worth’s mouth
turned into a bitter line, “G11, are going to attempt to steal the diamonds and
disappear. I want you to look into and I want them stopped, caught in the act.”
“G11?”
“I only tell you this
because of your security clearance,” he paused. “G11 are known as Garrison’s gorillas.”
“Guerrillas.”
“No, Gorillas, as in thugs
and killers. G11 are led by Captain Craig Garrison. I believe you have already
met him.” Slanting a look at Ellison he added, “His men are all convicts.”
“Paroled.”
“No, still serving their
terms over here, if they survive the war, and six months after the end they
will get a full parole. They are good at what they do,” Worth conceded. “But I
always said that they would turn and bite the hand that feeds them, and I
believe, and I have evidence to back this up, that they are planning on
stealing back the diamonds, and making a run for it.”
“Do you think that Captain
Garrison’s involved?”
“No,” Worth answered
straight away, he might not like Garrison, but there was no doubt in his mind
that Garrison was innocent of it. “I am just surprised that he has lasted this
long, most people thought he would be dead by now. The fact they returned with
the diamonds and their Captain is a minor miracle.”
“You mean they stole them
and brought them back here?”
Worth grudgingly said,
“That was their mission; they went in with G12, a shadow unit formed along the
lines of Garrison’s group. Only when they got back G12 had been wiped out. Due to a serious head injury we never did get
the full story from Garrison. His memory was affected; all we know is that it
happened the same time as he was shot. I am surprised they brought him back, I
always said the minute he wasn’t able to run herd on them they would escape.”
“Why didn’t they?”
“Maybe they had better
plans.” Worth leaned forward, “I want their hides nailed to the barn wall,
Captain. They should never have removed that scum from prison, and I want them
behind bars again.” He paused, “Personally I think it’s a disgrace that
Garrison is still with them, he’s a graduate of West Point, the Cadet Honour
code is “a cadet will not lie, cheat, steal or tolerate those who do,” and now
he works with the very scum that go contrary to that code.” He shook his head
in disgust.
Once he was gone, Blair
breathed a sigh of relief. “Jim, you can’t believe that a sentinel would harm
his guide.”
“Darwin, that’s not the
only thing going on here. I checked up on Garrison, those injuries he got are
interesting.”
“In what way?”
Jim reached for the bottle
of scotch he had in his case and poured himself a drink. Blair declined.
“I read through the report.
According to the doctor the wounds matched what he had been told, that Garrison
was shot covering their withdrawal as they were escaping from the bank. We only
have this from the others as Garrison doesn’t remember it. He regained his
feet, they gave him covering fire, he was half way to them when the bank went
up. They all agree that he was too near the explosion, and was thrown up and
forward, and landed hard.”
“His injuries must have satisfied
the doctor, Jim”. Blair said as he saw the look on his Sentinel’s face.
“On the surface they do,
even that bullet crease to the forehead, the only problem is that in his
statement, Garrison said his men were in front of him when he was hit. The bullet came from
behind him, I noticed that when we spoke to him in the office.”
“How?” Blair started then
seeing the look answered his own question, “Sentinel eyesight.”
“I can see the minute
discolouration caused by the powder burn of the gun. That muzzle was right
against his head - someone wanted the man dead.”
“Doesn’t work, Jim, if they
had wanted Garrison out of the way they could just have left him. He was in no
state to have stopped them making a run to neutral Switzerland.”
“And that is our puzzle and
you can bet your bottom dollar that it’s connected with G12. Something happened
out there, and my guess is that Garrison has no idea.”
“But he said his men were
behind him.”
“Blair, he was protecting
them like any good commander would, my bet is that Garrison has no idea where
they were, that he’s in the dark as much as we are.”
0-0-0-0
The Manor
The next day
The Sergeant at the gate
had checked their ID cards, and had confirmed that the Captain was still at the
Manor.
On arrival, Sergeant Major
Hudson escorted them up the main staircase, explaining that Captain Garrison
would be with them in a few minutes. Just at that moment they heard a loud
noise from one of the rooms, and the Sergeant Major didn’t hesitate. He was off
and running, taking the stairs two at a time.
Five minutes earlier.
Chief was lying back in the
chair, his eyes closed as Garrison walked into the dormitory; he was nearly
ready to leave for London and a medical check up and briefing. The officer had
decided to check up on his men before he went. He was under no illusions, they
had got out of the Manor within the first week of bringing them to old estate,
the fact that they had come back had been a minor miracle. If they followed
their usual pattern they would at least wait for him to leave the grounds
before they did their vanishing act.
He shot a glance at Chief.
It was unlike the Indian to be asleep during the day. A question made him turn
to address Casino who was bitching as normal about working with a cop on their
next mission. Garrison was in the middle of replying when Sergeant Hudson’s
voice came over the intercom, announcing the arrival of Dr Sandburg and Captain
Ellison. The officer turned to answer it.
Chief suddenly bolted
upright, coming off the chair fast, and then was across the space between him
and the Captain, hitting his commanding officer hard and sending Garrison
flying forward to slam face first into the wall. Before any of the others could
react, Chief had him pinned with the largest damned knife they had ever seen
against Garrison’s throat.
Actor moved forward,
keeping his voice low and level, “Chief, you-” He broke off when he saw the
look on the Indian’s face. He had seen that look before in the face of
sleepwalkers, and it made the already volatile younger man lethal, because
there was no telling what this living nightmare would make him do.
"Warden, don’t try anything, just keep perfectly still,” Actor warned, as
he slowly edged forward. At one time he and the others would have been worried
for Garrison purely because he was their ticket for parole, but over the last
few months they had gained a genuine affection for the man which had been
proved when they had brought him back against the odds on their last mission.
One thing the Italian did know was that the Warden was in no condition to be
thrown into walls, they had to get him away from Chief, as quickly and as
safely as they could.
The crash had started
Sergeant Major Hudson up the stairs two at a time, with the other officer and
civilian on his heels. The British Sergeant Major knew that it could only come
from one room, and that was the one the Captain was in.
Blair and Jim came through
the door and then stopped. Blair’s hand caught Jim, “Stay back.” He had heard
the growl and knew what he was facing.
Service pistol in hand, Jim
aimed it at the other sentinel. He had no idea what had happened, but he knew
whatever it was could turn nasty real quickly.
“Keep back,” Blair warned
the Sergeant Major firmly. He could see
that Garrison was groggy at the moment, and in no position to help himself.
“Sentinel?” There was no
reply. Blair racked his brain then tried again.
“Guardian, why?” Blair kept his voice level, allowing no censure to
enter his tone, a sentinel or Guardian in what he called blessed protector mood
wouldn’t take kindly to being challenged. Blair was thrown by the attack;
something must have triggered it, although until then Blair would have been
certain that no sentinel would ever assault their guide. It seemed that with Chief and his type of
sentinel all bets were off.
“Can’t allow him to go,
can’t, won’t.” The last words were said with strength, his eyes never leaving
the people he saw as a threat. Blair guessed his senses were wrapped round
Garrison but he understood the other man. “What did you see?”
“Death, have to stop him.”
The Indian’s hand moved forward as he detected the change in Garrison, he could
feel the surge of energy in his body as the Captain tensed to make a move to
escape. His guide was tricky and a trained commando; he had to be on the game
to stop him escaping. He allowed the blade to cut no worse than a paper cut,
but enough to warn his guide to stay still.
Blair’s mind was quickly
putting names to faces of the G11 squad.
He saw two of the men spread out, flanking the tall Italian he
recognised as the one called Actor, and with suddenly clarity knew that he was
seeing the dynamics at work, that the Italian was the unofficial second in
command. The other two were following his cues. The smaller blond was Goniff,
the taller thicker-set dark haired man, Casino. At the moment they seemed to be
willing to let him handle it, but for how long? Their concern for their officer
was plain to see.
“This has to be played out,
Captain,” Blair took a step back at the fiery look Chief threw him when he
spoke to Garrison. “Easy, Guardian,” he paused then added, “I am not a threat,
okay?” Then to Garrison, “Captain, just keep still. He’s not really here, it’s
a sort of sleep walking, he’s not going to hurt you if you remain perfectly
still.” Blair sent up a silent prayer
that he was right. He had read about this, but had never thought he would live
to see it in the flesh, and his concern was that Garrison was in no sort of condition
to understand him, and might try to free himself. The Guardian could then see
this as a form of rejection, and that would mean blood.
Time seemed to stand still.
Chief remained in place, his senses wrapped round Garrison. This close he could
feel the beat of his heart, soothing him on a primal level, but he frowned as
he heard the slight congestion in his Guide’s lungs, a cold was coming that
would have to be addressed. The scent of cigarettes - the Warden wasn’t a chain
smoker, but he smoked steadily - permeated his clothes, along with the coppery
tang of blood. The Warden’s blood was a scent he was sickeningly familiar with,
given their last mission. Then, as
suddenly as the attack had happened, the need to stop his guide leaving was
gone, and he released his hold, sheathing the blade, and walked back to his
bed. Lying down, he closed his eyes, his
breath slowing as he slipped into sleep.
Jim was helping Garrison
up. The Warden ignored the thin line of blood seeping from the neck wound; if
Chief had wanted to slit his neck open he would have done it. The recurring
headache from the concussion had come back in force and Jim had to keep a firm
grip on him to keep him on his feet. His shoulder was throbbing in time with
the sledge hammer pounding in his skull. Just as quickly, Goniff was by his
officer’s side, his arm snaking round Garrison’s waist, supporting his weight.
“I’ve got him, mate. Okay, Warden, just hang on.” Carefully he walked him to a
chair, not liking the evidence of pain etched on Garrison’s face. The doctor
had said the headaches could return violently, but knowing it and seeing the
toll it took was another thing.
It was then that Chief woke
up, one look and he was on his feet, only to be blocked by Actor and Casino,
“Back off him,” the warning from the safecracker was plain. He might indulge in
stand-up fights and seem to live for putting the boot into the Warden at times
as if he either had a death wish or wanted to go back into stir, but at times
like this there was no fine line. Garrison was one of them, and if it meant
protecting him from one of their own that crossed the lines, he would. It was a
vow he had made early on and one that he was willing to back up with his own
blood if needed.
Chief swung round, his eyes
fixing on Blair and Jim, blazing as he took in the older guardian. Ignoring his
own Sentinel, Blair kept his hands clear of his sides, looking as unthreatening
as he could. He needed to make sure this
did not explode into violence. It was getting out of hand and fast. This
pairing needed help and he was the only one qualified to offer it. A ghost of a
smile touched Blair’s lips, qualified insofar as it meant he and Jim were the
first Sentinel and Guide pairing in over a century. Hell, he was still writing
the book as he went along, but that at least put him one up on Garrison and his
sentinel.
With a nod of thanks to his
men, Garrison brushed away their hands, and with barely a glance at Jim and
Blair confronted Chief, “We’ll talk later, Chief. The knife?” He put his hand
out. The Indian didn’t move “The knife. Now.” This time it was handed across.
“Get this room straightened up. Captain, Doctor, this way.”
Out of sight they heard
Garrison talking to the guards that Sergeant Major Hudson had summoned, Jim
ushered Blair out in front of him with one steely look at Chief. As the door closed behind them, they could
hear the other cons demanding an answer as to why he had jumped the Warden.
0-0-0-0
In his office Garrison sank
gratefully down behind his desk, he was guarded about what had happened, “A misunderstanding.”
“And how many of them have
you had in the last three months, Captain?” Jim nodded towards the bandage on
Garrison’s hand. He would dearly have liked to pull rank on the younger
officer, but it would quickly get into a military pissing contest as to who had
been commissioned first and that would get them nowhere.
“Just a nick, and who’s
counting?”
“Well, Major Worth for
one.” He saw the fleeting look on the younger officer’s face. “I get the
feeling you and Major Worth don’t see eye to eye.”
“Let’s just say that he
sees my unit as expendable, and I don’t.”
“Because they’re soldiers,”
Blair put in.
“Because they’re cons, Dr
Sandburg, garbage can hoods.”
“You trust them.” Blair had
taken half a step back. Garrison hadn’t made any move when he had answered but
the venom in his tone had been like a physical blow to him.
“Yeah, I trust them, I have
to.”
Jim walked over and
switched the radio on, if this was his guide he would have been listening in,
and there was no way he was going to tip the cons off. He saw the puzzled look Garrison gave him,
“Walls have ears, remember?”
“Major Worth had reason to
believe that your men are going to try and steal back the diamonds they stole
on your last mission.”
“Unlikely. If they had
wanted them, all they had to do was dump me and take off.” The words from his
nightmare came back “We don’t have to
kill him; the Gestapo will do that for us. By the time they’re finished with
him, he’ll either be dead or wishing he was.”
“Captain.” Blair moved
towards the seated man, bringing him back to the present.
“What, er, they didn’t,
none of the diamonds were missing, all accounted for, half a million is one
hell of a temptation and none of them took it so why steal them now?”
“Because we’re back in the
UK, they have the connections here.” Jim trailed off, then added in disgust,
“that doesn’t track.” He took the seat opposite Garrison, “No, why isolate
yourself on an island that would be damn hard to get off.”
Blair, only half his
attention on the conversation, reached forward for the knife while the two
officers were talking, needing to get a closer look at it. Absently , he
answered his sentinel’s question, “You’re the factor, Captain, you trust them,
and perhaps there is a certain bond,” he paused on the word, seeing Jim nod,
“with your men, they might see stealing the diamonds in the UK as acceptable,
as it doesn’t put you at risk, whereas on a mission it would.”
Garrison shook his head,
“No, on our first mission[8], I
told them straight that if they ever ran, I would go after them and bring them
back and that still stands.” The words were stated evenly and with conviction.
Blair could only think God help G11 if they ever betrayed this man’s trust.
Jim removed the file from
his briefcase, “This is everything that Worth has, and there are a couple of
connections that link your men to this source.”
0-0-0-0
The officer and civilian
had left about an hour ago, the Warden was still in his office, and the
gorillas hadn’t gotten any further in understanding what the hell had happened
earlier. But whatever it was, Chief was on edge, only relaxing as he saw the
other Captain and the civilian leave. Until then it he was as tense as if he
was on a mission.
“Chief, the Captain wants
you now in his office,” the Sergeant Major ordered, standing back to let the
younger man pass him. Like the others he had no idea what was going on, but
whatever it was it was going to impact on the next mission unless it was solved
quickly. Chief took a steadying breath and followed, only for Casino to shadow
him a few minutes later. Given what had happened there was no way they were
going to leave the Indian alone with Garrison.
The Indian entered the
office, his senses locking without conscious thought onto his guide. The Warden
was seated behind his desk, working on a file. He ignored Chief’s entry, so the
other man settled himself to wait, his gaze fixed on the bonding knife that
rested right in front of his guide. The feeling began slowly, a tension in his
body, his senses began to snap and sharpen, the Warden’s heart beat was no
longer blocked out, his scent was stronger, and he could taste it, the coppery
tang of blood underscoring it. The vital force that was the man in front of him
seemed to shimmer round him, and he tensed to strike. When Garrison looked up
from the file and burning hazel eyes met ice cold grey-green ones, the burning
fever in the Indian Guardian abated for the moment.
Chief felt it flare
momentarily as the Warden’s hand rested on the bonding knife and then pushed it
across. The younger man caught it before it could slide off the table. “I asked
you about this, now I am asking you again. What the hell is going on, Chief,
because I can write this up one of two ways. One, that it was a deliberate
attack on your superior officer, and that will send you back to Attica, or two,
that it was a training accident. Which one is it going to be?”
He broke off as the
telephone rang; it was Major Worth, ordering him to report to G2. The officer
glanced at his watch and realised that he was going to have to hurry to make
the meeting on time. “We’ll talk about this later, then I want your answer.
Have Goniff meet me at the Jeep.” Chief headed for the door, just thankful that
he hadn’t had to answer any questions about the knife. He stroked the blade,
its time would come, until then it would be used to protect his guide.
Goniff put the Jeep into
gear, he had been selected to drive the Warden down to London as there was no
way the man could do it himself. Goniff had been chatting the whole way, not
even waiting for a reply, just occasionally shooting a look across at his CO
and frowning slightly as he could see Garrison’s discomfort, He didn’t comment,
though. The Warden could be really touchy, and the last time he had asked he
had been told what he could do if he asked one more time. Goniff sniffed. For
an officer the Warden had a way with words that he sure as hell didn’t learn at
West Point.
They pulled up in front of
Headquarters, and Goniff jumped out, shuffling his feet slightly as he waited
for Garrison to get out.
The officer gave a long
suffering sigh. “Out with it, Goniff.”
“My dad’s pub is just round
the corner in Whitechapel, mind if I call round and see him, just round the
corner that’s all Warden, not like I am going to run, haven’t seen him since
I...”
Garrison held a hand up to
stem the words. “Be back by 18.00 hours.”
“Thanks, Warden,” the
smaller man began to walk away. Then turned back “18.00 hours is when, Warden?”
Garrison suppressed a sigh.
“Six o’clock, Goniff.” For some reason the Englishman could never remember how
the twenty four hour clock worked, no matter how many times Garrison and Actor
had explained it. “And Goniff, don’t make me come looking for you.”
With a grin and a bounce
the Englishman disappeared into the throng. Turning with a shake of his head
Garrison started up the imposing steps of the building.
Part two
0-0-0-0
Whitechapel
The pub was closed, the
trap doors were open and beer barrels were being rolled down into the cellar,
the smell of beer and oak was one of Goniff’s most vivid childhood memories. He
opened the back door. “Hello, Dad.”
The man that turned round
was a big bull of a man, he stood a good 6 foot 8, towering over his son, and
he pulled him into a hug as he yelled for his wife, Maggie.
Pulling back, he looked his
son up and down, his face becoming serious. “If anyone’s looking for you, son,
we can-”
“No, dad, I’m okay.”
Whatever else he was going to say was forgotten as his mother came in and he
was swept into another hug, soon the rest of the family was gathering to
welcome him home.
0-0-0-0
Garrison checked his watch;
1800 hours and no sign of Goniff. He didn’t think the other man was going to
run, of all his men, Goniff was the mildest-tempered, preferring to roll with
the punches rather than make waves. It was more than likely he had lost track
of the time visiting his family. It was understandable. Garrison decided to
give him an hour and then go looking for him. One hour dragged into two, by now
his arm and head were pounding, what energy he had was draining away, and any
patience Garrison had along with it.
PC Peers was just coming
out of the heavily sandbagged station when he saw the American officer, that in
itself was unusual. Unlike some areas which seemed inundated with Yanks, this
part of Whitechapel was generally free of them. That, he mused, was down to Old
Jack Anderson, the owner of the Carpenters Arms and four other pubs spread
across the East End. Old Jack had a real hatred of Yanks, ever since his son
was locked up in the States. The Yank officer was polite, friendly enough, and
PC Peers had readily given him directions to the Carpenters Arms. He was just
watching the officer disappear down the street when Sergeant Miller came out. “What
was all that about?” he nodded towards American officer’s retreating back.
“Nothing, Sergeant, he just
got lost.” He allowed himself a smile; while the Sergeant was called into one
of the offices Peers picked up the telephone and dialled a well-remembered
number. Old Jack paid well for information and this would be a small revenge
against the Yanks in general, his hatred fuelled by the one that had walked
away with his girlfriend. If he couldn’t have his revenge on that slime he
could have it on another one.
0-0-0-0
Standing in one of the
alleyways, Harry and Bert Anderson, the twins, moved into place. Their father
had received the telephone call about a Yank officer heading their way, and
from the letters they knew that Rodney had a Captain running herd on him. There
was no way that they were going to let him take their older brother back.
By the time that Garrison
was near the pub, waves of nausea were beginning to wash over him, the air
round him was feeling too hot and he was having trouble getting his breath. The
world began to tip and only a quick grab for the wall stopped him from falling.
“Captain,” The voice
brought his head up and he tried to focus, but already it was too late.
0-0-0-0
Goniff looked up at the
clock and swore under his breath. “The Warden’s going to kill me,” he cursed as
he made for the door, but his father blocked it.
“Your Warden,” he sneered,
“can’t touch you in Whitechapel, you know that.”
“Dad, he’ll come looking.
I-.” Goniff broke off as he saw the look on his father’s face, “You didn’t, oh
God, you didn’t.” Then he was pushing past him, heading out of the pub. Looking
up and down the street he called out, then saw Bert emerging from the side of
one of the bombed-out buildings.
“We’re seeing to him.” But
his older brother didn’t answer.
Goniff ducked round him,
and saw his other brother leaning over Garrison’s crumpled body. “Get your
fucking hands off him!” Goniff exploded, as he caught hold of his brother’s arm
and hauled him back. To his horror Garrison wasn’t moving.
“Rodney?” his other brother
only had time to called Goniff by his real name when was elbowed out of the
way. The smaller man knelt down and hesitated before placing his fingers
against his officer’s throat, taking a deep breath. He was going to have all
hell to pay over this, and he swallowed hard as he thought of the Indian.
Chiefie had made the consequences very clear if anything happened to the Warden
on his watch. Then, to his relief, he
felt the officer stir.
“You okay, Warden?” Looking
up, he caught his brother’s expression. “It’s just a nickname we hung on him;
he’s a Captain, that’s all.” He broke
off as Garrison stirred against his fingers. “Easy, Warden.” Carefully he got
the injured man sitting up against him. This was going to take some
explanation. He was all too aware that
Garrison was still suffering the after effects of the concussion, which by the
look of it had hit him with a vengeance.
Just then the air raid
siren sounded out across the city. Snarling an order at his brother Bert to get
Garrison to his feet, they started to make their way to the underground
station, joining the throng of people heading for safety as the first
explosions began to be heard like rolling thunder. The staircases were full of
people, and the platform was already filling as Goniff spotted an empty corner
and headed for it.
Pushing Garrison down,
Goniff settled next to him, examining him with concern even as his brother
explained they had just thrown him back against the wall. All right, it had
been hard but they hadn’t hit him, in fact, Bert hurried to explain, “He hit
the wall, then seemed to cry out in pain and then just folded, I promise you,
Rod, we didn’t lay another hand on him.”
Ignoring the fact that
Garrison was trying to push his hand away, he said, “Forget it, Warden, the lads will kill me if
anything happens to you, and Chiefie,” the smaller man shuddered, not allowing
himself to continue along that line of thought, then added, “You’re not going anywhere,
just rest.”
“Alright,” Garrison’s hand
fell away, too heavy to hold up. His head was pounding too hard to argue, his
eyesight began to grey out and Garrison just let go.
Now getting seriously
worried at his lack of resistance, Goniff tore open Garrison’s jacket and took
a harsh breath at the sight that was revealed. The left side of the shirt was
sodden with blood where the wound had broken open. He quickly loosened the Warden’s tie and then
opened the shirt up, his fingers rapidly becoming stained with the officer’s
blood.
“Let me, dear.” Looking up,
he saw his mother leaning over and quickly moved back to allow her room. She
shook her head, tutting, then reached into her Shelter bag; like many mothers
she had one packed ready with everything she thought she would need. Maggie Anderson
removed a first aid kit from it, and finding something she could use as a pad,
she slid it in place, pressing against the wound. She worked quickly, not
removing the original pad, just supplementing it, then pressed her hand to the
unconscious man’s forehead, and frowned. He was hotter than she would have
liked. Checking his pulse before folding the jacket closed again, she then
carefully tipped his head forward and felt the back of his head. Her fingers
came away with a smear of blood. Folding another pad she pressed it to the
wound. “It’s going to be alright, Rodney, the bleeding is already slowing.”
There was nothing they could do now but wait for the air raid to finish. Wiping
off her hand, she turned to her son. “Rodney, I think you have some explaining
to do, young man.”
Even as he tried to
remember the sanitized story that Garrison allowed them to write home with,
Goniff discarded it, and began to explain just who and what they were. A loud
explosion rocked them, and plaster came raining down from the ceiling. Jack
Anderson didn’t miss the way his son had leaned over to shield his officer.
Maggie clutched Jack’s hand
tightly; all they could do was wait it out, the bombers were now overhead and
it was going to be a long night down in the shelters.
Jack had dragged Rodney off
to see some old friends, waving his concerns away with a brisk, “Your mum will
look after him.” It was a little later when she realised the Captain was coming
round. “Tea, dear?”
For a moment Garrison had
trouble focusing on the woman speaking to him, and he blinked a couple of times
before he could finally make her out. She was holding a cup from a thermos, and
added sugar from a twist of paper to it. “You’ll feel better for it, dear.” His
hand was shaking as he took it and she helped guide it so that he could take a
drink. As he moved, pain knifed through his shoulder and without her help he
would have spilled it. Slowly he took in
where he was.
“Looking better, Warden,”
Goniff was back, shifting from one foot to the other, nervous about what his CO
was going to say. But all he got was a look that told him he was going to hear
more about it later, at the moment it would take too much energy.
Jack Anderson put a hand on
his oldest son’s shoulder and stared down at the man that could send him back
to prison. They had argued long and hard, but Rodney refused to run, he owed it
to the others, and there was no way he was going to let anything happen to
Garrison on his watch. But his concern now was not just over what had happened
but what he had just heard from his father.
By 2.00 am the underground
station was nearly silent, the only sound the heavy snoring of a few of the old
man, the cry of a baby, and the muffled sound of people talking softly to avoid
disturbing the others.
Goniff was lost in thought.
His parents were sleeping soundly, he couldn’t help but smiling, like a lot of
Londoners they were sleeping their way to victory through long nights down the
underground, at least when he was working with the group he could feel he was
doing something. He might joke about the Warden going after yet another Jerry
Air Base, but when they did it was one less to launch an attack from. It was
crowded in their corner of the shelter and the Warden was leaning against him.
Goniff turned carefully to avoid waking him and checked his officer’s
temperature. He was still warm, but at least it hadn’t built up any more, and
they had managed to get a couple of aspirin in him, which would help. But
Goniff’s mind kept going back to the news he had heard; the gorillas were
certainly not going to like this.
Finally, tugging a blanket round the officer, he allowed himself to fall
asleep.
0-0-0-0
On a siding outside Kings Cross Railway station
Blair sat in the train; it
was blacked out and motionless on the track, and as the air raid rolled across
London the poster on the wall seemed to mock him.
Is your journey necessary?
Because Jim certainly
didn’t think it was. After all, they had
more pressing things to investigate. But Blair needed advice from the one
person who was qualified to give it and the one man he could talk openly to
about sentinels and guides. Professor Lindsay Faulkner, Cambridge Don and
Sentinel expert.
A few hours ago the
Professor had greeted Blair warmly, and finally they had settled down to
discuss what had brought the young American to him.
The Professor hadn’t
changed in the few years that had passed between their last meetings. He still
wore a cardigan that had seen better days and his office retained the same look
of orderly disorder, although as coal was in such short supply the fire was
much smaller than before.
Professor Faulkner pushed
his glasses back on his nose and took a sip of his watered down tea. “I was very interested in your enquiry, Blair,
and I have been looking through my files, and I think I might have the answer
for you. The Indians call them Guardians, not Sentinels, and their guides,
rather than being Shaman, tend to be warriors. Now I found one very interesting
case, it dates back to 1870 during the Indian War, when it was rumoured that an
Apache Guardian took a white guide. The man was a Calvary Captain; his company
was wiped out when they had to protect the retreat of his superior officer. The
Captain was badly wounded but taken alive, he was then tortured nearly to death
before the Guardian took him.
“But the bond has to be
consensual.”
Faulkner ignored the
interruption and continued. “This guardian then bonded with him, using their
connection, we believe, to pull him back from the brink of death. The bond was
forced, Blair, it had to have been, the Captain would have been in no condition
to have agreed.” He paused. “The pairing is then lost to the records.” The Professor moved some of his papers
restlessly. “The bond is a living force, Blair, at least that’s what I think,
and it obeys no rules, but each culture has tried to make rules to control it.
But in the end it is here and here,” the Professor touched his head and placed
a hand over his own heart, "that the truth of the bond is made. I believe there are more sentinels out there
than we know, and they are in search of their guides, many will never find
them, and their true potential is lost, for ever.”
He then reached into his
pocket and drew out a key, moving to his locked filing cabinet to remove a
file; leafing through it he took out a picture and handed it to Blair. It
showed a young man in British uniform.
“Blair, I have been lucky
enough to find a Clan of Sentinels who have a long heritage. Their spirit
animal is the Great Wolf, they also have a Primal side to them, their leader
has told me about it, but I would like to test it, they say that they turn –
well...” He paused and leaned into Blair, “Quite vicious, they have told me
stories which are hard to believe, but if they’re true,” the Professor paused,
his face becoming serious, “it appears that their kind might be the truth
behind the legend of the Werewolf. Oh I don’t say they turn into a wolf or
anything from a Lon Chaney film, but if the stories were true as I said, they
would be very formable. The guide once selected is hunted down, and bonded
with, and then takes over as head of the clan, a clan that would die to protect
that one person. His sentinel is the prime of the Clan, and is red of fang and
tooth.” The professor shook his head in wonder then leaned back in his chair
and gave a chuckle, “That’s the anthropologist in me. I find all this
fascinating.”
Blair nodded, “Tell me
about the guides.”
“Their guides have always
been warriors and the family have a tradition of serving under the colours.” He
paused and looked out across the quad, “The oldest son, and the man that would
be the next senior sentinel of the family clan is missing in action, such a
waste. I, like the family, live in hope that he will be reported to the Red
Cross and be found in one of the POW camps.” He gave a sigh, “if so I hope that
one day Richard Lewis will find his guide, because he is going to be a most
talented sentinel.” He stopped again, “That’s the trouble, my boy, when you get
too close to your subjects, but as I say some sentinels will find their guides,
and I think that it will transcend all boundaries, creed, colours and culture.
I have a couple of reports which I think you might find interesting.”
The Professor got them out
and pulled his chair closer to Blair. Finally during a break in their academic
bull session, Blair asked, “How is Jean?”
Blair had always had a soft
spot for Jean Faulkner, she was intelligent and fun, and he thought it wouldn’t
hurt to actually meet up with her again while he was in Britain.”
“Jean is working for the
World Refugee Council, she’s in Switzerland at the moment,” he paused. “I worry
about her, but there is a war on, and people take risks. One day,” he took his
glasses off and polished them, “children.” As if that one word summed up all
his feelings. “Will you have time to stop for dinner? I know that Sheila would
like to see you again, and you must tell me about that Sentinel of yours.” He
put a hand up to stop Blair before he got going, “Nothing secret, maybe we can
exchange notes.” He smiled broadly as he added, "and we might even be able
to throw in a bit of food.”
While Blair got up, the
Professor removed his old cardigan and folded it up, reaching for his suit
jacket. He caught the look Blair gave him and grinned. “If Sheila knew I still had that cardigan she would
throw a fit, so I only get to wear it at work, but it does add to the eccentric
professor legend. Come on, lad, let’s get home.”
He was greeted warmly by
Sheila Faulkner, she got him seated and leaned forward eagerly to find out all
his news. Soon, of course, the chat turned to Sentinels, and their discussion
went on long into the night. Finally, with the clock striking midnight, Blair
got to his feet, “I will certainly be interested to hear more about Richard
Lewis.” Seeing the sadness on Sheila’s face he added, “I am sure that he’s
okay. I am sorry I missed Jean.”
Sheila brightened up, “I’ll
tell Jean you were here, maybe next time.”
It was after Blair had gone
that Lindsay poured them both another glass of sherry, “They would make a
lovely couple you know, dear,” he said with a smile.
Margaret nodded, then her
face became more serious. “But I get the feeling that there is someone else,
that someone special,” she sighed. “If only Jean would tell me about him.”
“Maybe she doesn’t think we
would approve.” He chuckled. "Maybe
he’s a Bohemian who’s into free love and grows his hair long and eats
vegetarian food.” The Professor chuckled again, “Remember in 1920 when your
Aunty May got into vegetarianism? Thank God she was never into free love.” He gave his wife a gentle hug, “We’ll talk
to Jean when she comes back in July, between us we’ll soon have all the
information. After all, what is the worst he can be?”
Blair was pulled back to
the present as the railway carriage was rocked by an explosion in one of the
sidings. Finally the mournful wail of the all clear was heard, and the train
slowly limped into the bombed railway station of Kings Cross.
0-0-0-0
Russia 1943
SS Kampfgruppe (Battle Group) de la Maziere
Sergeant Richard Lewis tightened his coat around him, and carefully
threaded his way through the snow. He was no traitor, he mused, what was it his
father always said? Truth is stranger than fiction; he had been captured in
Italy trying to get into neutral Switzerland by members of the SS Donar Panzer Regiment who were taking time out of
the Russian campaign for rest and a refit.
For reasons that he and Mike Murphy had never understood, they had found
themselves on a transport to Russia rather then to a prison camp in Germany.
Finally brought in front of the Battle group Commander,
Obersturmbannfuhrer (Lt Colonel) Detlev de la Maziere, both Englishmen had
found themselves on edge.
They had seen De la Maziere at a distance; it had almost been as if his
men were playing a shell game with them.
They discovered that the Colonel was well liked and respected by his
men, and while his orders were always politely phrased, he was not an officer
to be crossed. He was the ultimate professional, and gave his men the
confidence to achieve the impossible.
De la Maizere was the youngest Colonel in the Waffen SS[9]
and had earned all his promotions the hard way. No fanatic, he had a cynical
attitude toward the National Socialist Party that was at odds with his position
as an SS officer; that coupled with a black sense of humour made him not the
easiest person to get to know.
De la Maziere leaned forward in his chair as he lit a thin black cigar,
and then looked them up and down, one hand tapping lightly on the rickety
table. “You place me in a difficult
position, gentlemen. I have no means of sending you back to the Reich at this
time. There are two ways of solving this problem.” He took a slow pull on his
cigar.
Richard felt as if a cold hand was tightening round his heart, he knew
all about what they said about the Waffen SS, and a bullet would solve all of
the Colonel’s problems. Even as he thought it, the tension passed. From what he
knew about the Colonel that was not his style.
“You can be locked up, which is pointless as you have nowhere to run.
Give me your word of honour that you will do nothing to sab er sab…,” he came
to a halt, frowning slightly as he struggled with the word.
“Sabotage,” Richard supplied.
“Yes,” the smile was quick and for a moment lit up the grey blue eyes.
Then De la Maziere continued. “Yes, sabotage what we are doing, and you will be
allowed the freedom of the camp, and I will personally see that when we return
for our next rest and refit you are taken to a prisoner of war camp.” He paused
“Do we have an agreement, gentlemen?”
Richard brought himself up to attention. “You have my word, sir.”
Mike nodded, then, remembering himself, “Mine as well, sir.”
De la Maziere had dismissed them and returned to his map.
Boredom set in and he and Mike had continued to learn German and take
an interest in the Tigers. No one had dared to tell the Colonel they had been
working on the Tigers before their discovery.
The reason for the long planning sessions that had seen the colonel
absent was soon revealed. It was a rescue mission, and one that only the Battle
group could do.
After bursting through the ranks of Russian tanks they were now being
directed to protect the poor stubble hoppers of the Werhmach. He had found
himself working on the Command Tank. But Richard was now getting worried. When
he was little his father had told him about a family inheritance, greater than
any legacy. Professor Faulkner at Cambridge had put words to the inheritance,
calling them Sentinel. Each Sentinel needed a guide who would act as a focus to
their abilities. Richard Lewis stood, gaze fixed on the Obersturmbannfuhrer.
The man was one hundred and twenty yards away, and yet he could hear his light
Berlin-accented words as if the man was facing him. He could see him clearly,
hands in the pocket of his great coat, wearing the crumpled peak cap with its
tarnished death’s head; he could even smell the bitter scent of the thin black
cigar that he habitually smoked. The officer’s heartbeat was like a drum in his
ears and he could hear the rush of air through his lungs. A hand on his arm brought him back to the
present, and he found Mike standing in front of him. The small Cockney ex-taxi
driver said “You okay, Richard? You looked out of it.”
“Fine,” he smiled. “I’m okay, let’s check that track on the Command
Tank, I don’t like the look of it.” He suppressed a shudder, as if some one had
just walked over his or his guide’s grave.
All he could do was make sure that when it hit the fan he was as near to
his guide as he could. He stopped suddenly in his track and swore: where the
hell that had come from? Hands thrust deeper in his pockets against the bitter
cold he walked towards the Command Tank, telling himself there was no way this
could be happening to him, not here and not now.
0-0-0-0
London
Once the all clear had
sounded, Goniff, much to Garrison’s disgust, kept a firm grip on his arm as he
escorted him back to the motor pool and the smouldering remains of their Jeep.
Sergeant Ron Fleming came
out of the garage with a clipboard in his hand. “Your Jeep got totalled, sir,
but Major Griffith said you could have this one.” He jerked his thumb at a broken down wreck of
a Jeep. Garrison shook off Goniff’s hand impatiently and did a three-sixty
round it, kicking at the tyres.
“And this is driveable,
Sergeant?” his tone indicating that he thought differently.
“It’s fine sir, it’ll get
you to Scotland and back,” the Sergeant tried to put in cheerfully, but began
to wilt slightly under the officer’s look.
Goniff looked to the
heavens, “Give him a break, War-” he caught the glare from Garrison, and
amended “Captain, it’s got four wheels and an engine,” he looked at the
Sergeant “Right?”
“Right,”
“Might not get you to
Scotland, sir, but should get you back to base.”
There was deathly silence
as Garrison did another three sixty of the Jeep.
Goniff took the clipboard
from the sergeant and intercepted his officer, “Come on War-, Captain, let’s
get home.” The Englishman could see the
exhaustion in his officer’s face, the man was hurting and tired, he needed to
get back to base as quickly as possible.
And as far as Goniff was concerned, if it meant taking this pile of junk
they would take it.
Garrison signed off with a
savage motion of the pen. “If this bucket of bolts breaks down, Sergeant, we
will talk.”
Fleming suppressed a
shudder. He was used to ruling the roost
at the motor pool; all the officers knew that you had to be nice to Sergeant
Fleming if you wanted a good car, one that wasn’t going to leave you stranded
half-way to your destination. But this officer - there was something in his
tone that chilled Fleming to the marrow. Quickly, he reached into his pocket
for the keys, and then frowned, patting his uniform.
Goniff grinned, “It’s okay,
mate, I’ve got them.” He turned and then
took a step back. He hadn’t realised that Garrison had come up behind him.
Seeing the look the officer threw at him he quickly added, “Scout’s honour,
Captain, just the keys.” He ducked past, “I’ll drive.”
“Don’t push it, Goniff,”
Garrison drawled as he climbed into the Jeep.
Fleming watched as they
pulled out of the motor pool, and his face hardened. He had recognised the
officer from the pub, but there was no sign of recognition on the officer’s
face to show that he had remembered him. Given the reputation of Anderson’s
pubs he didn’t want an officer getting curious as to why had been in there, and
what he had been collecting the money for. The Sergeant looked at the wrecked
vehicles, he didn’t give a damn about them, but he had lost a thousand dollars’
worth of black market goods in that raid, stuff that the Brits would have paid
good money for.
Anderson was waiting on a
box of silk stockings, and a case of the good Scotch; somehow he wasn’t looking
forward to telling the man he couldn’t have his stuff. Anderson could be a real
nasty bit of work and he wasn’t beyond having legs and arms broken to make a
point.
0-0-0-0
Rather than talking up a
storm, as he usually did, Goniff was deep in thought as he drove back to the
Manor. If the Warden had noticed Goniff’s unusual preoccupation, he didn’t
question it. Garrison shifted around in
the hard seat, trying to get comfortable; reluctant to admit it that his
shoulder was hurting, he hugged his arm close across his body in an attempt to
relieve some of the pain. Finally, against the odds, his head dropped forward
and he slept. Goniff slowed the Jeep
down, trying to avoid the potholes and make the journey as smooth as possible.
0-0-0-0
The Manor
The small Englishman hadn’t
wasted a minute once he was back home. He dropped the Warden at the front door
and then dumped the Jeep at the motor pool.
Catching sight of the other members of the team, he jerked his head back
at the house, and then disappeared inside, pausing only to tell the Sergeant
Major about Garrison’s shoulder wound opening up. His duty done, knowing that
the Sergeant Major had all the tenacity of a bull dog where the Warden’s health
was concerned, he went to speak to the rest of the team.
Goniff waited while Casino
poured everyone a drink from the bottle of whisky hidden in the suit of
armour. Before he could say anything,
Casino leapt in. “Okay, so what’s the panic?”
“Last night we got caught
up in an air raid and had to spend the night down the tube.” Seeing the look on
the others’ faces, he clarified, “the subway.”
He reached down and took a
good pull at his drink. Already Chief was fixing him with a look he didn’t
like, the one that was usually accompanied by an up close and personal look at
Chief’s switchblade.
Chief’s senses locked on to
a metallic scent, and his eyesight narrowed to the cuff of Goniff’s jacket, and
a smear of blood.
“What happened to the
Warden?” There was ice in his voice.
Goniff back peddled
slightly, making sure that he got Actor between them. “No need to go off the
deep end, mate, he’s okay. Just got his shoulder knocked and it bled a bit.”
“That all?” The Indian’s
switchblade was in his hand, twirling through his fingers.
“Er, well he did have one
of those headaches, but I made sure he rested and he was his old self this
morning, and,” the Englishman grinned, “I set Bull Dog Hudson on him, the
Warden’ll be lucky if we see him this side of dinner.”
Chief’s switchblade snapped
closed, and he leaned back in his chair. Blocking out the other men, he allowed
his senses to range through the Manor for his guide; sure enough he could hear
the Sergeant Major’s voice, and a smile tugged his lips. The British Sergeant
was always the picture of military correctness when he dealt with the Warden,
but he had a way of getting his point across to his American CO that ensured
compliance, and this was one such case.
He brought his attention
back to the discussion as Goniff continued, “So, Dad was saying that he’d been
approached about allowing a robbery in his Manor, it was for industrial
diamonds, and the contact was an American officer. The man also asked for some
local talent to help him. Dad was more
than happy to do it, especially when he learned the diamonds were German, he’s
patriotic and didn’t see anything wrong in pinching them even if it did mean
working with a Yank and involved kidnapping an American officer. The other Yank
told him the name of the officer they were going to lift.” Goniff noticed he
had their attention now and they certainly weren’t going to like the next bit,
"Captain Garrison.”
Goniff took another pull at
the whisky, “Dad got really interested then, especially as the bloke told him
the Warden had personally torpedoed my parole. He saw this as a way of getting
back at the man who blackmailed me into accepting his offer.” Goniff added quickly, "Not that the
Warden really blackmailed me, just offered me a deal I couldn’t refuse. All Dad
could say was that the plan has started, and that the men he recommended have
disappeared from his manor, and that whatever is going to happen is going to
happen soon.”
“So why did he tell you?”
Actor asked. From what he had been hearing Goniff’s father hated the Warden for
his involvement in what had happened in getting his son back to England. Then
suddenly he understood, and a quick glance showed the others did too. If they
had all been stuck down the subway all night while the bombing was going on,
the Captain would have been in close contact with Mr Anderson, and somehow, he
had changed his mind. Actor was willing to guess that that had been all down to
Goniff. With the Warden injured, Goniff would be mother-henning their officer,
and like that he was formidable.
When Goniff finished his
story, he was questioned. “You sure he said they were going to snatch the
Warden?” Casino’s tone indicated the smaller Englishman should be damn sure
before he starting flapping his lips.
“Yeah, I’m sure; no one
would sell Dad bad information.”
“Did he see who they were?”
Actor shot the safecracker a look warning him to back off.
“No, but the description is
Captain Cole and Maggot, that’s for sure.”
Goniff sounded certain.
Actor swore under his
breath in Italian. That just made their lives that much harder. Cole had been
left for dead along with Maggot in Germany, and revenge was going to be on
their minds. They had double-crossed G12 and he knew all too well that they
wanted payback, which could be taken out in spades if they kidnapped or killed Garrison.
Cole had tumbled over their secret, that they actually liked their West Point
trained officer, and would risk everything to keep him alive. He was their
Achilles heel in this game.
They were being set up and
the only thing they could do was sit back and let it happen unless they could
track Cole down first. Actor’s eyes drifted to Goniff: with his family
connection he was the best chance they had. It was Casino that voiced the
question. “Do we tell the Warden?”
“We leave that for the
moment. He’s got enough on his plate as it is, we just make sure that he
doesn’t go anywhere alone, and if they come near him,” there was the sound of a
switchblade clicking open, “they’re dead.” Chief’s tone was grim.
0-0-0-0
London
Robert Cole stood looking
at the map of the Bank. His planted information had worked, the British were
moving the diamonds to the Royal Bank in the Strand, apparently a more secure
vault, but one that he knew the Gorillas would be able to get into. Now all
they had to do was pick up his bargaining counter and they would be in
business. He smirked to himself. One thing was sure, he was going to leave this
island a rich man, and Garrison was going to have his own six foot plot of
England, there was no way that he was going to get out of this alive.
0-0-0-0
Russia 1943
SS Kampfgruppe (Battle Group) de la Maziere
Richard Lewis swore, then gave a kick at the track of the command
Tiger, and swore again as pain shot up his foot.
“It works better with a sledge hammer,” the voice said from behind him
in slightly stilted English. Turning, Richard shook his head. “Just found that
out, sir,” he grinned at the good looking young Colonel, then added in a sombre
tone, “This isn’t going to be running right tomorrow, you know that,
Oberstrum,” he automatically used the less formal term for the Colonel, at the
same time sweeping his senses over the officer, checking him out. There was the
scent of acorn coffee on his breath, along with the bitter thin black Russian
cigars he favoured, and Richard frowned. The Colonel wasn’t eating as he
should, instead using the cigars to stem the need for food and to keep himself
awake during his stints over the maps and charts. This mission had all the hall marks of an
Ascension Day mission; suicide, pure and simple. He waved the officer over to show him what he
meant. Towering over the Colonel, Lewis
pointed at something. “See that pressure on the pin? It could cause it to break
and you’ll shed a track.”
“Spare parts?”
“The last one was put on that Tiger,” he jerked his thumb at one of the
other tanks.
“Do your best.” The Colonel clapped him on the arm and then made his
way back to his broken-down house that comprised his headquarters.
“What’s he want?” Mike asked.
“Checking on his Tiger for tomorrow.”
“Still worried about that track?”
“Yeah, one good blast and it’s going to lose its track, and then God
help them.” He paused, “Give me a hand and I’ll see if I can get the bastard on
harder.”
Even as he was talking, Lewis allowed his senses to reach out. Suddenly
he swore. “Shit!” He launched himself across the increasing distance separating
him from the Colonel. Catching the smaller man round the waist, he threw him to
the ground, using his body to pin the struggling man down, just as a bullet
ricocheted off one of the tanks and flew off into the side of an outbuilding.
The next ploughed into the snow near where Lewis had the Colonel pinned; his
rugby tackle had brought the Colonel down in a slight depression. Not much, it
wouldn’t save them if the sniper moved, but at the moment it was enough to
shield them. There was the sharp, quick rap of machine gun fire, and the trees
and snow-covered hillock to the north of the camp were raked with bullets. Only
after the silence had stretched for several minutes did Lewis slowly look up,
revelling in the way his senses flooded with the scent of his uninjured guide.
Moving slowly, almost reluctantly, he got to his feet, only then reaching down
to help the Colonel who was fighting to get his breath back after being winded
by the bone-crushing tackle from the larger, heavier man.
Finally, de la Maziere managed to demand, “How did you know?”
“I hea—, I saw a glint on the scope, and…” he tailed off, shrugging as
he looked to see if the Colonel had bought the lie.
To his relief, the man nodded. “Thank you.”
Brushing the snow off his greatcoat, he accepted his cap from Mike who
had retrieved it and started back to headquarters, turning briefly to look back
at the two Englishmen, then up at the hill in the background, a slightly
puzzled look on his face as if something didn’t add up. With a shake of his
head he carried on back to his headquarters.
“You didn’t see anything, Richard,” Mike said levelly. He paused before
adding, “This is that Sentinel voodoo, isn’t it?”
“Yeah, Sentinel voodoo, and it was the gun oil. I smelt it,” even as he
spoke his eyes had strayed back longingly to the departing SS officer.
“The Colonel? Shit, you have a death wish.” Mike had put two and two
together and didn’t like the answer.
Lewis pushed past him and went back to the tank, but not before his arm
was caught and he was forced to answer, “We don’t get a choice.” He headed back
to the tank, scooping up a sledgehammer as if it were a kiddie’s toy. His first
swing of the hammer was like a thunder clap as he put all his frustration into
the action.
0-0-0-0
London
Knowing that Garrison would
be in London, Blair had made sure that he engineered a meeting between the two
of them. He had tried to remain still under Garrison’s piercing look, as if the
other man was more than aware that the meeting was not casual. His bait had
been Chief’s knife, and Garrison had succumbed, agreeing to the talk. Blair had
suggested that they chat over a meal, the People’s Café was full but they
managed to get a small table against the far wall.
Blair found the army
officer interesting. He dropped a few hints about sentinels and guides, hoping
to see an answering light in Garrison’s eyes where something struck a chord.
But he was disappointed. Then Garrison took a sip of his coffee and said
casually, “We covered something like this at the Point.”
“What?” Blair coughed on
his drink, waving away the concerned look he got from the officer.
“It happens,” he offered
Blair a cigarette, lit his own and then inhaled before continuing, “usually
handled discreetly, resignation; otherwise it’s court martial and up to five
years in the stockade, conduct unbecoming an officer and a gentlemen and a
dishonourable discharge.”
Blair frowned, “There is
nothing wrong with it, it’s a perfectly natural process.”
Garrison looked at him, his
eyes growing colder. “I know, Dr
Sandburg, some enlightened people say live and let live, but this is the Army
and we can’t allow any perversions that might undermine the-”
“Captain,” he pulled
Garrison up short, “You mean-” Suddenly Blair got a feeling that he was talking
at odds with the other man.
“Homosexuality, that is
what you were suggesting?” It was now Garrison’s turn to look puzzled.
“Er, not quite Captain,
sorry.” He paused. “So how is training
coming?” Blair downed the coffee, getting a funny look from the man seated
opposite him, but Garrison answered the question. This, Blair mused, was going
to be harder than he thought. He accepted the tactile nature of the bond; the sentinel’s
need to ground himself by physical contact, but for Garrison that was going to
be a major hurdle, since it seemed likely that he would consider any physical
contact between men as an alien concept, one to be suppressed and punished.
When they came out of the
People’s Café, he was surprised to see a soldier standing near the Army car.
Blair stood back as Garrison returned the man’s salute. The Corporal was
Garrison’s driver in principal but from what he gathered the Captain had driven
himself against medical orders, the so-called driver just along for the ride.
Considering the man had had a free half-day in London, which most of the men
would have killed for, he looked unhappy.
Very unhappy, and Blair couldn’t help but think that something was badly
wrong. Just looking at the other man made him on edge. It was as if the
Corporal was waiting for the other shoe to drop. Blair mentally shrugged,
perhaps the soldier was just nervous of being alone with Garrison, the man
wasn’t exactly the most warm and inviting of people. Factor in Army discipline
and it was perhaps understandable. After a quick goodbye, Blair watched the car
pull away into the traffic, to a squeal of brakes and some yelled suggestions
of what the American officer could do with his car, as Garrison cut up a milk
truck.
0-0-0-0
Russian 1943
SS Kampfgruppe (Battle Group) de la Maziere
The mission was taking the battle group further into enemy territory,
trying to make contact with a division of Wehrmacht soldiers who needed an
armoured escort if they were ever going to see German lines again, and the two
unarmed British soldiers were feeling vulnerable as they travelled along in the
half track that was driving in the middle of the fly wedge of armour.
The attack was fast, heralded by an almighty explosion as the lead
Tiger tank was hit by an anti-tank round, its aerials marking it out to the
Russians as the Command Tank. The Tiger rocked with the impact, sending its
tank commander Oberstrum de la Maziere slamming into the front of the turret,
his head impacting hard enough for him almost to black out, at the same time as
his shoulder dislocated. The voice of his driver sounded in his ears as if it
was coming from a long way away. The track on the left side of the Tiger was
gone, the column would stall and become sitting ducks if it halted, so de la
Maziere had no choice but to order the column and the flying V formation of
Tigers to continue. Overriding the concerns of his second in command, he gave
the command for the rest to go on, leaving the damaged tank behind. They would
have to get themselves out of this mess.
Even as he ordered the gunner to transverse the gun to the source of
the attack, he could hear the death knell of another Tiger as it was hit by
anti-tank fire. Pain was knifing through de la Maziere’s head and shoulder, and
he wiped the blood from his eyes as his mind raced. If they didn’t get out
soon, the Ivans were going to get lucky and that would be the end of them as
well.
Richard and Mike hung on like grim death as the second shell hit the
Command Tiger, rocking it like a ship in a gale. Their own half-track had been
buffeted by the explosions, and when the cab of the half track was hit they had
to bail out. Even as they did so they
could see another half-track already burning and the rattle of machine guns was
deafening as the fleeing troops were cut down as they tried to escape the
burning inferno. The other damaged Tiger
was now, like the Command Tank, a small fortified island. The Englishmen knew
that the odds of survival were perhaps the best for them. If they could live
long enough to be captured, they still wore the uniform of the British Army,
and unarmed they were prisoners of war of the hated krauts. But the tank crews
- if they were lucky, they might get a bullet in the back of the head, but Mike
knew who Richard was concerned about, Colonel de la Maziere wouldn’t stand a
chance if he was caught. He was an SS officer, and would be ‘interrogated’, a
civilized word to describe the horror of what they would do to the man, then if
he was lucky they would kill him quickly. More likely, they would make it slow
and very painful. Both of them had seen the mutilated corpses of the officers
from the Body Guard Regiment. Even at
that distance Richard could smell the Russian soldiers, the rough black tobacco
they used, and then picked them out as partisans. The odds had just worsened
for the Colonel and the men in the tank.
Richard’s fingers drove into the palm of his hand when the other Tiger
suddenly exploded as a satchel charge thrown under the tank blew it apart.
All they could do was keep their heads down. They had been forgotten
for the time being, and Mike reached out, tugging Richard’s sleeve, and slowly
they melted into the woods, far enough away to give them a chance of avoiding
detection. But for how long?
0-0-0-0
London
Jim Ellison looked up as
Blair entered the office, “How did your dinner go?”
“I spoke to Garrison and…”
Blair trailed off, running his hand through his hair in frustration, “that man...”
“What did he say?”
“He thought I was talking
about -”
“Start from the beginning,
Darwin,” Jim handed him a tumbler of Scotch.
"I was describing the
bond to him, seeing if anything rang a bell, you know, some sort of neutral
ground, and he thought that I was talking about homosexuality.”
“Oh,” Jim took a sip of his
Scotch and tried to hide the grin.
“And that is funny why?”
Jim exhaled slowly and
stretched his long frame, “Darwin, you have to understand that Captain Craig
Garrison is a product of the Point, and while he may be a very flexible combat
officer, he might not be that imaginative about other cultures, especially the
type you’re talking about.”
“You went to the Point.”
“Yeah, but I’ve had you
spouting that stuff in my ear for the last four months, and some of it’s rubbed
off. Relax, Darwin, when the time comes Sentinel and Guide will come together.”
“I hope you’re right.”
“You’ll see.” Jim drained
his Scotch, "Now, let’s go through the leads again, because if we don’t
get anything soon, we’re going to have to wait for the next murder, and that
could be one too many.”
0-0-0-0
The car was on the road
back to the Manor, and Corporal Reilly was nervous. Garrison put it down to
being in a car with his CO, not the most relaxing of experiences. As the
silence lengthened, Garrison couldn’t help but notice that the nearer they got
to the Manor, the more on edge his passenger became. By now it was beginning to
get dark, and when the roadblock came up suddenly as he rounded the corner,
Garrison had to break hard. There was a barrier across the road manned by two
British soldiers with a vehicle by the side of it, and rifles levelled at the
car’s occupants while a sergeant crossed to the side of the car.
“Your ID card, sir and the reason you’re in
this area.”
“What’s going on,
Sergeant?” He pulled the ID card out as he spoke.
The Sergeant straightened
to attention as he checked the ID, “Sorry, sir, we had orders to secure the
area. You need to contact Colonel Edwards as soon as possible, our radio is
over there,” he waved a hand casually to his left. “There has been a serious
incident and we have four escaped prisoners.”
Garrison nodded his thanks
and then slammed the car into reverse, the vehicle lunging backwards as he hit
the accelerator. One thing he was sure of was that they were not British
soldiers. Executing a rapid handbrake turn, he could hear the spatter of
bullets hitting the back of the car. The Corporal swore and then brought his
elbow up hard and fast into his Captain’s face. Garrison caught the blur of
movement from the corner of his eye and jerked his head, but the blow was still
hard enough for him to lose control of the car for a split second as it hit the
corner. It hit the muddy verge and went it into a spin, ending up in the ditch.
The corporal was shaken,
but even so he saw Garrison getting out of the driver’s door and lunged across
the front seat, managing to hit his CO in the back with both hands, sending him
forward into the ditch. He stumbled onto his knees, then clawed himself to his
feet. He could already hear the pounding of feet, the others were on their way.
Burt Harriman was a poacher
by trade, and as he made his way through the wood, a couple of rabbits hung
over his shoulder, he froze at the sound of gunshots before realising they
weren’t coming from the type of gun you used for poaching. Putting the rabbits
into a hollow tree, he made his way towards the gunfire.
He dropped silently forward
as he saw the man coming through the woods at a run, behind him someone was
yelling commands to fan out, and that he had to be stopped. There was the crack
of more bullets, and the man seemed to falter, having to dive for cover, then
he was up again, but it was too late, a soldier appeared in front of him from
nowhere, there was a blur of movement, and the man was down. The soldier raised
the rife and brought it down again, only stopped from a third blow by the
tense, “We need him alive for now.”
Burt kept down, he had to
get help.
0-0-0-0
Russian 1943
Richard Lewis leaned forward to warm himself by the fire; the
temperature had begun to drop as the night sky had darkened. Lighting a fire
had been a risk, but without it they would freeze to death. By his side he kept the machine gun at the
ready, they were at risk from two sides: the Russians and the Germans, an
encounter with either one could end up with them dead. Their only chance was to
rejoin the SS Kampfgruppe; there at least they were safe. Richard shook his
head slowly in disbelief. Mike caught the movement and asked, “What?”
“Nothing.”
“Richard.” Mike wasn’t going to let it drop.
Richard threw anther stick on the fire in disgust, “Just when the hell
did the world get warped and my idea of safety is the frigging Waffen SS?”
Mike didn’t answer for a moment. Richard was one of the few men he knew
that never swore, and he had the patience of a saint. Only one person could
drive him to that, and he was de la Maziere, or rather his absence.
“Since your guide was a Colonel in the fucking Waffen SS,” Mike retorted,
causing his friend to look up. Mike, on the other hand, had no problem with
swearing. “You couldn’t go the easy route, could you, you have to go and pick
de la fucking Maziere, great sense of timing,” Mike spat the words out.
Richard nodded and poked the fire with a well-burned stick. “I can
smell him.” He had for the last ten minutes since the man had got downwind of
them. The scent was soured with blood, and that alone had already started to
unleash the need to protect his guide in the Primal mind of the sentinel.
“You can smell him?” Mike said in disbelief, then added disgustedly,
“Great, just what I wanted to know,” but there was a smile on his face that
took the sting from the words.
Richard pitched his voice louder, “Joining us, Obersturm?” He got to
his feet and turned to face the men walking slowly into the camp. The Colonel
held one arm protectively against his body, in his other hand was a pistol. His
face was a mask of blood. By his side, limping heavily, was the only other
surviving member of his tank crew. He had a rough rag wrapped round his leg and
was using a branch to support himself.
It didn’t look if he could go much further. Richard’s face suddenly tightened, the relief
of his guide finding them was gone as he smelt the harsh black Russian tobacco.
There were not alone. The Russians must have been trailing the Colonel and were
now closing in. He threw a glance at Mike, “Ivan’s here and we’re trapped.”
Richard tightened his hand on the machine gun, they were now encircled
by the Russians, no one was going to get away easily. He snapped the machine
gun up, and said loudly, “Drop the gun, Obersturm, now!” His tone was
grim. “Do it!” he demanded, “or he
dies.” He let the gun swing to cover the injured soldier, “You have until I’ve counted
three. One, two….”
The handgun fell into the snow. “Mike, get it.” Using the machine gun he moved the two men away from it.
“You’d better let our friends know they can come in.”
Mike nodded. The cockney had grown up in the Russian Jewish section of
the East End and their landlady had been Russian, the old dear had looked after
him and his brother and they had learned the language.
"Камрады мы
английские,
Пленники
этого swine SS, нам
нужна ваша
помощь.”
For a long moment there was nothing, but Richard could hear them moving
round, any minute now they could all be cut down in a hail of bullets.
“Lower your weapons,” the English was good. Richard lowered the gun as
the Russians came out of the trees. The speaker was an officer carrying a
rifle, a large bear of a man, equal to Richard in size and height.
“You are prisoners?” he questioned as Mike, conscious of the guns on
them, slowly opened up his coat to show the British uniform.
“Prisoners, comrade, and workers.” He paused then added, “We were in a
half-track that was attacked. We escaped and grabbed the gun, killed some of
the bastards when we got away.”
Without warning the Russian officer brought the rifle down, hitting de
la Maziere behind the legs and knocking him down on his knees in the snow, even
as one of his men knocked the tank driver down.
He landed on his knees with a scream of pain forced from him by his
wounded leg, and as he rolled onto his side he was pulled back up by his hair.
The big officer nodded and there was a crack. The driver slumped
forward, his blood splattering Richard’s boots as it stained the snow.
Richard’s hand tightened on the machine gun as the soldier moved behind de la
Maziere.
“He’s a Colonel,” Richard snapped out, “He’s been leading the SS Battle
Group your men attacked this morning.”
The officer pushed the pistol up from where it had rested on the back
of de la Maziere’s head, then walked over to Richard, clapping him and then
Mike on the shoulder. “Come, we have a lot to talk about.” It wasn’t a request.
Richard didn’t look back at the Colonel as the German was pulled to his
feet, his hands bound together and with a savage blow to the back with the butt
of a rife sent staggering forward into captivity and death. Richard concentrated on one fact only, the
Colonel was alive for the moment, he had at least until the next morning, by
then Richard would either have got him out, or he would be lying dead with his
guide.
0-0-0-0
The Village
Burt was talking to the
village police constable. “Ken, I don’t
care, the man was clubbed and taken away. He looked like that Yank officer, the
one from the Manor.”
“And how much have you been
drinking?”
“Nothing. Are you going to
telephone them?”
The police officer looked
him up and down, and then headed for the small house to the left of the
crossroads. Sergeant Major Hudson had brought his family from London, and
rented it to give them a home. Since he had permission to live off the Manor,
he should be in at this time of night.
The sergeant came to the
door in his braces, “Ken?” then he looked past him. "Burt, what’s
wrong?” He waved the two men into the
kitchen. Hudson knew them from the Home Guard; he gave them instructions once a
week.
“Go ahead, Burt.”
“I was out, I saw that Yank
officer of yours, he was in the wood, he was being chased, and then they clubbed
him down.”
“The Captain,” he crossed
to the telephone. Its installation had been the one rule for him living off the
Manor. He was put through quickly and turned his back on them as he held a
hurried conversation. “Captain Garrison is off the base at the moment,” he
reported to the two visitors as he reached down for his coat. “The lads from
the Manor are on their way down, we’ll meet them on the way. Now whereabouts
did you see this?”
0-0-0-0
Robertson Estate
Robert Cole looked at the
man tied to the chair in the cellar of the old Tudor house and smiled. Reaching
out, he caught hold of Garrison’s hair and pulled his head back, then let it
drop again in disgust. The man was still out cold, blood coating his face from
the rifle butt’s blow.
Bending, he picked up a
bucket of water and threw it at Garrison. The officer came awake coughing,
trying to focus on the man standing in front of him.
“Wakey, wakey, Craig,” Cole
backhanded him hard across the face, re-opening the cut to his lip, and fresh
blood began to flow from his mouth.
“Cole.”
Robert Cole made himself
calm down, “You are going to get me half a million in cut diamonds.”
Garrison’s laugh was
mocking, “I am a Captain, they don’t pay us that much.”
“Your men will get it for
me, once they know I have you.”
“No,” Garrison looked down,
“I’m just their meal ticket. I can be replaced.”
Cole had a smug smile on
his face as he yanked his captive’s head back again by the hair. “But you
can’t, Captain, it’s you or nothing.” The rage was building in Cole; the other
man was too calm, too collected. “So this time they’re going to get those
diamonds or else I’ll send you back to them in pieces.” He snorted, “You think
that Chief will find you, is that it, your Guardian is going to find you? Oh, I
don’t think so. You see, Maggot here,” he waved a squat muscular man into view,
“He’s one as well, and, well, he’s got a few ideas about Chief.” Then Cole
laughed into his face as he saw the puzzled expression. “You don’t know, do
you?” He shook his head. “Mister high and mighty Craig Garrison doesn’t know
about it, Maggot, maybe I should tell him.”
Without waiting for an
answer he continued, with malicious pleasure. “Why do you think that Chief is
watching your back all the time? All he’s doing is waiting for the right moment
to jump your ass, maybe Maggot here should show you what to expect, how about
it Maggot? Show the Captain what he should expect when he’s a guide to a
Sentinel.”
The half sentinel was next
to the captive man in a heartbeat, his coarse hands moving over Garrison’s face
and chest, savouring the elevated heartbeat as his hands dropped lower to
roughly fondle the bound man.
Cole gloated, “Back on the
mission who was it, you think, suggested turning you over to the Gestapo? Your
own men, that’s who, that fancy conman of yours had it all worked out. Then
they decided it was too risky, they couldn’t trust the krauts not to try and
take the whole team, and who needed the risk with half million dollars of
diamonds? So Actor decided to put you out of your misery, Garrison, he was the
one that shot you. If the Indian hadn’t pushed his hand up, your brains would
have been decorating that wall. The only reason that Indian backed you was
because Sentinels get all hot and horny over their guides, and all they want to
do is get them in the sack and he couldn’t fuck you if you were dead.”
The half sentinel laughed
as he caught Garrison’s face in one big hand as he continued his rough
fondling, increasing his grip and enjoying the look of pain, but angry that the
officer hadn’t cried out. With a chuckle he whispered harshly against
Garrison’s ear, “Going to get me a taste of you, soldier boy,” and his tongue
swiped across the side of Garrison’s face and down across his jaw. The taste of
him, the combination of sweat, blood, and scent was intoxicating.
Cole snapped, “Maggot,
MAGGOT!” The half sentinel straightened slightly then reeled back as Garrison
managed to head butt him in the face. The half sentinel staggered, his nose
broken and bleeding, and then with a roar he punched Garrison. The blow knocked
the man to the ground, and still tied to the chair he was unable to avoid the
kick to the stomach.
Cole stood watching and
then turned on his heels and started up the steps out of the cellar, “As much
as I would like to watch, Garrison, I have things to do.” He paused. “Maggot.”
The man looked up from his bound victim. “You can do what you want, but stop
short of killing him. I want him alive and intact for the moment, but make sure
that Chief gets our message. Enjoy yourself.”
As he went up the stairs he
heard the dull thud of fist and boot meeting flesh then the tearing of clothes.
“Mr Cole,” Lionel Jones
said, his Welsh accent more pronounced by his nerves. “The officer, he,
Maggot-”
“Mr Maggot knows the line
that can’t be crossed, but of course, if the good Captain’s men don’t do what
we ask then they might need more of an incentive.”
Lionel watched him go,
feeling sick. He had to get out of here, but Cole was a vicious bastard, and he
knew that he would be killed out of hand if he went to the coppers. But then
there might be someone who would listen. Mentally he worked out he couldn’t get
to the smoke until Thursday; he could only pray it wouldn’t be too late. London
might just give him a way out.
0-0-0-0
Chief went through the car.
He could scent traces of his guide and Reilly, whose body had been found in the
woods, his brains blown out. The scent had stopped back at the road, further on
where the barrier had been found.
“They have the Warden.”
Actor put a hand onto
Chief’s shoulder. “We’ll get him back.”
The Indian didn’t reply,
but he made an oath then that whoever was responsible were dead men.
0-0-0-0
Jim Ellison arrived two
hours later; Blair could only begin to imagine how Chief was reacting to his
unbonded guide being taken. A phone call from Colonel Edwards had sent them to
the Manor. As an investigator, Jim’s skills would be important. Besides, with
Ellison there, Major Worth wouldn’t be able to call for a complete lock down of
the Manor, which would have lead to the cons breaking out. If anyone could get
Garrison back alive, it would be his own men.
During the drive down, Jim
questioned his guide about the last meeting, in particular what he had seen
when they had come out of the café. Already he was beginning to get a bad
feeling about Reilly; the man was dead, but could have been in on the
kidnapping and then become a loose end.
They arrived, and
immediately, Blair crossed to the Indian. One look brought him to a standstill,
the raw emotions blazing in the guardian’s eyes demonstrating the overwhelming
urge to protect his guide. Instantly, Blair knew that the there would be no way
to control Chief when they found the men involved. The Guardian would want
blood for blood. Blair suppressed a shudder. The Sentinel was a guardian, a
tribal protector, yet the more he uncovered about them, the less clear it all
was. Dr Faulkner’s comments about a Dark
Sentinel, this Guardian that Chief personified, made him wonder. Chief was a
tribal protector and warrior, but there were other shades he didn’t yet quite
understand. The Dark Sentinel was an avenger and enforcer, pure and simple. The
sentinel world was not quite what he had thought it was. He pushed the thought
aside; he had a guardian to help, and he only prayed that Garrison was still
alive.
0-0-0-0
It was an hour after they
arrived that the Sergeant Major brought a cloth bag to the office, saying it
had been found thrown over the wall. Jim
took it and opened it, drawing out a dark brown officer’s coat, easily
recognised as Garrison’s, with blood on the lapel and shoulder. He exchanged a
quick look with Blair before placing it on the table and stepping back. Chief
touched it only with the tips of his fingers, his senses wide open as he
filtered out the natural scent of his guide and the persistent aroma of the
habitual cigarettes he smoked. Abruptly
his face hardened and his hand tightened on the jacket, his lips pulled back
over his teeth in a snarl as he lifted his eyes to meet those of the other
sentinel.
Actor cut across, “Don’t
you think it’s time you told us what’s going on here?” He waved an elegant hand
between Chief and Jim.
“It would be kind of nice
to know,” Goniff put in.
Blair took a deep breath
and exchanged a look with each sentinel.
Seeing the nod of agreement, he began, “It all starts with a sentinel or
guardian and a guide...”
Blair had seen the initial
disbelief shifting slowly to acceptance. He had expected a lot of questions,
but Casino had just drawled, “Makes sense,” then the matter had been dropped
for the more important one of getting the Warden back alive.
Even so, Blair was startled
by the casual acceptance of the whole idea. These cons had accepted what
academics had questioned and disputed. Seeing the puzzled look on the younger
man’s face, Actor had taken pity on him. “We’ve all seen Chief do things that
have saved our lives, he’s heard the enemy and seen them before any of us, it’s
kept us and the Warden alive. All you’ve done is given it a name.”
0-0-0-0
Jim closed the distance
between him and Chief, Blair temporarily forgotten. “That other scent...”
“Robert Cole,” Chief
answered and then his face grew ugly, “and Maggot.”
“Cole I know about, but
Maggot?” Jim sounded puzzled.
“A real sadistic bastard, I
thought I had killed him, he’s like us, but not.”
Chief’s eyes burning into
Jim told it all, the man was a threat to all guides. Briefly returning his
focus to the jacket, Chief stiffened, his face like stone. Both men swore as they recognised the other
scent impregnating the cloth, the unmistakeable, musky scent of semen. Without
realising it he said the word out aloud.
“Maggot.” Goniff
interrupted them, “Oh shit.”
Chief turned fast, hearing
the increase in his friend’s heartbeat.
“Maggot said that he liked
blonds, he made a play at me but Casino stopped him, he said then that he had
never had an officer. I didn’t think any more about it at the time.” Horror and
anger were eveident as he finished, tightly, “The Warden’s blond.”
Blair closed the distance
between him and Chief, seeing from the younger sentinel’s expression that he
was at risk of falling into the void, overloading, but before he could reach
him, Chief spun round making him take a step back. “Maggot and Cole, they don’t
get out alive.” Looking up he met the eyes of his team mates, and even the
placid Goniff nodded. When this was over so would be any threat to the Warden.
The telephone rang and
Actor picked it up, mouthing “Cole,” after listening briefly.
“Yes, we have the jacket.
How do we know that Garrison is still alive?”
“You’ll have to take my word for it, Actor.”
Both sentinels had moved
closer so they could monitor the phone call. “I want the diamonds, and don’t insult me by saying ‘what diamonds’.
You have until Friday to get them, you’ll get a message then about the
exchange.”
“We’ll get them,” Actor
said levelly.
“Chief, recognise the scent?” Cole baited, “Maggot
had a little fun, your Officer is none
too friendly is he, or maybe it’s just not the right person. Maggot sent a
message for Chief, this time he just jerked off on him, Garrison’s none the
worse at the moment, but if you fuck with me then Maggot might just have to
fuck with him, and-”
Before he could finish the
threat, Actor cut across him, “If anything happens to the Warden, if you let
Maggot loose on him, you won’t be able to run far enough, Cole.” The Italian
conman never lost his temper, but those words were said with an icy fury that
none of them had ever heard before.
Cole put the phone down,
and for the first time felt a shiver of fear run down his spine. If that had
been Chief he would have expected it, but such fury from Actor was
surprising. He might have seriously
underestimated the connection between Garrison and his men. He had thought they
merely tolerated their officer, but it seemed that they must really like their
hard-assed, no-nonsense West Point officer. He would get the diamonds or he
would be dead, the Gorillas would not let them walk away after this. He
couldn’t allow any mistakes in his plan.
0-0-0-0
London
Jack Anderson was polishing
the glasses in the bar of the Carpenters Arms; the deal with the Yank had
fallen through, although a few men he knew had disappeared so the Yank might
have employed them. He had given his son a heads up on the kidnap, so... His
thoughts trailed off as Lionel Jones walked in the bar; the Welsh man looked
like death on two legs.
“Gov, can I talk to you?”
Jack waved his sons back,
and told Jones to follow him into the back room.
“What is it?”
Lionel hesitated and then
in a gush told him what had happened, “This Yank officer, they’ve beaten him up
and Maggot, he’s all over him.”
He saw the blank look on
Jack’s face, “You know,” he muttered, then cowered back as he saw the flash of
understanding.
“This Yank, where is he?”
Jack demanded.
“Robertson’s Estate.”
“Maggie, get me a pad and
paper.” His wife saw the grim look, and handed them over quickly. Jack brought
them down with a bang on the table, and snapped, “Get drawing, and then you’re
going back.”
“No, I can’t, they...”
“You’re going back,
otherwise, Lionel, you’re going to get your feet wet in the Thames. You’re
going to get that Yank officer out, then you can bugger off wherever you want.”
His voice became soft and dangerous, “If I find out that you did a bunk without
helping him, I will hunt you down and kill you, understand? This is personal, the Yank is family.”
Lionel nodded, his hand
shaking so much he broke the point of the pencil, only to have another pressed
into his hands.
“Bert, get this down to
Rodney, and take some of the men with you. I want that place surrounded.” He
looked at Lionel, “What are you waiting for?”
0-0-0-0
Russia 1943
The farm was deserted, the farmhouse destroyed and only the barn
remaining, and it was there they had dragged the Colonel. The guards had
returned a few minutes later and the Russians set about making camp.
The Russian officer had seemed content with their story, the whole
misadventure being too strange not to be true.
It was a short time later that the officer had headed towards the barn
with two of his men in tow. It didn’t take a genius to know that they were
going to start the interrogation.
It was from that moment that Mike began to realise that Richard was
changing. He put a hand out to steady his friend, telling him softly they would
get the Colonel out, but at the same time sending concerned looks towards the
barn. He could only imagine what the
Sentinel could hear, thankful that he could not.
If the long silence had been bad, the first scream sent Richard to his
feet, only Mike’s quick actions blocking him. In the daylight they could do
nothing except pray that the Colonel could hold on until dark. The next scream
was cut off quickly.
Mike kept the smile on his face even as one of the Russians from the
barn come out, sending another in, a grin plastered to his face as he clapped
the other man on the back. He collected
a cup of hot tea laced with vodka, and took a place by them at their fire.
Richard’s grip on his control nearly slipped as he looked at the man in
front of him; his guide’s blood scent was on this man. The soldier began to tell them of their plans
for the Colonel the next morning, the many ways they were going to
degrade him, make him suffer, before leaving him to die choking on his own
cock. He gave a quick look at Richard,
the big Englishman didn’t understand his words like the smaller man did but the accompanying gestures he used to
illustrate his story made it abundantly
plain to the big Englishman . Smiling,
he raised his cup in a toast for the following morning.
“They’re going to butcher him while he’s still alive.” Richard’s voice had dropped to a guttural
growl and his smile was pure predator, causing the Russian to falter for a
moment before jumping to his feet. All
but crossing himself, as he went back to
his own fire.
Mike nodded, his face showing his concern, “I am sorry, Richard, so
sorry.”
“What else? What else did he say?”
Mike kept his voice level, trying not to show his emotion, “They’re
sick bastards, Rich.”
“What did he say?” the voice lower and very dangerous.
Knowing that he would have to answer he said, “They’re going to-” he
shrugged “You know what men are like, what they did to those two officers of
the Bodyguard, they’re going to…"
he trailed off, but saw the horror all too clear on Richard’s face as
the other man remembered the two officers.
“We have to get him out. If we fail...”
“We won’t, but if we do, then he dies at our hands.” Richard’s head snapped round to the barn,
just before the screams began again.
Night finally came. Richard’s body was rigid with tension; his head
turned slowly to face Mike and for the first time that evening the sense of
unease became an almost physical lump in Mike’s chest. In the firelight,
Richard’s easygoing features changed, becoming almost animalistic, the light
turning his eyes into red pits. At least, Mike hoped it was the light.
Richard’s spoke harshly, in a voice that suddenly seemed alien to language, “Go
to him, protect him.”
Mike hesitated, his concern over his friend showing plainly on his
face.
“Now!” The words were rasped out. Getting up he saw the knife and
shuddered as he turned towards the rundown old barn where the Russians had
taken the Colonel when they arrived.
Mike picked up the bottle of vodka that he had managed to get off one
of the Russians, and headed to the barn, just as the Captain came out, wiping
his hands on bloody cloth. The Russian
paused, almost reluctant to concede it, “He’s a brave man, he has given us
nothing, but tomorrow that will change.”
Richard had been sitting with his head down, but suddenly it snapped
up, the cloth in the officer’s hand smelt of his guide and his blood. Slowly
Richard began to get to his feet, the sentinel replacing the man, this was no
tribal guardian, this was the enforcer, the killer sentinel of primal times.
In the barn entrance Mike took a pull at the vodka, and then entered.
One of the guards turned to see who was coming in, as the other bent over the
still body lying crumpled in a bloody heap on the floor. With no compunction,
Mike used the vodka to get close to them, and the knife to end their lives. If
he had been inclined to have regrets, one look at the man on the ground was
enough to drive them away forever. The Colonel was the enemy but he didn’t
deserve this. No one did.
Quickly he cut the German free. The Colonel’s eyes flickered open and
he tried to pull away from the Englishman’s touch, but Mike’s stuttering German
calmed him in his semi-conscious state.
Quickly he collected the officer’s clothing and pulled it on the frozen
body as best he could, for the moment ignoring the injuries. Warmth was needed
now; the rest could be treated later, if
there was a later. Muttering a sorry
when he caused the German to bite back a cry of pain from his tortured body, he
half-carried, half-dragged the younger man into the far corner of the barn
where there was some protection, and a clear view of the door.
The roar from outside the barn made the German try to pull away from
him, hands flailing, but Mike caught him easily and pulled him close, settling
with his back to the wall, facing the barn doors. The gun taken from the guard
was in his hand, ready to kill anyone that came through. He made a promise there and then, if Richard
failed then his own bullet would end the Colonel’s life and he would follow
him; suicide would be preferable to what the Russians would do to him.
There was another loud roar like a great animal in rage and blood lust;
it was accompanied by screams punctuated by gunfire.
Mike nearly jumped as a blood-stained hand gripped at his arm. He had
thought the Colonel had passed out.
“L…ew..is, have…..to….help…him…” the words were stuttered, but the
other Englishman’s absence had somehow registered with the injured Colonel.
“He’s out there.” When Mike made no
attempt to move, the German tried to push himself free of the strong arm that
held him. “I hav…have to help him.” The
struggle was all too brief, his injuries too bad, and he fell back against Mike
exhausted, even as a roar came from the side of the barn. Instinctively, Mike
increased his hold on the German, but one thing he knew was that whatever was
out there was no threat to him and the Colonel, especially the Colonel.
The door to the barn was flung open, the Russian Captain was only two
strides in, lifting up his pistol, when an arm shot out, a hand latched onto
his collar, and he was jerked up and backwards, his gun discharging into the
ceiling. The barn door closed with a
bang, on the heel of it was a blood-curdling scream that would live with Mike
for the rest of his long life.
The silence that followed was in some ways worse than the screaming,
but it was short-lived. The barn door opened again, and Richard Lewis stood
there, his hands covered in blood; it stained his uniform up to his elbows, his
face was splashed, and drops gathered and fell from the knife, spattering onto
the ground. The normally even-tempered
giant looked like a spectre from hell, with his lips pulled back over his teeth
and the low, deep–throated growl emanating from his throat.
“Richard!”
The eyes still burning red fixed on him. Mike suddenly realised what
was wrong, and slowly, keeping eye contact with his friend, he lowered the
Colonel onto the hard earthen floor, moving away from him, all the time keeping
low. Carefully, he broke eye contact and made himself small and unthreatening.
Richard moved forward with the powerful grace of a larger animal, and
dropping to his knees reached out with a bloody hand to touch his guide. His
finger lightly brushed the dark blond hair matted with blood, the bruised
face.
“Cold,” one word said with effort, his eyes accusing Mike as if it was
his fault. Settling down, Richard opened his greatcoat, and pulled the young
Colonel close, folding the coat round him, trying to warm him. The eyes closed,
his actions governed by an unknown force, and the German’s hand closed on
Richard’s uniform jacket as he tried to melt into the larger man. The gesture
was greeted by a low rumbling noise.
The need to bond burned through Richard. The primal sentinel had done
what was needed, he had ruthlessly destroyed everyone that had been a threat to
his guide, and now his driving imperative was to bond, completing the connection
between the two of them. But something
held him back, an awareness that to force the bond on the unconscious man was
akin to raping his mind, something no sentinel would ever do. Completion would
have to wait until such time as the Colonel could make the choice of his own
free will. Richard tightened his grip on
the younger man, mindful of his injuries, tucking him closer, bending his head
so that he could inhale his scent, could hear the thud of his heart. For the
moment, it was enough.
The sentinel directed his senses out, weaving them around the barn and
into the surrounding countryside. Anchored by his guide, it didn’t matter that
the Colonel was unconscious; it was enough for his presence to steady the
Sentinel. The moment he went primal,
Richard’s senses had become more highly tuned, and now they were working at a
level he had never imagined. He could even hear the beetle as it scurried
across the earthen floor of the barn.
Mike was woken by Richard handing him a steaming cup of tea, more chaff
than tea leaves but it was hot and wet.
He looked across at the Colonel who seemed to be sleeping more easily;
they would have to check him over before they started back to rejoin the Battle
Group. He had been badly beaten when Mike had found him. Richard followed his
gaze, “He’s got a couple of broken ribs, bad bruising to the stomach, chest and
back, his shoulder is still swollen from where he dislocated it and his knee’s
inflamed.”
“It’s going to take both of us to get him back,” Mike said.
Richard leaned over the officer. At his touch the man came awake
defensively, trying to pull away from the hand that gripped him.
“Easy, Obersturm.”
“Lewis?” He looked round him.
“They’re dead, sir.”
Before the German could say anything, Mike was kneeling down, getting a
strong arm round his shoulder and helping him to sit up as he pushed his own
cup of tea into the unsteady hand, “Drink this, sir.”
Nothing could prepare Mike for what he saw when they emerged from the
barn. He glanced across at de la Maziere,
and saw the shock mirrored on his face. It was nothing more than a
slaughter-house. The Russian Captain’s body was just beside the barn door, his
throat had been ripped out and he had been disembowelled. Another of the
soldiers, one Mike recognised as having helped the Captain in his interrogation
of the Colonel, was sprawled as he had died, trying to crawl away from the
carnage, leaving a thick bloody trail of intestines behind him. One man had
nearly made it into the woods; speared by a large branch sticking out of his
back, he was pinned to the ground like a moth to a corkboard. All ten were
dead; no one had escaped the killing ground.
For Mike it was impossible to reconcile the gentle giant that was his
friend with the man or thing that had done this. Looking at him now, one strong
arm wrapped round the German’s waist helping him walk, towering over the man,
able if he wanted to inflict such pain on the battered body, yet being so
gentle. He had been a professional soldier since before the war, and like
Richard had made it out of
0-0-0-0
The three men were making their way slowly through the countryside,
heading towards the place where the Battle Group should be, when they heard the
sound of the first wolf, its call chilling. Mike took a firmer grip on the
machine gun, and watched as Richard and the Colonel checked their weapons. The wolves were attracted by the scent of
blood coming from the German officer’s wounds and the dried blood on Richard’s
clothes.
It was half an hour later that the first wolf was seen, skulking in the
wood’s thicker area. But already Richard
had detected it and its companions; all the men could do was keep moving as
best they could through the rough terrain.
But the sentinel could feel them coming, their heartbeats, their lust
for the kill.
Richard kept his grip on the Colonel as they tried to increase their
pace, hoping to find some sort of safety. The injured man was struggling,
breathing hard as he tried to keep the pain under control and not slow them
down.
The sentinel stopped suddenly, and then turned back, his eyes piercing
the gloom of the wood as he marked out the pack. They would not have long
before the wolves attacked. “Come on,”
he dragged the Colonel behind him, knowing that Mike would keep up.
0-0-0-0
Twelve miles outside
The house was set in its
own grounds; it had been a prep school which had been evacuated to the
He swore harshly in Welsh
when he saw the condition the captive was in. Maggot had got to him again last
night by the look of it. Blood covered his face from a cut in the hairline, his
mouth was bleeding and his shirt was torn, showing skin that was burned or
bleeding. Putting a hand out, Lionel shook him.
The man stirred, and a moment later looked up with glazed green hazel
eyes, trying to pull away as recognition dawned.
“I am not going to hurt
you, Yank, just free you and then you’re on your own.”
“Why?” the one word was
slurred.
“Don’t ask questions,”
Lionel snapped and pulled him forward to undo the cuffs. He dragged him to his
feet, manhandling the slightly taller man up the stairs, across the kitchen and
out of the back door. The injured man
halted as the bright light burned his sensitive eyes, and Jeffries gave him a
hard shove that sent him staggering forward.
“Get the fuck out of here
while you can, head that way and…” he paused, “good luck.”
Lionel was in the car and
pulling away from the house when another car drew up and he saw Cole and Maggot
through the windscreen. Lionel jammed his foot down hard, fear making him
reckless, and he slammed through the metal gates at the end of the drive, not
waiting to open them. A car blocked the road and he swerved only to end up in
the ditch, his head ringing. He looked up groggily straight into a face that
promised his death. There was the sound of a click and a switchblade was in his
face. All he could do was jerk a thumb back at the house, “I got him out, told
him to make a run for it.”
If he expected gratitude he
was mistaken. “You could have taken him with you.” A hand grabbed his hair and he was smashed
forward into the steering wheel and knocked out cold.
Jim and Chief took the
lead, starting out across the grounds into the woods. The wind was blowing into
their faces and Chief could already scent his guide, and the copper tang of his
blood. As he began to run, his movements became more fluid as the Apache
Guardian came forward and the man that was Chief was submerged. At his side,
Jim Ellison felt the change in himself. Usually it was only triggered by danger
to his own guide, but Sentinel fed on Sentinel, powering his need to protect,
these were stealers of guides, would never be allowed that chance again.
0-0-0-0
Garrison was breathing
harshly, the pain in his ribs making it hard to run, but he kept pushing
himself. He didn’t know why the Welshman had rescued him but he knew that if he
was caught, he was dead. There was no way that Cole could allow him to live,
his only chance was to escape the grounds and get to civilization.
Out of nowhere, a wall
loomed in front of him, seven feet tall with broken bottles embedded on the
top, and he swore. He forced himself to
run parallel to it, the pain in his body sapping his strength, he had to get
over it soon, or he wouldn’t have the energy to make it. Desperately, he
struggled on as he searched for some way across, and finally found a tree
growing near enough to the wall to hold out the hope that he could use it to
get over. He had hauled himself up the
branches and was just starting to pull himself across when a hand caught his
foot, tugging him back down. He kicked, hearing a grunt of pain, and his foot
was released. Clawing his way up, not even daring to look back, he knew he had
to get over the wall. The hand grabbed
again, caught and held as it pulled him back down, and the branch he was
clinging to snapped and he could do nothing to break his fall. Landing heavily on his attacker he managed to
bring his elbow down on the man’s chest, knocking the wind out of him. He was
almost on his feet when he saw movement from the corner of his eye. He tried to
duck, but was hit by a gun barrel that raked across his head and sent him
pitching sideways. Senses reeling, he tried to clamber up to his knees, but a
savage kick to the chest lifted him off the ground, throwing him sideways. His
attempt to roll clear was thwarted by his attacker who was now on him, kicking
viciously, and all he could do was try to protect his head as he pulled himself
into a ball. His assailant’s laugh was
unmistakeable: Maggot. When the beating stopped, Garrison looked slowly up, the
pain making any movement agony. A face came into view, and he tried to focus,
but a fist lashed out and it was the last thing he knew.
Josh Butler backed away,
“Come on, Maggot, get it over with, kill the bastard.”
But Maggot just laughed,
the light in his eyes insane, “I’ve never had me an officer,” and he began to
claw at Garrison.
Suddenly his head snapped
round as he was hit, the momentum knocking him off the injured man, and he and
his attacker landed on the ground. Maggot rolled but his opponent gained his
feet first.
“Indian, you’re a bit late,
your guide, nice and tasty,” Maggot licked at a splash of Garrison’s blood that
was on his hand, “real nice, you tasted him yet, breed?”
Chief ignored the taunt,
moving so that his body was between the Warden and his attacker. First, protect
the guide, second, kill the threat.
“Breed,” Maggot spat, “you
tried to kill me before, what makes you think you can do it now?” He dropped into a fighting crouch.
All that remained of Chief
was the physical form; his soul was now that of an Apache warrior, a Guardian.
The knife he was holding was the bonding blade, and Maggot was already dead. He
just didn’t know it yet.
Actor and Goniff were on their
knees beside Garrison, leaning over him so they could examine him. He had several long cuts across his body
where Maggot had slashed his clothing, not caring if he cut the flesh under it,
but thankfully none of them were too deep, and they would heal. Actor’s main
concern was that Garrison was out cold. With the previous concussion, his
current unconscious state didn’t bode well for him.
Butler was caught by
Casino, the dark-haired safecracker bringing him crashing down as he tried to
escape into the woods. Two quick blows fuelled by anger and worry over their CO
had subdued him.
Jim Ellison had seen that
the other sentinel had his guide and his foe, now all he had to do was find
Cole. The man was near, he could scent him. He paused for a heartbeat, his head
swinging from one side to another, and then with a snarl he took off into the
woods. Blair shot Casino a look, “Go after him, kid, we’re okay here.”
Blair was having trouble
keeping up with his sentinel. The Gorillas would take care of Chief and
Garrison, but Jim would need him; his sentinel was in full hunting mode, and
nothing could stop him.
Suddenly Blair was hit
sideways and brought down hard, he rolled and was on his feet only to be
tripped and Cole was on him, a gun pressed against his head and a hand in his
hair pulling him upright.
“You’re my ticket out of
here.” Cole snarled, and swung round in a slow three-sixty with his human
shield. “Come out Ellison, or…”
“Or what?” the word was
whispered in his ear. Before Cole could pull the trigger, the sentinel broke
his neck. Blair pulled away, turning quickly to face his sentinel even as Jim
let the body drop to the ground.
The sentinel stepped over
it as if it were nothing, his head tilting slightly as he wrapped his senses
round his Guide, and in one stride closed the distance between them. Blair took
one step back, braced himself and caught his sentinel with a hard right to the
jaw. The blow rocked the sentinel, forcing him to stagger back a step.
“What you do that for,
Darwin?” Jim growled as he rubbed his
jaw.
“Because you knew he was
here, and because I don’t like being a frigging decoy.”
Jim swore under his breath,
“Sorry, Sandburg, I...” he trailed off and shrugged.
“Okay, big guy, we’ll talk
about it,” He heard a scream, “We’d best get back to Chief.”
0-0-0-0
The Apache Guardian moved
forward, Maggot was a good knife fighter, but Chief had always been better, and
in this sentinel form the Guardian was unbeatable. The two men traded blows,
but the Guardian was only playing as his knife cut into Maggot, slashes to his
left arm, to his chest, and his leg, each one mirroring the slash dollars on
his guide. Then Maggot lunged forward. The Guardian twisted away from the knife
and brought his own up in one swift, deadly blow, straight to the stomach. With
a gasp of agony, the knife fell from Maggot’s hand. The Guardian took one step
closer, his eyes burning into Maggot’s as he ripped up with the knife, from gut
to chest, all the time his gaze never leaving the man that he was killing.
Maggot tried to claw at him but his hands fell away, and as the knife was
pulled out he dropped to the ground.
The Guardian turned, knife
down by his side, blood dripping off the blade. The other Gorillas had seen
Chief kill, but never with such cold fury. He walked to where Garrison was
still lying unconscious on the ground. Goniff put a hand on Actor’s shoulder to
keep him down with Garrison, and with a deep shuddering breath stepped over the
fallen man to block Chief from getting to him.
“Put the knife down,
Chiefie, you don’t need it.” The
slightly-built Englishman moved to block the Indian as he would have gone round
him. He met the dark eyes head on. “I
don’t know how this thing works, the kid didn’t really explain it, you have to
protect the Warden, that’s okay, and we can understand and help you do that.
Hell, we don’t want to see him hurt.” He paused to take a breath. “You have to
put that knife down now, right, the Warden needs you, Chief, not him.”
Casino eased his gun up
slightly, he didn’t want to have to use it, but there was no way he was going
to let Chief or what ever the hell he was gut Goniff.
“Keep down, Warden.”
Garrison had come round,
his head was pounding and nausea rolled through him as he tried to push away
Actor’s hands and get up, but in the end all he could do was turn to face the
voices.
“C-c-ch-ief,” he swallowed,
forcing the words out, “Drop the knife.”
The Guardian was suddenly
replaced by the man. “Warden,” he handed the knife to Goniff in passing and knelt
by the side of the injured man. His hand
hovered uncertainly as he saw the extent of the damage and he looked up at the
others as they gathered round them. Seeing the nod from Actor and Goniff, he
placed one hand on Garrison’s shoulder and carefully supported his head with
the other. He could feel the life force of his guide, which had nothing to do
with the breath of his body or the pounding of his heart. That was nothing more
than the mechanics of life, but the life force was what made Garrison the man
he was, what made him his guide.
His senses snapped and
closed round Garrison, yet at the last moment he pulled back. The bond was
achingly close, but he could not go ahead. When he bonded it had to be with
Garrison’s consent. Chief looked up and watched as Jim and Blair came back to
the clearing.
Jim took in the scene,
Maggot’s body laid out in the attitude of violent death.
“Cole’s dead, it’s finished
now.”
“Rest, Warden,” Chief said
softly, and the officer’s eyes slipped shut as his sentinel projected the need
to rest, the assurance of safety and protection to his guide. He knew that
Garrison would sleep for several hours. When he woke, Chief would have to
explain what had happened, but for now that could wait.
0-0-0-0
Russia
The wolves were circling and closing the distance between them and
their prey. Richard counted at least
twenty, and the situation was getting worse. They could make a stand, they had
the fire power, but all it needed was one wolf to get through for the rest to
follow and that would be the end.
One wolf burst out of the darkness, lunging forward with its mouth
open, teeth gleaming. De la Maziere fired, and managed to drop it just before
it got to him.
Another came from the other side, Mike swung round and fired, the wolf
was bowled over by the bullets, but more broke from the darker-wooded
area. Richard opened up and together
they managed to drive them off, but he knew that they were still out there. The
men increased their pace as the wolves tore into the bodies of their dead and
dying pack mates.
The wolves would be back very soon. Richard shot a look at Mike, he was
keeping up. As for the colonel, he was struggling, but sheer will power kept
him going as he tried to block away the pain of his wounds, concentrating on
putting one foot in front of the other.
Mike caught the look and felt chilled, the animal, the thing, was coming to the fore, soon the
man would be gone and only the sentinel would remain. The wolves were hunting
what was his; they had become a threat just as much as the Russians had been.
The German took another stumbling step, only to find the ground had
dropped away under his feet, and he gave a cry of pain as his knee gave
way. Mike caught him even as Richard
came to a halt, spinning to face the wolves as they sprung forward. Richard’s
lips pulled back over his teeth and he let the primal sentinel flow out of him,
roaring a noise that no human throat should make.
The wolves halted, the hair on their backs rising. They no longer saw
the humans they had been hunting but instead the larger one was becoming a
great wolf, rising up on its hind legs, claws dripping blood as it snarled its
challenge. It was the largest wolf they
had ever seen, and the alpha wolf started forward before turning in its tracks
and running.
Richard seemed to take two large shuddering breaths as he fought to
take back control of who he was. Slowly he turned to look at his companions.
Mike jerked his head towards the German Colonel. De la Maziere’s hand dropped
to his pistol as Richard reached out to help him to his feet, and the
Englishman found himself looking at the business end of the pistol.
“What the hell are you?”
0-0-0-0
The Manor
Blair settled opposite
Garrison. The officer had been bloody-minded and was up rather than resting,
leaning back in his chair with his green-brown eyes fixed unwaveringly on
Sandburg, in his hand was the bonding knife.
Suddenly he brought the
knife down hard and embedded it in the desk, making Blair jump. “Mind telling
me what the hell is going on, Sandburg?”
In the library Jim jumped
up only to be blocked by Chief. “This is between guides, Ellison, so take a
seat.” The Indian’s body language was plain; Jim would have to go through him
to get to the office.
“Well, Captain,” Blair
shook his head. “I really don’t know where to begin.” He paused to collect his
thoughts. “When I first started my PhD all I knew was that a British explorer
called Richard Burton had discovered something he called Sentinels, deep in the
jungle of Peru. I wanted to prove that they existed and were not just an
obscure reference in a Victorian book. Captain, Sentinels do exist. Chief is a
living proof of them.”
“And you know this how?”
Garrison’s tone was cold and detached.
“Because I’ve been working
with a British Professor, and he’s been helping me find an American
Sentinel.” Blair leaned forward, “The
sentinel is a guardian who has enhanced senses, he can hear things no one else
can, feel things, taste things, and follow a scent better than a hound dog.
Think the ultimate soldier, but they are the tribal guardians, protecting the
tribe, helping with the hunt.”
“Ellison’s a Sentinel.” He
had made the connection.
Blair took a steadying
breath, “Exactly. The Army found him for me.”
Garrison seemed on the ball, but how he would react to the news about
his part in the plan would be another thing.
“The sentinel needs a guide
to help him with his senses, to prevent him being side-tracked and lost in all
the sensory input he gets.” He paused,
“I am a guide, and so are you, Captain.”
“Never!” Garrison spat the
word back at Blair as he leaned forward so fast that Blair pulled back,
startled by the violent response.
“You’re a guide; I don’t
know how it happens, but for each sentinel there is a guide. Call it destiny.
Sentinel and guide come together. Remember when you first met Jim and you
shuddered? That was because he was checking your vital signs when he was asking
you questions about the girls, and you felt him. I can’t but you can, you’re a
guide, but a different kind to me, because you have a different sentinel. Chief
is your sentinel.” There, he had said it.
Garrison got to his feet,
and walked away from the table to lean against the window frame, looking out
across the park. He thought over what he had heard and what he knew. Chief was
the team’s point man, he seemed to hear and see things before any of them, as
team leader Garrison had lost track of the number of times that Chief had saved
them by having that talent, but it appeared to have a price. He suppressed a
shudder. Maggot had shown him what that price was, and it wasn’t one he was
willing to pay.
Blair moved up behind him,
careful not to touch the officer even when his instincts were telling him to
lay a hand on his shoulder to reassure him, “Have you ever been touched by
him?”
Garrison spun round, and
the expression on his face was one of barely controlled anger. “You think I
would let him touch me? You’re sick, Sandburg!”
Blair put a hand out only to be pushed back, catching himself in time on
the edge of the desk.
“Cole told me all about
Sentinels, Doctor,” Garrison spat the
title at him like an insult. “Maggot showed me all too well what this bond is
all about, and get this, I am not playing your sick perverted little games,
Sandburg, and if you’re screwing Ellison, then get the hell out of his life
before you destroy it. He’s an officer and he doesn’t need your sort bringing
him down. Now get out of my office.”
“Captain, I didn’t mean,”
Blair floundered to a halt, “Please let me explain. I-”
He back peddled as Garrison
moved towards him, only just getting out ahead of the slamming door.
Looking up he saw Jim and
Chief leaning against the banisters. He closed his eyes. How the hell was he
going to explain this to Chief? The Indian’s face was emotionless. Slowly, head
down, he started up the stairs, and when he got level with him put a hand out,
resting it on the Indian’s shoulder, a little surprised that he allowed the
touch. “It’s going to be okay, Chief.”
“Sure, I heard the Warden,
I’ll be lucky if he doesn’t throw me back in prison.”
“He won’t, he’s frightened,
that’s all.”
“The Warden, frightened?”
Chief said and shook his head, "He don’t know the meaning of the word.”
“Yeah, he is, after what
happened with Maggot, and whatever Cole told him, you’re just going to have to
be patient with him.”
Chief nodded, then answered
softly, “I just don’t know how much time I have left.”
0-0-0-0
Russia 1943
SS Kampfgruppe de la Maziere
Richard, Mike and the Colonel had been greeted warmly by the members of
the Battle group.
De la Maiziere’s men’s concern over their senior officer was obvious.
It would have been bad enough to have found his body in the burned out Panzer,
but its absence had fuelled their fear that he had been caught by the Russians,
and they all knew what would happen to their beloved CO; interrogation, then
mutilation. Having the Colonel returned to them was a godsend, and more than
one of the supposedly godless SS men sent up a quick prayer of thanks for the
return of their young Colonel.
Later Richard sat next to Mike enjoying their first hot meal and drink
for days, while the Colonel checked up on his Battle Group, and in particular
with Sergeant Major Rudi Brandt who was in charge of the Panzers. They still
had a mission to complete.
The Colonel’s voice floated back to the Sentinel, who gave a chuckle.
“What’s wrong?” Mike asked, looking round.
“You know that bet that the men have, one thousand dollars for the
first man that can make the Colonel lose his temper? Well, Rudi came within a
hair’s breadth of banking the money. But,” he cocked his head as he listened,
“I am sure that that is physically impossible, and that can’t be good.”
Mike nodded, “You mean the Colonel isn’t all sweetness and light? I am
scandalised, what are officers and gentlemen coming to these days?” he added
with a grin. Then he became serious. “I can’t believe that he bought what you
told him back in that clearing.”
Suddenly he realised the Colonel was looking straight at them, and with
a sinking feeling, Mike knew that the Colonel hadn’t bought one word of
it. The guy was intelligent, you didn’t
get to be a Lieutenant Colonel at 27 if you were stupid. This was not the end
of it.
0-0-0-0
The Manor
Chief was looking out of
the window, watching as his guide walked alone. The Warden had waved off their
concern and followed it up with a few choice words when Goniff tried to tag
along with him. The Indian was all too aware how badly the talk between the
Warden and Sandburg had gone, but the younger man had only given him a sop of
comfort when he had said, “Give him time, Chief.” But now time was getting away from him, and
the need to bond was getting worse each day. Initially, the fact that his guide
was injured had stayed his hand, the smell of the blood from his healing wounds
was enough to dampen down the need. But now Garrison was recovering, and the
need was growing again inside him, the need to remove Maggot’s scent from his
guide, replacing it with his own. Chief shook his head to try and clear his
thoughts but all he could focus on was that Maggot had had his hands all over
his guide, and the need to re-enforce his ownership. A mocking voice in his
head said what ownership; he’s never been
yours to start with.
Chief swore and went out
into the grounds, opening up his senses to search for his guide, but he found
the scent hard to detect and began to lose himself in the hunt.
“Looking for someone?” Garrison’s voice caught him off guard, and he
spun round. His guide was standing near one of the trees. Chief quickly wrapped
his senses round him.
“Out for a walk, that’s
all, Warden.”
“Sure,” the tone was
mocking.
Chief looked down, breaking
contact with the green grey eyes that seemed to look straight through him to
every sin he had ever committed, the eyes belonging to the one man he never
wanted to let down.
“Dr Sandburg has some
interesting things to say, he told me you’re a ‘Guardian’.” Garrison fished out
one of his habitual cigarettes and lit it, keeping Chief waiting. He took a
pull on it and then exhaled the smoke slowly, “and that I am a ‘guide’. Now he
tried to explain how it works, but you know what? I don’t give a damn, because
I already know all about it. Maggot and Cole made it really clear. How they,”
he gestured with his cigarette towards the Manor, “were ready to hand me over
to the Gestapo, and you stopped Actor putting a bullet through my head, because
you wanted to jump my bones.”
“Warden, it wasn’t like
that, you can’t believe what he told you.”
The officer’s laugh was sardonic,
“You see, Chief, I remember something, only to start with I didn’t place the
voice. It was Actor telling Cole how he was going to give me to the Gestapo for
a way out of there. So was that a lie?”
“No.”
Garrison took another pull
on his cigarette, his eyes icy cold and bitter.
“Warden, we had to say that, they would have killed you, we had to give them a reason for keeping you alive, and that was the only one we had.” Chief normally was a man of few words but he knew that if he didn’t talk and the Warden walked away, he would lose his guide forever. “Cole had a gun to your head, Warden, he was threatening to kill you unless we gave him the diamonds. He saw through us, that you’re one of us, you have been for a while now. So Actor had to shoot him, only as he was hit he pulled the trigger, you’d started to pull away, and the bullet creased your forehead and you went down. We thought we’d lost you.” There was a despairing note to the Indian’s voice. "That’s why none of G12 survived, Warden. We thought he had killed you. Then Goniff saw you were alive and we had other things on our